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Duke attempts the Impossible

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duke3016:

duke3016:
I don't think that life could have been any better, Mary was wonderful and we spent some great times together. There was an added bonus as well, the Kelly brothers weren't trying to knock my head off.

I was having a quiet pint in Mikes when old man Kelly came in and indicated that he wanted a word in private. Here we go again I thought. We walked outside and sat on the bench. I waited for the father to boyfriend talk and he looked really lost in himself.

“Ger, I want you to talk to Mary” says he
“About what?” I enquired
“She's talking of leaving” says he

Well we had of course had conversations about her dreams and aspirations but she hadn't mentioned that they were going to be reality. I felt really sad at that and I looked at old man Kelly and he was crestfallen.

“She's a headstrong girl, and if she sets out to do something she will do it” says I
“I know, I know, but we will be lost without her” says he

The easy life of someone cooking and cleaning you mean, I ungraciously thought. But then I looked at him and he had seemed to shrink into his clothes and I beat myself up for the bad thought. He was genuinely upset about his “wee girl's” decision.

I met her that night and we talked into the small hours of the morning and I was caught up in her enthusiasm and vocation for what she wanted. She had contacted an organisation that specialised in these affairs and was off to Dublin to have an interview. My heart was heavy, was I in love? I had never said as much but of course I was FFS. I entertained thoughts of going as well, but that was my heart talking, I knew I could never do anything like that. That made me feel like a real B@stard and as I drove home I was seething with myself.

It was of course selfishness on my part as I thought about her decision. The more I thought about the more I knew I wasn't going to try and persuade her not to follow her dream. It just a real bummer that I wasn't going to be part of it. She returned from Dublin with the news that she was leaving the following week.

On the day of departure there were tears in the eyes of the hardest men I have ever known as she left for the departure gate. She took me aside

“I have loved our time together, but I must do this” she said
“I know” says I
“I will write, but will you reply” says she
“Of course” says I

She left without a backward glance and the gate closed on a particularly good time of my life.

“Ger, let's get drunk” says old man Kelly
“I'm with you” says I

We went back and got blazing drunk and as the boys were in a bad mood it got a little lively as well. I was just glad I wasn't the object of their frustration.

She of course wrote, and I of course replied, but as with most things in life it runs its course and the correspondence got more infrequent and eventually stopped. She did take Holy Orders within 5 years of leaving and never returned, except for brief visits. She had followed her dream and had caught it, and the site of Mary Kelly the nun never ceased to amaze me.

The last I heard, she was still helping the needy and giving her love unconditionally to all who required it. The Kelly boys? They found their own love and settled down. Although they did of course revert to type at old man Kelly's funeral when they wrecked the hotel bar at the breakfast when someone dared to talk out of turn.

An amazing woman never easily forgotten 

duke3016:
Out of sequence but here is the rumble that was my first real meeting with Mary.....

Because of the shop we owned, there was never really anytime the ould lad, me Ma and myself ever socialised together. Me and the ould lad would get together, or me and me Ma would have a couple of scoops. So it was a surprise when the ould lad accosted me in the shop one evening.

“Got tickets for the Hurling social today” says he
“I'll mind the shop then” says I
“No I got three tickets and I am closing the shop early and we are all going” says he

Well, I checked for pigs in the sky and for any other sign of mental instability, finding none, I contented myself with staring at him stupidly. I mean FFS the ould lad shutting the shop early was totally unheard of.

“Well, you coming” says he

Speechless, I nodded my head.

“Good, it was your mother's idea and she is not taking no for a fecking answer “ says he

I knew it wasn't his idea, but I was really looking forward to it was going to be a blast.

Suited and booted and me Ma looking particularly fine in her best going to mass dress we set off for Killaloe for a night of good food, good music and great Craic. The meal was ok not great but filling enough and the wine flowed pretty good as well. Settling back I noticed the usual suspects were already propping up the bar and you didn't need the skills of Columbo to deduce that things could get pretty lively later.

I settled in my seat as the dancing started and as usual the older generation was first to the floor. I marvelled at the two left feet of the ould lad as he tried to look suave and sophisticated escorting me Ma in his particular version of the Waltz. Just then one of the finer damsels of the village, Mary Kelly, decided to lower her standards and talk to me.

We were alone at the table exchanging pleasantries when I heard a distinct rumble from the dance floor and as that was not particularly unusual at these social gatherings and as the wee girl was warming to my erudite ramblings, I ignored it.

That was until the ould lad landed on the table and shot off in between us clearing the cutlery and glasses in his path. He got up and dusted the leftover turkey off his aging tux.

“Ger, with me NOW” he roared

As the ould lad strode purposely back to the source of his demise, I girded my loins and bid the wee girl goodbye and followed him into the melee. Well you had to admire his persistence as he flew past me going backwards, his arms giving a damn good impression of the backstroke. FFS was he losing his touch. Then I saw the source of his backward propulsion.

It was the Kelly brothers. They were three of the meanest, hardest pieces of Shiite that it was anyone's misfortune to come across and they were in the mood for destruction. The funny thing was that they seemed to be concentrating on only one thing. the ould lad.

The crowd on the dance floor had parted into a sort of semi circle and were not in any mood to get involved. Where was my mother? Anyway the ould lad had regained his feet and was in the mood for some more. Time to get involved.. the problem was there was probably no way I would take one of these feckers don't mind fecking three of them. But FFS he was me Da and as he passed me about to take them all on I joined him in his primeval charge.

