Sunday, 28 May 2017

Manchester Arena, May 22 2017

The senseless slaughter of 22 innocent people, along with the maiming and traumatising of so many others at Manchester Arena last Monday night is beyond comprehension. 


Manchester Irish Writers offer their deepest sympathies to all those involved. As writers, many of us have responded in the only way we know how.


FIRST NIGHT AT THE ARENA
By E.M. Powell

As so many Manchester parents know only too well, allowing your teenage daughter to go to the Arena to a gig with a group of friends for the first time is a rite of passage.

They take no notice of your 'Be Carefuls': Make sure you stay together. Don't go to the loo on your own. If you get separated, go to one of the staff. When you come out, watch the road, there's cars everywhere. Make sure your phone's charged up. Dad and I will be in the car at that corner after. Yes, that one. No, THAT one. They haven't listened to a word.

You wave them off, heart in your mouth. At pick up time, (we'll be there from 10:15 in case it finishes early, no, I know it says 10:30 on the ticket, but just in case) you're at that corner. It's raining. Of course it is. So many coming out, so many who could be yours but aren't. You're just watching for yours. Texts. No, THAT corner. Then the text: 'It's ok, I can see you.'

Then she's in, they're all in, soaked of course because they didn't have coats. A back seat full of giggles, shrieks and the car steams up. They're dropped off one by one. The car's quiet. It's just yours left. 'Did you have a good time?' The phone's out again. 'Yeah.' Then we're home. Home.

That's how it's supposed to happen. This morning, I can only thank every God there is, that that was how it happened for us. That mine came home.



MANCHESTER - 23 MAY 2017 
By Martha Ashwell

The sun shines too brightly today;
Clouds should be shrouding our city in gloom.
The rubble and debris of so many lives
Remains to be swept up in the wreckage of dreams.

Beautiful children and smiling young faces
Killed in an instant; heavenly themes lost in the music.
Parents bereft of their hopes and their dreams,
Their children’s lives destroyed without warning.

Hatred and anger inspire the violence 
Erupting indiscriminately.
Why has it happened?
What is the answer?  

Kindness and giving rise to the surface;
The warmth of Mancunians caresses the sadness.
The world looks on and determines;
The only way to conquer evil is through love.



AFTERMATH
By Kevin McMahon
Manchester 23.5.2017

In the green glow 
of Whitworth Park
students bristle with 
mid-exam frenzy 
of relaxation.
A yellow frisbee
scutters between trees.
A woman sits 
on tartan square 
in leaf-shade
and watches her child
crawl across the rug
recoiling at each edge
when she feels
the cool prick of grass.
Although she smiles
this mother cannot quell
the gall of dread,
One day this child
will feel her way
beyond her narrow
boundaries;
will want to join
her friends in happy
concert crowds, 
with appeasing -
meaningless -
cautious promises; 
will step beyond
the limits of her care.



THE MORNING AFTER
By Patrick Slevin

You noticed. I was late. Hung on for too 
Many goodbyes. Held the kids a little
Tighter. Because that world was still out there. 

Cars sat, subdued. Red eyes watching red lights.
Busy searching for yesterday, before 
The landscape changed.

I rang you before I got there. Couldn’t 
Think of any words. If I said I loved you too
Many times, it’s because of those who can’t.



Sunday, 21 May 2017

Martin Duffy: One of the Forgotten Generation

By Kathleen Handrick



Mayo Peace Park, Castlebar
Image courtesy of  the Irish War Memorials website
'The Mayo Peace Park has consigned the ignorance and bitterness of the past into history. It does not seek to glorify or justify any war; its purpose is to commemorate the memory of the people of County Mayo who died in them. It was developed to remember a forgotten generation of brave heroic local people... whose service and sacrifice had been ignored and forgotten, indeed airbrushed out of modern Irish history until recent times.'  Irish War Memorials- Mayo Peace Park. 
Image © Kathleen Handrick

In 2010, I was very pleased to see the name of Martin Duffy, Donkey Man ( a Merchant Navy Stoker), inscribed on the beautiful memorial in the Mayo Peace Park, Castlebar.  Martin was my father’s uncle but unknown to later generations of the family.

