Month: April 2019

Back in 2014, I was working in Cyprus with the United Nations. Twelve members of An Garda Siochana make this trip every year as part of the Irish commitment to the peace keeping effort in that part of the world and I was lucky enough to be one of those that year.

In 1974, Turkey invaded Cyprus and there was a bloody conflict. The United Nations were sent in to create a barrier between the two sides and maintain the peace. That barrier still exists today, and it’s known as the Buffer Zone.

Without going into too much detail and boring you to death, the Buffer Zone is basically a strip of no-mans-land that runs from the east to the west of the country to separate the Greek Cypriots in the south from the Turkish Cypriots in the north. It’s mostly dusty, desert type terrain and while some farming does go on there, access to that whole area is very much restricted.

Part of my role was to act as a liaison person between the UN military component and the Greek Cypriot and the Turkish Cypriot authorities such as the police and the local councils or municipalities. Anyone wishing to carry out any business within the Buffer Zone must have permission or permits from the UN so there was regular interaction between us all.

It was in this capacity that I came to meet a man by the name of Tassos Hadjilefteris in Dherynia which is situated near the Buffer Zone. He was the equivalent of the town manager and he looked after the affairs of the municipality or council.

We met regularly and it was during one of these meetings that Tassos introduced me to a lady with a new born baby who wanted the baby baptised in a small little chapel in the Buffer Zone. The chapel is called Agia Marina and this lady’s grandmother and her mother were both baptised there, and she wanted her little girl to follow suit.

When I say it’s a small chapel, I mean small. It dates back to the 12th century and it’s dedicated to Saint Marina who is thought to be the guardian of children. Twenty people would fill it but it’s a lovely little place in the middle of nowhere.

In the basement of the chapel there is a Holy Water Spring which was once used by mothers of sick children to cure them and outside, next to the church, there is a small tree with lots of pieces of baby clothes attached to the branches. If someone has a sick child, they sneak in there and tie an item of clothing to the tree and ask Saint Marina to make them better.

Tassos and I both wanted this Baptism to happen and once the proposal was received by the powers that be in the UN, they quickly agreed to pursue it, but it also had to be agreed by the authorities on both sides of the Buffer Zone. In fairness to all involved, it was agreed without too much fuss but there were certain restrictions.

There are armed soldiers in lookout posts on the northern side of the Buffer Zone and there are signs indicating that certain areas are protected by land mines, so it is important to ensure that any civilian activity is properly marshalled. 

Only a certain number of people could attend the ceremony and a limited number of cars were allowed into the Buffer Zone to get to the church and the registration numbers of those cars and details of the occupants had to be made available in advance of the event.

The rest had to park outside the Buffer Zone and walk to the church. This presented a difficulty for the older people because it was a good walk in rough terrain in the heat of the May sun, so the UN organised a mini bus to collect these people and deliver them to and from the church.

It was an early start on the morning of the baptism as a few volunteers were authorised to enter the Buffer Zone at 6.30am to prepare the chapel. Tables and chairs were set up outside where light refreshments would be served afterwards.

It was a long, hot day, but everything went according to plan. The invited guests adjourned to a local hall after the ceremony where a proper celebration took place. The parents of the child were delighted with their day and they were very grateful. I was happy to have played a small part in making it happen for the family.

A few weeks ago, while I was in Cyprus, I was contacted by Tassos. We have kept in touch over the years and we are both retired now. He invited me to his house in Dherynia for a coffee and it was lovely to meet him again for a catch up.

When I left Tassos, I called to a pharmacy in Dherynia on the way home. I know the owner and I wanted to say hello. When I went in, he was busy with one of his staff, but I told another staff member that I would wait until he was free.

He soon appeared and asked me how he could help me. I told him that I was just calling to say hello, but it was obvious that he had no idea who I was. Then his eyes widened as it began to dawn on him. He grabbed my hand. He was genuinely happy to see me and couldn’t wait to show me a picture of his daughter who was baptised in the Agia Marina chapel five years previously.

