Month: July 2020

• 

I spoke to a guy recently who has never driven a car in his life. He’s a couple of years younger than me and in all that time, he’s never sat behind the wheel of a car. He has no interest in cars and never needed one either.

He spent most of his adult life in the fishing industry and grew up close to where his boat is moored. Shops and pubs were nearby too, so everything he needed was within walking distance.

My initial reaction was to feel sorry for him for losing out on the driving experience but when I thought about it, I realised that he’s the lucky one. He has been spared all the stress, aggravation and expense associated with car ownership and he has avoided forking out a small fortune on motoring over his lifetime.

The AA did a survey back in 2018 and they estimated it was costing the average motorist over €10,000 a year to keep their car on the road.

Anyone who owns a car knows only too well that they don’t come cheap. They’re expensive pieces of kit and the cost doesn’t end with the purchase price either, that’s only the start of it. Getting it from A to B will eat a hole into your wallet too but many of us don’t have an alternative.

We pay a hefty amount of tax when we buy the car in the first place. We pay a Government levy when we insure it and a good deal of tax goes on every litre of fuel that we put into it.

We also pay road tax before we take it out of the driveway but I’m not sure exactly why. There was a time when this money went back to the local authority for the upkeep of the roads and we all got the benefit of that. But not anymore.

On the 1^st January 2018, the Government directed that all money raised through motor tax would be paid directly to the Revenue Commissioners, which means that the money we spend on motor tax is no longer going towards improving the condition of the roads.

Looking at the state of them now, that’s not difficult to believe. So, where is it going? Well at one stage it was being used to prop up Irish Water so maybe it should be called a river tax instead. Wherever the money is going, it’s clearly not being spent on our infrastructure.

I have damaged many wheels in potholes over the years and it’s always been at my own expense. The roads are in a shocking condition and it’s difficult to find out who is responsible. Try claiming for a damaged wheel and you’ll see what I mean. The motorist isn’t getting a fair deal and the future isn’t looking too bright either.

The Green Party recently secured a role in shaping the future of this country and I think that could be bad news for us motorists. Their leader, Eamonn Ryan, would prefer if we were car-pooling, walking or cycling but that’s not our only obstacle.

A few years ago, the Government told us that petrol engines were bad for the environment and diesel cars were the way forward, so we were encouraged to buy them. They were very persuasive and reduced the road tax on diesels as a further incentive. So, for the first time in my life, I bought one and the tax was only €200 a year whereas it was €800 on my petrol car.

I followed it up in 2018 with another one but no sooner had I arrived home with it than the Government changed its mind. They did a U turn. The diesel car had suddenly regained its bad boy status and we were told to get rid of them because they won’t be available after 2030.

The Government wants us to go electric so they’re pushing up the tax on diesel cars. I have just taxed mine for 2020 and it cost me €80 more, so it’s already on the rise.

I’m beginning to feel like an outcast. I’m responsible for killing polar bears in the Arctic Circle. It’s my fault the ice cap is melting, and Greta Thunberg will soon be calling to my house. I’ve become the bad guy and that’s all very familiar to me, so I know how it’s going to end.

The next time I change my car, the salesman will cry when he sees me. He’ll shake his head and apologise for not being able to give me a good deal on a trade-in. He’ll explain how it’s not his fault. He would love to do a deal, but nobody wants diesels anymore.

There will be tears in his eyes as he explains how his world has been turned upside down. His children are hungry and going to school in their bare feet because the market is flooded with cars he can’t sell.

It’s always the same whenever I look for a trade in. I somehow always manage to have the worst car on the market. It’s the wrong make, the wrong model or the most unpopular colour so, I know I’m going to lose out. Diesel engines went from hero to villain in a short period of time and it’s going to cost me.

One person who is not going to be bothered by all this nonsense though is my auto-less friend. He couldn’t care less about the state of the roads or the current rate of road tax or the high cost of insurance or a salesman’s starving children.

He just wants a footpath to walk on and a boat to fish from and he doesn’t have to worry about falling out with Greta Thunberg either.

.

• 

I’m a two fingered typist and I can’t tell you how many words I type in a miniute, because you would only laugh. I get by though, no thanks to the person responsible for designing the modern keyboard. What were they at?