Image © Kathleen Handrick

My research had begun a few years earlier.  I was interested in family history but knew very little of my Mayo roots even though I had close relatives still in Mayo. I think it seemed an odd concept to them that I would want to explore this. Perhaps because it was just part of their being, they were living within the history they felt there was no need to delve into the past.

As a child, my English mother had told me of names and places in her family but my father was very reticent. I used to meet people who came from Lacken, I knew the names of my family still living there but that was it.  There was nothing at all of his life experiences in Mayo.

I began by ordering the certificate of my grandparents’ marriage, Thomas Malley and Mary Duffy, and then began to trawl through microfilms at a library at the local Church of Jesus Christ of Latter - day Saints. It was a laborious and not very productive task as the parish records were scant.

 In 2003, I answered a posted request on an internet forum with regard to the Duffy family from Carrowtrasna, my grandmother’s town land. It was from Francis, in USA whose family had emigrated to Pennsylvania in the mid 1880s and although we felt that we might be related, there was no proof. Soon though, came a message from Francis, “I think I have found you a cousin!” and Ray, also in USA, proved to be my second cousin. Our grandmothers were sisters.

Map of Co. Mayo, 1841
British Library - no known copyright restrictions

Ray regularly visits Mayo and is a great researcher and we shared our knowledge. We found the Duffys in 1901 and 1911 censuses and thought that we had all our grandmothers’ siblings from those records.

In 2007, Ray asked if I had ever seen a photograph of a sailor in any of our Irish relatives’ homes. He could recall seeing one but was not sure where and he had found a commemoration of a Merchant Navy man, Martin Duffy, son of Michael and Mary of Carrowtrasna, Mayo on the Commonwealth Graves Commission (CWGC) website showing a death in 1916. Ray and I tried to find this death with no results.

I posted on a Family History site about our difficulties in tracing Martin and a kind person investigated and discovered that the date was wrong and arranged its correction. Martin Duffy, a Donkey man, Mercantile Marine, died in March 1918 when his ship SS Boorara was torpedoed in the English Channel. Four other men were killed that day together with Martin.

Image used with kind permission of the Australian War Memorial  

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, local employment, in the townlands around Lacken, was to be found in farming and fishing but several men from the area enlisted in the Royal Navy, perhaps the natural choice for men who had lived by and understood the sea. Recent records show local men who took part in WW1, including the Battle of Jutland. One of the local survivors returned home but sadly died in a fishing tragedy a few years later in Lacken Bay. Several lives were lost that night.

Image © Kathleen Handrick

As more resources became available through internet sites, I was able to continue my research. Martin, aged 19 years, enlisted on the 5th August 1899, for 12 years as a Stoker in the Royal Navy. He served on several ships and his conduct was always ‘Very Good’. In 1911 census his ship, The Challenger, is shown as serving in the Australian Station.

L H Blakeney, an Able Seaman at the time, writes: ‘In 1911 I was in HMS Challenger, on way to Valparaiso, Chile, for Centenary celebrations. After visiting most of the large island groups we called at Tahiti, Pitcairn and Easter Island. First port of call on the West Coast of South America was Callao to coal ship and then to Valparaiso.”  He continues that after the celebrations, the ship called at the Panama Canal which was still under construction. ‘We coaled ship in 119° Fahrenheit. One chap received severe sunstroke, another became a bit funny in the head.’ The ship continued to Acapulco where there was ‘some sort of uprising’ taking place before returning to Sydney via Fiji. (Naval Historical Society of Australia)

Martin’s record shows that he left the navy in 1912 and nothing is known until the reports of his death in 1918 aboard SS Boorara, whilst serving as a donkey man, a Merchant Navy stoker. The Boorara was a former German ship which had been seized in Australian waters in 1914 and renamed. It was used for carrying troops, horses and supplies and was part of the Australian Mercantile fleet.

In 2014, I received a pleasant surprise when Ray emailed a copy of a very faded photograph. He had eventually found it, filed away in a cousin’s home.  No one knows which man is Martin. I can see family likenesses in both men!

No known copyright restrictions 

I titled this piece, ‘One of the Forgotten Generation’. It is difficult to say that Martin was ignored or forgotten within the family or perhaps just not spoken about as the generations passed. Recently published Irish records show that death was a too common experience in families at the time.  His parents, Michael and Mary had both died and his sister, my grandmother, was raising twelve children at the time of his death in 1918. Ray’s grandmother was in Pennsylvania raising her family. Martin died nineteen years after enlisting and may never have returned home in that time.  We do not know.