I am regularly asked what it is that I love about Cyprus. Well, it’s that kind of thing.

I was listening to a conversation on the radio recently about people being washed in a tin bath in the kitchen back in the day. A contributor to the programme was explaining how, before bathrooms became common place, the bath was brought into the kitchen on bath night. It was placed in front of the fire and the kids were washed in turn.

Listeners were texting and tweeting the programme in their droves because they couldn’t believe their ears. They were horrified that several kids were washed in the same water and, in the kitchen of all places, where privacy had to be an issue with people coming and going.

I was laughing to myself but I found it strange that so many people were astonished at this carry on and they were commenting as if this was something that happened in the dark ages. It surprised me because I remember those days clearly and they weren’t that long ago.

We had a tin bath at home with a handle on either end, and it used to hang from a hook on the wall in our back yard. It was light and easy to carry, and it would be brought into the kitchen, usually on a Saturday night and placed on the floor in front of the range where it would be filled with pots of hot water from the stove.

Using the same water to wash several children was a difficult concept for some, but the reality was that it took a big effort to heat enough water to fill the bath in the first place, so they made use of it while they had it.

We lived in a small terraced house, so privacy would have been difficult at the best of times. Space was at a premium, but it wasn’t an issue for me because I was only a child. I don’t know what the adults did or even if they could fit into the bath because I don’t remember it being that big.

That got me thinking about what else younger listeners might have found unusual and I immediately thought of the outdoor toilet. I remember ours was in the corner of the back yard, so you had to go out through the back door and down some steps to get to it. It was a small space, with white-washed walls on the inside and a bare light bulb that came to life when you pulled a string.

It had a corrugated iron roof which didn’t do anything for heat retention and when it rained it got pretty noisy in there.

The cistern was overhead and to flush the toilet you had to pull a chain with a wooden handle attached to the end of it. There was a flimsy timber door on the loo that closed with a simple latch but the bottom of it was about seven or eight inches off the ground so there was plenty of room for all kinds of creatures to get in. And they frequently did.

It was a challenge going out there on a cold, wet, windy, winters night and the howling gale coming under the door would guarantee that your visit would be a short one. There was no triple-ply soft tissue paper either, but we won’t go there.

For a child, it was no fun going to the loo in the dark, especially if there was any mention of ghosts and things that go bump in the night. I’m sure my mother often had to stand guard at the top of the steps until I was ready to come back indoors.

There was a scullery, just outside the back door, which was basically a small porch that was used as a kind of cold storage area. There was a small press on the wall that was covered in wire mesh and that’s where the milk and butter were kept because there was no fridge either.

Brown bread was always being made in the kitchen and other loaves were delivered by the breadman who made his rounds on a horse and carriage from O’Reilly’s bakery. Bottled milk was delivered every morning and it had to be brought in straight away before the birds pecked through the foil top to get at the cream. The milkman was a useful alarm clock too because you couldn’t miss the sound of the bottles banging off each other as he went from door to door.

There was no such thing as hot running water, only a cold tap that sat over a large white ceramic sink that weighed a ton. If you wanted a cup of tea you had to boil a kettle on the range. The range was constantly on the go and was rarely allowed to go out. It would be banked down with slack at night so it would be ready for action again first thing in the morning.

Slack was like coal dust with little scraps of coal in it and that went on top of the fire to form a kind of crust that would keep the fire ticking over for the night as long as the door was closed on the range so the air couldn’t get at it.

Before central heating came into fashion, the fire was the main source of heat so the only part of the house that was warm in the winter, was the room with the fire in it. If we were sick in the winter time, my mother would light the fire in the bedroom and that was a real treat. I can’t imagine the parents of today carrying a bucket of coal upstairs somehow.

It all sounds strange now, but it doesn’t seem that long ago either. Or maybe I’m just pushing on.

A row has been brewing in Cobh for some time now about the closure of the Five-Foot-Way while cruise liners are being moored to the quayside. That’s parking in other words.

For those not familiar with the area, the Five-Foot-Way is a sea front walkway that takes you from the west side of the town into the town centre via the Deep-Water Quay where the cruise ships are normally berthed. Another word for parked.