The ‘Qwerty’ layout gets its name from the first six letters on the top row but why not just place them in alphabetical order instead?

One explanation I heard was that the keys on the original typewriters stuck together regularly when typing at speed, so the strange keyboard was designed to slow the typists down. That doesn’t make sense though because touch typists don’t even look at the keys.

Anyway, if you can’t read or write, it makes no difference what kind of keyboard is in front of you, it still won’t make any sense. That’s what life is like for people who are illiterate. They can’t recognise those letters and have no idea how to put them together to form words.

Reading isn’t only essential for normal everyday life, it’s also an enjoyable pastime, but there are many who find themselves locked out of that world. It’s estimated there are about 781 million adults worldwide over the age of 15 who are illiterate.

The National Adult Literacy Agency is an independent charity in Ireland committed to making sure people with literacy and numeracy difficulties can fully take part in society and have access to learning opportunities that meet their needs.

In their 2019 report they pointed out that 1 in 4 adults struggles with everyday maths such as working out a 20% discount or dividing up a bill and 1 in 6 adults finds everyday text, such as a bus timetable or medical instructions, hard to read and understand. Those statistics shocked me.

For as long as I can remember, I have been a big reader. As a child, I walked down to the local library every Saturday morning to change my books. Most of my friends did the same. It was a ritual and there was a buzz out of picking up a new read to get stuck into.

I have maintained this passion all through my adult life and there is never an occasion when I don’t have a book on the go. Call me sad, but I love a good browse in a book shop. I could spend the day in there inhaling the smell of the paper, the glue and the ink.

Even though I have a Kindle now, my preferred option will always be the paper version. The Kindle has a lot of advantages, being light and easy to carry, especially when travelling. Being able to download a novel in a matter of seconds is a bonus too, but you just can’t beat the feel of the real thing.

By the way, I have no difficulty loaning a book to someone but if you ever borrow a book from me, do not under any circumstances bend the corners of the pages to mark your spot. That is complete vandalism and could earn you a world of pain.

But whether it’s a book or a Kindle, reading is something that every child should be encouraged to do. It is regarded as one of the most important practices to stimulate the intellectual development in kids. A child will never be alone if he or she can get involved in a book and experts will also tell you it does wonders for a child’s vocabulary, comprehension, independence and confidence.

Most readers agree that a film is never as good as the book either so, whether you’re a bookworm or a curious child or someone who just likes to read a newspaper, there is a world of entertainment to be had from reading. It’s not for everyone though.

Ashley Armstrong wrote a story in The Guardian about Chris Dawson who is the billionaire founder of ‘The Range’ which is a chain of retail- shops in the UK, selling everything from lawn-mowers and hammocks to artists’ sketch-pads.

He now has 160 shops including one in Eastgate in Little Island in Cork and his annual sales are counted in the hundreds of millions of pounds. Mr Dawson, aged 68, claims he is unable to read or write properly and started out as a market trader in Plymouth before he founded ‘The Range’ in 1989.

He says he has never written a letter in his life or read a book but despite his illiteracy, he has gone on to make his fortune. He told The Sunday Times: “I was put on this planet to make money and I start thinking about it the minute I wake up. He said he “didn’t see much of school at all and left without being able to read or write properly.”

He started out selling teas to builders on construction sites at the age of 14, before progressing to selling watches from a briefcase on a market stall. He sold everything he could get his hands on from the back of a lorry and used the profits from his wheeler-dealing to open his first store. He is very successful, but Dawson is more the exception than the rule.

Illiteracy isn’t as rare in Ireland as you might think either and we rank 15th out of 24 countries. At this level a person may be unable to understand basic written information. But there is help available for those who want it, so it’s not the end of the world.

Free literacy and numeracy classes are provided nationwide by the Education and Training Board adult literacy service and classes are open to all. Nobody has to suffer in silence and help is available. There is a whole new world waiting to be explored for those who take that first step.

I wrote a piece a few months ago about the experience children have in primary school today compared to what it was like for some of us back in the sixties. In particular, the way the religious orders disciplined children in my time.

Discipline isn’t the right word either because it was physical abuse, nothing less. There was one brother in my school who was the biggest offender and that was the principal. I explained how the children cheered when they heard the news of his death following an accident.