In December 2016, I was contacted by a member of the site where I had posted my request for information nine years earlier to say that the CWGC were searching for relatives of Martin Duffy as it was now confirmed that he was buried in an unmarked grave in Hollybrook Cemetery, Southampton, together with another man killed with him that day.

I contacted the organisation and was told that a headstone would now be erected by the Commonwealth Graves Commission and I was invited to suggest a memorial inscription. I spoke with Ray and relatives in Mayo and it was felt that a phrase in both Irish and English would be suitable if acceptable.

I recalled a hymn I had first heard at an Irish mass in St Mary’s Levenshulme, Manchester and suggested the lines: ‘I líonta Dé go gcastar sinn’ - ‘In the nets of God may we be caught’ and am pleased to say it was approved and was thought to be ‘most apt’.

Image used with kind permission of CWGC

I am so glad that Martin will now be honoured and become one of the remembered men who gave their lives during the conflict of WW1 but more importantly is now remembered within his own family.

Footnote:

I took a DNA test last year and in my list of close matches, Ray was the top known match as second cousin, which we knew, but do you remember Francis from 2003? There he is in the list, a likely third or fourth cousin! We were both delighted to receive the news after our chance internet encounter!

~~~~~~~~~
© Kathleen Handrick


Kathleen Handrick is retired and lives in Oldham with her husband and family.  She joined MIW in 2013 as a novice writer and enjoys participating in the writers’ events. Her Irish roots are in County Mayo.

Sunday, 23 April 2017

Black Shamrock (Shammerdoo): A Poem

By Patrick Slevin

Dermot Healy wrote – ‘We forget what we owe to what we’ve forgotten till we encounter it again out of the corner of the eye, in passing.’ 

Shammerdoo (Seamir Dubh) is a townland near Kilkelly in county Mayo. Its meaning is black sorrel, or shamrock.



BLACK SHAMROCK (SHAMMERDOO)

Image used with kind permission of the Connolly family

I never knew him. Not the black and white
Young man. Not the Kodachrome old. With the 
Good wall behind him and the dog. The face
Ringed with lines like the map of his hill, breezes
From Paul Henry skies. 

Image used with kind permission of the Connolly family

  The grass doesn’t grow
In the mud from Mary Anne’s where he walked
Every day, only cloven prints now outlined
By green dew, and purples and blues clawing 
Out from old stones. 

We search to stoke fires with 
Burnt tongs. 
        Your past and our future collide
In the present behind this barbed wire 
Lock. 
           It reeks of the fields in here.

Old jacket still hanging behind the old 
Door. Springs erupt from the mattress, unslept
And rotted with rust. You say no to opening
The flea ridden hag curtain, the doll’s house

Image: © Patrick Slevin

He built you sits still on the floor. Rain briefly
Cracks on the wrought orange roof but the sleep
In this stead carries on, like all those days
Before. You remind me there was ten of 

Them once fractioned in these three rooms. I 
Stand in a doorway, it comes up to my 
Neck, I almost sit down in his chair for a
Picture, by the damp dresser, by the green

Image: © Patrick Slevin

And red tiles, clinging under the mantel,
Where a flat Christmas card warns about
Turkey, your mother’s handwriting fades in
Those misty old wishes. We both try to 

Say that sweet Irish proverb, under the
White horse and trap, holding it at angles
To the tiny window, 
later we learn 
It reads ‘Made in Japan’. 

    By some leaning
Brown bottles we pick up the tongs and
Think of the fire, the other side of the 
Hill. You sit on the remains, gently, of 
The good wall, for a minute, it all doesn’t 

© Carmel Slevin
Seem that long ago now. I raise the tongs,
Like in Zulu, and we turn in the sun,
Shining over Shammer, treading backwards,
As fields swarm round the Callaghan place.

~~~~~~~~~~~
Text: © Patrick Slevin



Patrick Slevin lives in Stockport. He has been writing poems and stories for many years.