The issue that’s causing all the angst is that while the liners are going through the process of tying onto the quay wall with large ropes, the walkway is closed to the public. This may not seem like much of an inconvenience, but it is for some. For others it represents an assault on a long-established right of way that needs to be defended.

The dispute between residents and Port of Cork escalated last year when the Disney Magic cruise ship was in Cobh and the walkway was closed for several hours. Private security personnel were on duty there to prevent access, but the Port of Cork says it’s necessary to close that off that area at these times for health and safety reasons.

Sean O’Riordan wrote in the Irish Examiner that those who held a protest against the Port of Cork’s closing of a supposed public right of way for the arrival of Cobh’s first cruise liner of the year, have been urged to ditch their placards for the sake of the town’s tourism industry.

Cllr Sinead Sheppard said that she was “very disappointed” to see a protest taking place when the first liner of the season arrived, and Cllr Cathal Rasmussen said people on holidays don’t want to see a protest. “At the end of the day it’s a legal issue and if people are genuinely upset, they should go down the legal route,” he said.

“If a rope broke and hit somebody and killed them then we’d have a major issue,” Cllr Rasmussen said.

It is expected that 102 cruise ships will visit Cobh this year, carrying 200,000 passengers and 80,000 crew, so it’s big business but who’s right?

Well, here’s how I see it. I walk into town almost every day, along the Five-Foot Way. I do it all year round. The scenery changes all the time and the sea breeze is refreshing even in the depths of winter. It’s a very popular route for many taking a bit of exercise.

I have been prevented from going through the Deep-Water Quay on a few occasions. While it is annoying, it’s not the end of the world. It means backing up a bit and taking the footbridge over the railway line and continuing into town along the Lower Road. It’s more inconvenient for prams or for anyone suffering from mobility issues.

It is frustrating to have strangers preventing us from going about our normal routine but some of the frustration could be prevented if the safety issue was clarified.

I have no desire to have my life ended prematurely because of a mishap on the quayside while a ship is going through the docking process. If I am under threat from a snapping line or some other potential hazard, then explain that to me and I’ll probably be more understanding.

I have spoken to a few guys in the maritime industry who say that mooring lines are designed to drop and not lash and that the newer ships have special mechanics that tension the lines according to their need. Larger ships have technology to assist them coming alongside and lines are not used as they are on smaller vessels.

I was also advised that the lines are made from synthetic material and if they snap, they are designed to collapse without recoil.

On the other hand, I was in contact with a friend of mine who has spent his life in this business, and he directed me to a few links on the Internet involving mooring line incidents showing accidents resulting from snapping lines.

In June 2018, two workers died and two were injured in an incident at the Port of Longview, in Washington, US. when one of the lines attached to the bulk carrier MV Ansac Splendor snapped in half and recoiled toward the dock and the vessel. The line broke as the vessel attempted to move along the dock from one loading hatch to another.

These incidents appear to involve death or injury to workers on board vessels only. I haven’t found any report of one where bystanders were involved, but my research was limited.

I’m told that while ships do have self- tightening winches, these are used when they’re alongside but it’s when the first few lines are being attached while docking and being removed when leaving, that the strain is huge.

The point in all this, is that I have no idea who is right or wrong, but there is confusion. I don’t have any experience in this area, but I would like to know for certain what the risk is. I’m not talking about the right-of-way question. That’s a separate issue and probably one to be resolved ultimately in the courts.

Blocking access to the quayside is a relatively new departure but if there is a genuine risk to bystanders while a ship is docking and departing, then so be it. Much of the irritation though, stems from a suspicion that this is an overkill and that it’s just health and safety gone mad.

It has also been suggested that it’s being done to facilitate tour coaches who can position themselves more easily without pedestrians wandering about. But if the quayside is such a hostile environment, should these coaches and personnel even be there in the first place?

Why is it so complicated?