There was a lot of reaction to that article and one guy who read it was ahead of me in the same primary school, and he told me it brought back memories to him.

He also remembered the day the principal died and everyone in his classroom clapped. Because he was older than me, he had more of an understanding of the reign of terror that existed in that school and he said some of the other teachers were afraid of this man too.

Another man contacted me the old-fashioned way. He found my name in the phone book and called my landline. I rarely answer that phone because it’s usually some foreign guy telling me that I have a problem with my broadband that he can fix for me if I just give him my credit card details. Instead, it was a lovely gentleman who wanted to talk about the article.

We’ll call him Tom and he said he was closer to ninety than eighty. He’s a regular reader of ‘The Echo’ and likes my column so he’s obviously highly intelligent. While my head was swelling to twice the size, he told me that he was very taken with the piece about the primary school days.

He was an interesting character and he related some of his own experiences including a story about a particular brother he had a run in with. Tom was in school one day and his arm was in a sling. I’m not sure if he told me why but if he did, I can’t remember but in any event this brother decided that Tom needed to be disciplined.

He hit his good hand with a cane until he couldn’t take anymore so Tom offered his bad hand which was also caned. The next thing he remembers is opening his eyes and he saw one of his classmates standing over him and realised he was lying on the floor. He reckons he must have passed out for a few seconds from the pain.

Tom described himself as an inoffensive child but when he picked himself from the floor, he was filled with a rage. He saw the brother standing at the blackboard with his back to him and he marched up to him and poked him in the back of the neck. When the brother turned around, Tom told him that if he ever laid a hand on him again, he would throw him and his collar out through the window.

That’s a sterilised version of what he actually said because the true version was a bit more colourful and unprintable.

At home that night, Tom was going over the events of the day in his mind and figured that he was for the high jump. He reckoned he was probably going to be kicked out of the school which was going to create a serious problem for him. Where would he go after that and what would his parents say?

He decided to go to school early the following morning to speak to the principal and maybe get the punishment reduced to a suspension or something. As he was heading out the door, his mother asked him why he was going in so early. He told her he had some homework to finish and he was meeting up with some of his classmates.

When the principal arrived, he invited Tom into his office and asked him what the problem was. Tom told him his story of the previous day. All the time, Tom remembers that the principal was tapping his pen on the desk in front of him. When he was finished his tale, Tom sat back and waited for the guillotine to fall.

To his surprise, the principal just looked at him and told him that he was one of the quietest boys in the school and not to worry. Tom asked him if he was going to be expelled and the principal again told him not to worry and guaranteed him, he would never hear another word about it.

Tom was surprised with this turn of events and happily returned to his class. He had no further trouble from that brother and not too long after this, the brother left the school and Tom never saw or heard from him again.

Years later, he read about the inquiry into Letterfrack Industrial School in Connemara, Co. Galway. This school was run by the Christian Brothers and the scene of much physical and sexual abuse. It came as no surprise to Tom to discover that his old tormentor was one of the main abusers.

Tom was concerned that the offender may have ended up in Letterfrack because of his complaint and I think he felt responsible for the abuse some of those children received at the hands of that man.

The truth of course, is that he prevented more children from being abused in his own school by taking a stand which was a very brave thing for a child to do. I reminded him that he bears no responsibility for the actions of a demented brother. That guilt rests with the organisation that just moved the problem from pillar to post without ever dealing with the real issue.

• 

Fin Dwyer wrote about the deaths of four members of the Sheehan family outside Castletownroche in a dispute over land back in 1886. William Sheehan was evicted from his farm during the Land War and emigrated to New Zealand. Within a few months a gruesome discovery back in Ireland changed everything.

His former neighbours were cleaning out an old disused well when they discovered the decaying remains of William Sheehan’s mother Catherine, his sister Hanna and brother Thomas. The RIC quickly identified William as the main suspect.

He was located in New Zealand and was brought back to stand trial for the murders in Cork.  He was found guilty and he later claimed he had murdered his family members because his mother would not allow him to marry the woman of his choosing.

While looking into the story, I came across this account of the hanging taken from the Freemans Journal which was the forerunner of the Irish Independent, but it was published in Waikato Times in New Zealand:  https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/WT18860313.2.43

I think it’s a fascinating insight into the final hours of a condemned man written in the language of the time, 1886. The hanging took place in Cork city.