I weighed in at around 17st those days and was a fit little fecker and the ould lad wasn't far behind me in the heavy stakes. Now, me and the ould lad seemed to have the one mind as we both hit Mikey Kelly together at full pelt. He went down with a whoosh as all his god given air was battered out of him. He was out of commission for a wee while.

As I skidded to a halt I grabbed a chair and swung at Petey Kelly, and being a slow witted sort of fecker, he forgot to duck. As he began his slow fall to temporary incapacitation I wheeled around to see what assistance I could give to the ould lad and quickly saw that it was P J Kelly that was in requirement of assistance.

The ould lad was astride his chest with his fists swinging like a metronome as he smacked P J's head from side to side. I pulled him off not to save P J, he deserved all he got, but because Mikey Kelly had now recovered sufficiently to begin to entertain thoughts of continuing.

Now Mikey was huge, and I mean fecking huge and as it had taken the two of us to knock him to the ground, I sure as feck wasn't going to tackle him on my own.

We squared up Father and Son side by side ready for whatever he could bring. I looked at the ould lad and I swear he was smiling, relishing the upcoming encounter.

Mikey suddenly stopped his forward motion, seemed to stand still for a couple of seconds and then fell forward in a heap grabbing his shoulder in pain. As he fell we could see the cause of his anguish, behind him stood on a chair was me Ma with a bottle of cheap plonk in her hand held by the neck.

I went over to my Mother and said.

“WTF was that all about”

“They insulted his dancing and as usual he sought satisfaction” says she “now help me down off of this fecking chair”

I did not voice the fact that they probably had a point.

The Kelly's were evicted and we continued with our merriment. The wee girl had taken flight, not surprisingly really as she was their sister..

duke3016:
I don't know if any of you have sampled the delights of the illicit brew that is manufactured in Ireland. I am of course talking about the beauties of Poteen. It is a liquid revered by some for its therapeutic characteristics (or its mind blowing 90-95% abv) and its name is derived from the Irish word “pota”, meaning pot. It is mainly distilled from potatoes in small holdings halfway up the mountain. A little known fact is that since about 1989 the revenue allowed legal production for export. FFS the world won't know what hit them. It is a peculiar drink in that your head is clear when you've had a few but your legs will not obey the commands from your brain.

Tom Nugent used to brew it outside the village and I would get a bottle every couple of weeks, not to drink. I used to mix it with olive oil and use it as a rub before playing rugby. I smelt like a cross between a brewery and a chip shop. When buying it he would insist you tasted it first, fun days LOL.

An old joke involving this potent brew.

Priest: “Haven't seen you at mass lately Tom”

Tom: “Not much faith these days father”

Priest: “The power of God is all around you. Why just yesterday I rubbed holy water on a woman's stomach and she passed a baby”

Tom: “That's nothing Father, I rubbed poteen into the dog's ****** and he passed a motorbike”

Have a good day

duke3016:
When we were in Ireland we used to provide our own winter fuel. This was called going to the bog, and schoolgirl giggles at that will be treated with the contempt they deserve. We had turbary rights on a small piece of the “mountain”, we always referred to it as the mountain anyway.

The peat was cut with a Slean and was a specialized job. Therefore although the whole family would turn out for a couple of weeks in order to cut enough of the turf for the year, the job of cutting was left to the 'expert'.

One such expert was Patrick Nugent who as long as I knew him always looked 'old'. he was a tall thin man who looked as if a puff of wind would knock him away. I knew him from around the village of course but I remember my first encounter with him in the bog.

We had all gathered in the bog and the drainage had been sorted out by myself and the ould lad by building a couple of dams either end of the row. We had the barrows ready and the pitch forks for lifting the sods onto the barrow when Patrick arrived.

“FFS Da, he'll flake out after a couple of minutes” says I. The ould lad just looked at me and said “You fecking keep up with him and I'll be fecking happy”. OMG the ould lad happy this I must see. Anyway the idea was that away from the face was an area of cleared land. The turf was to be put there to dry in small towers to let the air through (a bit like a small house of cards). It would then be gathered up at a later date and arranged in huge piles or creels ready for collection.   

Anyway I was on barrow duty and the idea was to take the early loads as far out as possible and work your way in. Patrick started cutting and I have never seen the like in my entire life he was a fecking machine and the turf was flying faster than the helpers could load. I tore out, dropped the load and the women would arrange them for drying and I sprinted back. The loads just came flying and I was fecked. Patrick took a break for a cigarette and I flopped to the ground. We were only going an hour and I was wrecked.

“It'll get easier as you get nearer' says Patrick laughing his head off. No Shiite Sherlock I thought.

We worked the first day for 8 hours and I have never been as tired in my whole life. I was playing senior rugby and thought I was fit. Patrick meanwhile had only stopped for cigarettes (and I was grateful for those breaks I can tell you) and lunch and was as fresh as a daisy. Anyway at the end of the week I was a lot better and quicker (not having  as far to push helped) and boy was I a lot fitter. I would recommend a week in the bog for any athlete.

Patrick was a legend and was in great demand during the summer until machines came on the scene.

There were still bogs that had such bad drainage only a donkey and man could get to them but they were few. It is sad to see old traditions die and I think in some respects progress is not always best. Also machines tended to scalp the land preventing proper drainage anyway.

Getting the turf home with the “assistance” of the most stubborn, cantankerous, obnoxious and pure downright evil donkey is a story for another day

You might have already guessed the period I am rambling about (70's & 80's) was the best of my miserable life

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