Patrick wrote 'Black Shamrock (Shammerdoo)' for Manchester Irish Writers' event, 'Echoes of Ireland', performed at the Irish World Heritage Centre Manchester on 9 March 2017. 


Monday, 17 April 2017

1916: The Risen Word

Manchester Irish Writers marked the centenary of Ireland's Easter Rising in March 2016 with our event, '1916: The Risen Word' at the Irish World Heritage Centre, Manchester. For '1916: the Risen Word', we wrote original poems, monologues, drama and more inspired by the events of the Rising and its aftermath. MIW received the generous support of the Embassy of Ireland for this event.


We have since published many of our pieces on this blog. For Easter 2017, here is a compilation of those posts.

Poem by Bridie Breen


By Barbara Aherne


Poem by E.M. Powell


Proclaim the Dream
Poem by Rose Morris


By Kathleen Handrick


Elizabeth's Vanishing Brogues
Poem by Kevin McMahon


By Marion Riley


By Des Farry


Summer 1979
Poem by Patrick Slevin


Both Sides of the Divide
Poem by Martha Ashwell


Sunday, 16 April 2017

Elizabeth’s Vanishing Brogues: A Poem

By Kevin McMahon

Elizabeth O’Farrell was a member of Cumann na mBan, and acted as a dispatcher both before and during the Rising.  She was sent, under a white flag, to deliver the surrender to the British military on Saturday 29th April.  Despite the white flag, she initially came under fire, and was fortunate to remain unharmed.  Brigadier General Lowe demanded that Padraig Pearse deliver an unconditional surrender to him, personally.  He also admired Elizabeth’s courage, and insisted that she should accompany Pearse.  A press photographer captured the moment of this surrender, but Elizabeth, who stepped back, can only be glimpsed – her feet visible behind Pearse’s.

Later that momentous photograph was edited, to remove the offending legs and feet, and came to symbolise the eclipsing of the very significant role played in the Rising by many brave women, and even of the Revolutionaries’ vision of gender equality in a new Ireland.

This poem is about that photograph.


ELIZABETH'S VANISHING BROGUES
i.m. Elizabeth O’Farrell

The photograph of Elizabeth behind Pearse.
Twitter: National Museum of Ireland @NMIreland

A pair of tiny shoes – size four at most – 
Protruding from the hem of Pearse’s coat,
Was caught on film in the moment of defeat,
As Lizzie chose to step back in his shade.
A minor point of little weight you’d think,
But when the public tide flowed Padraig’s way
Such tiny flaws could humanise the myth,
So Lizzie’s brogues were airbrushed from the frame.

Elizabeth, I’m sure you couldn’t know
That you’d become a symbol of the shift
Of Proclamation pledges set aside
As Ireland was exchanging tyrannies.
So “civil liberties and rights for all”
And hopes of “cherishing” – was that the word? – 
“All children of the nation equally”,
Retreated for another hundred years
Behind the stole and veil, with downcast eyes
That failed to see the airbrushing of dreams.