                                               ——————————————————

To-day Wm. Sheehan paid the penalty of the cruel crime of which he was convicted at the last Cork Assizes —the murderer of his mother, brother, and sister, near Castletownroche. The culprit, from the first moment he was charged, acted the hypocrite by indignantly protesting his innocence and threatening dire consequences to his accusers for the inconvenience caused him.

During the trial, and even when sentence of death was passed upon him, he manifested the same thorough insensibility, and apparent absence of any of the feelings of our better nature of which even the moat depraved are not wanting. When he was located in the ” condemned cell ” after sentence had been pronounced, he appeared to be utterly oblivious of his position, remorseless and callous to a degree.

Since then, however, thanks to the benign influence of religion, he was a changed man. The ministration of the prison chaplain reconciled him to his fate, and he faced it in the true spirit of penitence. He always declared Browne’s innocence of any participation in the crime, but he did not know the result of his trial, except he learned it from his wife at the interview which he had with her about ten days ago.

Since his removal to the condemned cell, Sheehan took his meals regularly and well, and slept soundly at night. He ate his supper last night in the usual way and retired to bed at ten o’clock. He directed his attendant to wake him at three o’clock, which was done, and from that till half- past six o’clock, when the Rev. Father Barrett visited him, he was engaged in prayer.

The chaplain and the condemned man then proceeded to the chapel, and they continued the devotions. The unhappy man then made his last confession, and the Rev. Father Barrett celebrated the sacrifice of the Mass, at which Sheehan received the Holy Viaticum. After mass they received the Litanies together, and at a quarter to eight the chapel bell began to peal forth in slow and melancholy measure the death-knell. The sound of the bell, as it was heard in the chapel, was like a summons from the grave, and the victim heaved a long deep sigh as it fell upon his ear.

At six miniutes to eight the chief warder appeared at the chapel door and gave the order to move. The culprit was scarcely able to walk, and he leaned on the left arm of the priest, a warder walking abreast on the left. Then followed the sub-sheriff (Mr Gale), the governor of the gaol (Major Roberto), the deputy governor (Mr Patterson), and three warders. From the chapel to the execution chamber is about forty yards. The scaffold platform is level with the ground outside, so that the first idea which the condemned prisoner receives of the use of the room is when he sees the rope hanging from an iron beam overhead.

The procession having arrived opposite the door of the chamber, the executioner made his appearance, and at once proceeded to pinion the man. This operation was performed with some tediousness, and then the executioner took the place of the warder at the left of the culprit, and they stepped in on the trap. On the route from the chapel to the scaffold, the Rev. Father Barrett recited the Litany, Sheehan pronouncing the responses with a firm voice.

Precisely at eight o’clock the bolt was drawn, and the unhappy man was launched into eternity. Before the trap fell, he, in an audible tone, begged God’s pardon for the murder he had committed. He recited an Act of Contrition, and the chaplain gave his absolution, and then breathed into his ear several pious aspirations such as “Jesus, have mercy on me,” ” God be merciful to me a sinner,” “Holy Mary pray for me.” The bolt was no sooner drawn than the black flag was hoisted over the battlements of the prison, thus announcing to the group of about fifty persons who had gathered together on the Gaol Road that the law’s stern vengeance had been satisfied.

Berry was the executioner. The drop was fix feet, and death was instantaneous. The body was kept suspended for an hour, and then cut down and removed to an outer yard, where it was viewed by a coroner’s jury previous to its consignment to an unhallowed grave within the precincts of the gaol. The face, as he lay in the rude coffin, presented the usual appearance of death from strangulation. The skin turned a livid bine, the mouth was distended, and the eyes only half closed. He wore the same raiment which he wore at the trials. The black flag was hauled down at one o’clock.

Sheehan was only thirty-two years of age; his height was 5ft4in, and his weight 1461b.

The complete stories of Cork’s Castletownroche murders are available in a two-part podcast series ‘A Land to Die For’ by Fin Dwyer

Funerals of ex colleagues are sad occasions at the best of times, but they do give us an opportunity for a catch up with people we probably haven’t seen for years. It’s always an interesting experience and there are usually a few surprises.