About fifteen years ago I was driving down from Dublin with a buddy of mine, Simon Walsh. I think we had been at an all-day meeting in the Capital, but I had to be at work for 10pm that night so we were heading back to Cork.

About half way down the road, my foot started to get very sore and it was bothering me. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it. I went over the day’s events in my head and I couldn’t remember banging it or someone standing on it, so it was a complete mystery to me.

After a while, I took off my shoe to relieve some of the pressure, but it was no good and soon, the pain became so intense that I had to ask Simon to take over the driving. When I got home, I limped around the place, changed into my uniform, took some tablets and went off to work.

As the night wore on, it got worse and by midnight the pain was unbearable, so I asked the lads in a patrol car to take me to the hospital. I hobbled into the Accident and Emergency Department feeling a bit silly because I had no idea what had happened. All I knew was that I had managed to break a bone in my foot.

A doctor told me to sit on the edge of a trolley while he peeled off my sock. The pain from that simple manoeuvre nearly sent me through the ceiling and I could see that it was all red and inflamed at the joint where the big toe meets the foot. The doctor took one look at it and then smiled at me and told me it was gout. He touched it with his finger and I nearly passed out from the pain.

I’m sure I left a roar out of me and nearly kicked him in the head. I was convinced the guy was an idiot and I insisted that my foot should be x-rayed because there was definitely something broken. There was no other explanation for the level of pain I was experiencing but he was certain of his diagnosis. He was smiling broadly as if he was enjoying my discomfort.

He gave me some anti-inflammatories and told me to keep my foot elevated. I went back to work and sat in the office with my foot up on a chair and every time I explained to someone that I was suffering from a dose of gout, they laughed. Despite my obvious discomfort I got absolutely no sympathy, and everyone thought it was hilarious.

I suffered on for the night and eventually the tablets kicked in and I got some ease from the pain. The following day I went to my GP to tell him of my experience and he just laughed at me as well.

It might have something to do with the name. Maybe ‘Gout’ just sounds funny. If you tell someone you have a tooth-ache, an ulcer, an inflamed appendix or even a dose of piles you get a sympathetic reaction. People will wish you well, offer some words of comfort and maybe even inquire if they can do anything to help.

But as soon as you say ‘Gout’, they collapse in laughter.

I occasionally get a touch of it now, but I can usually spot the signs early on and pop a tablet before it gets a foothold, excuse the pun, but I stopped telling people why I might be limping because they only get pleasure from it. Telling someone you have gout is like telling a joke and you get the same result.

You get plenty of advice about cutting down on pheasant and red wine because gout is supposed to be a rich man’s disease. It affected King Henry VIII who was notorious for living the high life on a rich diet. I never ate pheasant in my life, and I don’t particularly like wine but that doesn’t stop people accusing me of having the same diet as the fat monarch.

Gout is caused by a build up of uric acid in the body. The uric acid comes from purines and these purines can be found in lots of different food and drinks and if you ask me, they can be found in almost everything. Over the years, I have found certain triggers that are likely to bring on an episode and one of them is pure orange juice. A couple of glasses of that and I’m on the way.

Another one is dehydration. I need to keep myself hydrated and I have developed a habit of always having a pint of water near the kitchen sink and I take a sip whenever I pass it.   

Fortunately, I don’t get it very often now and even when I do it’s always in the same place and it doesn’t last more than a night but there are more serious cases out there. I know of some guys who get it in several places at once, like the joints in the feet, knees, elbows and fingers. Some are on daily medication to keep it at bay.

It’s a form of arthritis that affects millions of people all over the world and despite being nicknamed the ‘disease of kings’, it is not a rich man’s ailment. Neither is it a punishment from God for a licentious lifestyle as some myths suggest but it is extremely painful and that’s not a myth.

Hyperuricemia is another name for a build-up of uric acid in the body and I’m going to use that instead of ‘gout’ from now on and maybe I’ll get more sympathy.

But they’ll probably still laugh at me when I try to pronounce it.

Ryan Tubridy was talking about the death of Laura Brennan on his morning radio show last week. Laura was only 26 years old when she died, and she was one of Ireland’s leading patient advocates and HPV vaccine campaigner.