The National Library of Ireland has an online 1916 exhibition. You can find the photograph of Elizabeth and Pearse, along with many others, in the section 'The Surrender'. You can find the section and access the whole exhibition here. 

~~~~~~~~~
Text © Kevin McMahon
Kevin has been a member of Manchester Irish Writers since 1998 – with a few years’ absence due to work commitments prior to his retirement!  He has contributed to the group’s publications “The Retting Dam”, “Stones of the Heart” and “Changing Skies”, and regularly performs at the group’s events.  He is a former winner of the “New Writing” award at Listowel Writers’ Week in Country Kerry, and has been shortlisted for a number of other awards for memoirs and short stories.  With Alrene Hughes, Kevin co-edited the publication of monologues arising from the “Changing Skies” project.  His scripts have been professionally performed in various venues, and he has had poetry broadcast on the BBC.

Saturday, 15 April 2017

Proclaim the Dream: A Poem

By Rose Morris

Why were many of the poets and writers  of the Irish Cultural Revival at the beginning of the 20th century motivated to take up arms to fight for Irish Freedom? Why did some of them enlist to fight in the first World War?

For the latter I bring to mind Francis Ledwidge and Tom Kettle who were both preparing to fight for Irish freedom but decided instead to enlist in the British Army following John Redmond’s speech at Woodenbridge when he called on the Irish Volunteers 'to go wherever the firing line extends'.

Tom Kettle wrote a poem for his baby daughter, Betty, to try and explain his own reason for deserting her and going to war in France where he died in September 1916. He wanted her to know that he didn’t die for a king or a country, but “for a dream, that was born in a herdsman’s shed” and for ‘ the sacred scriptures of the poor'.

All the executed leaders of the 1916 Rising had their dreams too and they also left behind letters and parting words to their loved ones and these lines equally live on in this shared history.



PROCLAIM THE DREAM

Kilmainham Gaol. Dublin, Ireland
Photo credit: Carl Mikoy via Visualhunt.com / CC BY 2.0

Whether the dream was born in a herdsman’s shed 
Or died in a stone breakers’ yard it still lives on 
 Through rhyme and reason in many a heart, 
 A revised history, a contested legacy 

Some will look back and call it sublime
Some will say it was a glorious madness
The bittern will cry in the wild sky unheard 
And Pearce will have gone his way in sadness

Patrick Pearse
Image: Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Betty may have grown up cherishing her father’s lines 
Believing that he lies in shame with the foolish dead,
Where he fell at Ginchy, buried in some unknown grave
No honour, just blame, she a child of circumstance.

Thomas Kettle
Image: Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

The sixteen who died for Ireland’s freedom
Will be more remembered for their gallant part,
Fifteen face a firing squad in Kilmainham prison yard.
Roger Casement  to hang on the gallows in Pentonville

Roger Casement
NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restrictions

Tearful mothers, weeping wives, lamenting lovers 
Take away lines and letters and parting gifts 
As brave men say last farewells and give reasons,
Denying futility, claiming the supreme sacrifice

“Your life, Seán, your beautiful life.”
Mary, take these four buttons from my coat,
The only gift Mac Diarmada had left to give
Joseph, my little man, be a priest if you can.

Seán Mac Diarmada
NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restrictions

Counting the cost, McDonagh was ready to pay 
And ‘his song floated upwards on the wings of daring’.
Ceannt faced the firing squad after his confession
Content that Ireland had shown she was a nation

Thomas McDonagh
NLI Flickr /No Known Copyright Restrictions

Heuston died on a soap box, a youthful, calm and fearless face
Joseph Plunkett went to death husband to his darling Grace
Marriage vows exchanged in the prison chapel, bayonets fixed
To the witness words of the Enniskillens chanting prayers.

Beside crucifix carrying priests they walked at dawn
To where a wooden box and sand bags marked a place,
Where they stood to wait, blindfolded and hands bound, 
Before their writhing bodies fell on blood they jointly shed. 

Kilmainham Gaol
Image by: psyberartist (Kilmainham Gaol)/ Wikimedia Commons (CC BY 2.0)

‘Untie my hands, remove the blindfold’. 
Wishes of McBride, duty bound, the officer denied.
A white target square upon his breast, Con Colbert 
Moved it to a higher place, upon his heart to rest. 

Thomas Clarke entrusted to his wife a final message
To let the Irish people know that he and fellow-signatories 
Had struck the first successful blow for freedom
And  the next blow would win through’. He died happy.

Michael O'Hanrahan
NLI Flickr / No Known Copyright Restrictions

Hanrahan, Daly and Willie Pearce joined freely in the fight
And walked to death as brave as any that had gone before.
Men of vision, Sons of Ireland, faithful and they fought
And the dream lived on in the conscious heart of a nation.

Irish Sky
Image by: By Fabiog82 (Own work)Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 3.0)

~~~~~~~~~~
Text: © Rose Morris
Rose Morris was born near Dungannon, in Co. Tyrone. Having retired from a career in Art and Design Education in Greater Manchester she now spends more time pursuing her creative interests and involvement in community projects in Manchester and County Tyrone.
She co-founded the Manchester Irish Writers group with Alrene Hughes in 1994.
Her continued involvement and sharing within that group has greatly enhanced the development of her own writing. 
Her short stories, monologues and poetry have been included in the Manchester Irish Writers’ published collections; The End of the Rodden, The Retting Dam, Stone of the Heart, Drawing Breath and Changing Skies.