For example, at a funeral shortly before the lockdown, I met a character I had worked with in the eighties. I knew him well, but I didn’t recognise him initially. We started talking and even then, I couldn’t place him. My brain was screaming at me that I knew him, but it took a few minutes to make the connection.

In my defence, it was a cold day and he was wearing a cap and a scarf, and appearances can change in thirty years.

I met another guy who retired over thirty-five years ago but you wouldn’t think it to look at him. He’s in his late eighties now and enjoys good health and doesn’t seem to have aged a day. Others also managed to defy the ageing process, but it wasn’t all good news either.

There were shared memories of fallen colleagues, and complaints of bad prostates, dicky hearts, dodgy knees, hips and backs. There was no shortage of walking wounded and it wasn’t that long ago since we were all young, energetic and invincible.

We’re far from invincible now and these gatherings are a reminder that the clock is ticking so it’s time to forge ahead with whatever plans we have while we’re still able. No point in putting things off because circumstances can change quickly.

In 2018, I got a glimpse of how tenuous our grip on life can be. It came out of the blue and while I was recovering from surgery, I decided to drive on with my own plans and as soon as I was fit enough, I was off to Cyprus with my buddy, John O’Connor.

I am a regular visitor and I hope to be spending a lot more time there when my wife retires. The climate suits me fine, the people are friendly, and the food is great so what’s not to love. It’s a beautiful island.

It reminds me of an Ireland back in the sixties but without the dampness. The entire island is only about the size of Munster so it’s very intimate. It has over three hundred days of sunshine a year and I love to feel the heat on my bones. I feel better for it so unless something crops up to spoil my plans, Larnaca is where you’ll find me.

I won’t rough it though. I like my comfort and while peace and quiet are top of my list, I won’t be cutting myself off from the rest of civilisation. I’m very happy in my own company but I won’t be doing a Billy-no-mates on it, like David Glasheen did.

Mr. Glasheen is in his mid-seventies and he gave up his wealthy lifestyle twenty years ago for the opportunity to live on a desert island. He was born in Australia, but his family came from Cork, which is very appropriate given that his name is Glasheen.

Matt Young wrote a story about this guy and it’s quite a tale. Mr Glasheen is an Australian millionaire turned castaway, who walked away from his life and became Australia’s real-life Robinson Crusoe in 1997.

He has endured the toughest landscapes in the largest unspoilt wilderness in Northern Australia and one of the last remaining wilderness areas on Earth. “The wild is pretty severe. It’s a tough world. Things are forever going wrong, and you’ve just got to deal with it. You’ve got to work with the elements.”

Except for the annual grocery shop to Cairns, Mr Glasheen spends most of his time on the island, where he lives in a renovated WWII outpost.

This character is 77 years old, but he moved to the island after losing his fortune in the stock exchange crash of 1987. Before that it was estimated that he was worth about 27 million dollars as chairman of a Sydney-based company which specialised in gold mining.

He invested in luxury real estate along Sydney Harbour but after the Black Monday crash in 1987, the Dow Jones dropped a record 508 points and Glasheen’s stock fell rapidly too.

He lost $7.25 million that day alone, and the next few years saw his life spiral into bankruptcy and a broken family. He divorced his wife in 1991 and by 1993, the banks had moved in.

He later heard of a lease that was available on an undeveloped 64-acre island within a national park in Cape York, on Australia’s remote peninsula called Restoration Island. He moved there and now lives in a wooden beach shack and mostly lives off the land, growing his own vegetables and catching fish, crabs and shrimp.

But despite having limited electricity, fresh water and having to face regular battles against deadly wildlife, the bearded exile insists he feels safe on the island. There are snakes, spiders and crocodiles but it is safer here than lots of other parts of the world he says, and he can go to bed knowing that he is not going to be attacked by humans.

The only down-side for him is that he misses intelligent conversation and the physical contact of other people. So, while we share a Cork connection and a fondness for a nice island, that’s where the similarities end. He is happy to endure hardship for his desert island lifestyle – I’m not.

I’m prepared to put up with the odd mosquito bite or an occasional glitch with the air conditioning. I’ll even put up with the Wi-fi dropping from time to time but any more than that and I’ll be on the first plane back home.