She was a remarkable young lady who suffered from cervical cancer and campaigned for young women to take the HPV vaccine to protect them from the type of cancer that ended her short life.

Ryan Tubridy was explaining how he had met Laura on a number of occasions and had been very taken with her positivity and sense of humour. He was expressing how he felt about her passing but then faltered slightly and commented that he was being careful about what he said because he was conscious of how some cancer patients talk about their illness.

He was reluctant to speak in terms of fighter, fighting and battling because people with cancer tend to hate using those words. I’m paraphrasing here but that was the gist of what he said.

He was speaking in glowing terms of this young lady who obviously made an impression on him, yet he couldn’t speak freely for fear of upsetting some other cancer patients, or people in the medical profession, who have taken it upon themselves to decide for the rest of us, that sufferers can be offended by certain words or phrases.

Political correctness exponents have once again pounced on language they consider to be offensive, hurtful or inappropriate and have made it difficult for us to show support for those with cancer. It’s being suggested that we should stop using terms like ‘fighting’ cancer and instead, treat it like any other illness.

Who comes up with this kind of rubbish? This only succeeds in making people feel more uncomfortable when offering good wishes to someone they know is dealing with cancer. This is nonsense and it infuriates me that some people insist on telling the rest of us what to say and how we should say it.

Simon Jenkins reported in The Guardian that people with cancer are fed up with the language of war. A poll conducted by Macmillan Cancer Support found that many people with cancer are fed up with it and they want to be treated like anyone else who is ill.

He says, the taboo that surrounds cancer is still intense. Until the middle of the last century, its apparent incurability made it the great unmentionable and that taboo still turns initial diagnosis of the commonest and most curable cancers such as breast, bowel, lung and prostate, into a devastating blow that can be treated as a premonition of death by family and friends.

He reported that a sensible approach to cancer should owe less to the language of the Pentagon and more to a local GP surgery. It would comfort thousands of ordinary mortals, who want to handle this illness like any other. In most cases, this means: “Have you a cancer? I am so sorry, when are they taking it out?”

Now, here’s the thing. I find all that nonsense offensive and I’m not easily offended. I think it’s about time that we put a stop to these ‘vocabulary police’, as I saw them described, and tell them to mind their own business and keep their opinions to themselves.

Cancer is personal and I know that having been through it myself and even though I was at the lower end of the scale, I was still worried. I knew in my heart and soul that prostate cancer is very treatable if it’s caught in time but that doesn’t take away the fear because I have seen what cancer can do.

My sister died a young woman from breast cancer after many treatments and many years of fighting the disease. Yes, she fought it, battled it and never gave up but it beat her in the end. Not because she ‘gave up’ or ‘lost the will’ or ‘failed’, it was just that the disease was too strong. Asking her, “Have you a cancer? I am so sorry, when are they taking it out?” wouldn’t have been helpful.

She wanted more than anything to stay alive for her family, but she couldn’t, and she was extremely brave in the way she dealt with it.  She was in her mid-forties with a husband and two young children.

My father and mother died from cancer too and I was with them both from start to finish so I don’t need anyone telling me how to speak to a cancer patient. 

From my own perspective, I was only too delighted with the support I received. I appreciated it when people came up to me and wished me well. It didn’t bother me what language they used or what form of words they chose because I knew they were just being supportive. They meant well whatever they said or however it came out.

It’s tough enough for family and friends having to cope with someone who is dealing with this illness without adding the extra stress of having to worry about causing offense every time they open their mouths.

I put it out there when I had my surgery because I wanted to create awareness among men about prostate cancer. I have been contacted by many since then by phone, email and personally on the street and I have no difficulty discussing it with anyone and I tell it as it happened.

Some want to know about symptoms, some about the surgery and others are more concerned with the aftermath. It’s personal to them and everyone is different, and I’ll be completely honest with them. There’s one thing for certain. I’ll never ask; “Have you a cancer? I am so sorry, when are they taking it out?”