Rose wrote 'Proclaim the Dream' for MIW's commemorative event, '1916: The Risen Word', which was performed at the Irish World Heritage Centre, Manchester on March 10 2016. MIW received the generous support of the Embassy of Ireland for this event.


Sunday, 9 April 2017

Boots on the Ground: Researching Medieval Ireland

By E.M. Powell

The island of Ireland occupied a unique place in the medieval world. It was, as far as the millions of inhabitants of Europe were concerned, It. Nothing else existed to the west (sorry, Americas). In a seventh century letter to the Pope, Saint Columbanus refers to the Irish as the ‘Dwellers at the Earth’s Edge.’ And even by the twelfth century, Gerald of Wales, royal clerk to England’s King Henry II, still confirmed Ireland as ‘the farthest western lands…Beyond the whole horizon only the ocean flows and is borne on in endless space.’

Ireland’s Atlantic Coast, Co. Cork.
© E.M. Powell

Now, Henry had a keen interest in Ireland and, as it happens, so do I—it being the land of my birth and all. But I also have a keen interest in Henry. The first two books in my medieval thriller Fifth Knight series have featured my fictional hero, Sir Benedict Palmer, in Henry’s service. Henry first arrived in Ireland in 1171. He had already sent troops there and he wanted to stamp his authority on it. But by 1185 it was in a state of major unrest, with native Irish kings and Henry’s Anglo-Norman barons who had taken Irish lands fighting it out for power.

The King had an ingenious solution: make his eighteen year old son Lord of Ireland and send him over to sort it out. And that son was John. Yes—the John who would one day be the infamous Bad King John. It says something about a British Royal when even Disney has a pop at them. John’s portrayal as a thumb-sucking lion prince in the classic animation Robin Hood is only one of many unflattering portrayals of him.

King John, as depicted c1372 on The Great Charter Roll in Waterford’s Medieval Museum.
© E.M. Powell

Trouble is, they aren’t far off the mark. John acquired his terrible reputation by simply being John. Suffice to say, his campaign in Ireland was a disaster—a gift to me as a novelist. A further gift was that the King’s clerk, Gerald, went with John, leaving us many first-hand accounts of what went on. And so, book #3, The Lord of Ireland, was born.

Of course I couldn’t send Sir Benedict Palmer off to the earth’s edge without first checking out the locations myself. Most historical fiction authors like to get their research feet on the ground where possible, and I’m no exception, especially when it involves a trip to Ireland.

John landed at the Port of Waterford on the south east coast on April 25 1185, with three hundred knights in tow. Still standing tall on Waterford’s quay is the medieval Reginald’s Tower, part of the old city’s fortifications which date from the time of the Vikings.

Reginald’s Tower, Waterford City.
© E.M. Powell

While the Tower would have looked a bit different in John’s day, we do know precisely what he did as he stood outside it. A group of powerful Irish chieftains came to pay tribute to him as Henry’s representative, greeting him as their lord. John’s response? Well, according to Gerald, John ‘pulled some of them about by their beards, which were large and flowing according to the native custom.’ Suitably angered and very unimpressed, the Irish made for the court of one of the Irish kings, where they reported back on the insults and how John was ‘a mere youth…a stripling who only listened to youthful advice.’ Worse, they decided that rather than make peace with John, they would ‘plot to resist [John’s force]…guard the privileges of their ancient freedom’ with their lives, and ‘make pacts’ to resist him. Oh, John.

Meanwhile, John began making grants of land to his own friends— land that loyal supporters of Henry already held. The result, according to Gerald, was that those who were dispossessed ‘went over to the side of the enemy.’ But John carried on. He set about establishing castles to take control of the land. We know from Gerald that there were three sites: Tibberaghny, in Co.  Kilkenny, Ardfinnan in Co. Tipperary and Lismore in Co. Waterford. Nothing remains of these structures, which were probably made of wood.

Ardfinnan Castle: rebuilt in the 18th & 19th Centuries.
© E.M. Powell

When I stopped off at Tibberaghny to check out the lie of the land, a man with a stick just happened to be walking past. (Note: this always happens in Ireland. There is always a man with a stick.) He a) enquired in a roundabout way what I was up to (also what AMWAS always does) and b) announced he was off to climb Slievenamon (in Irish, Sliabh na mBan) the mountain in the distance.

Slievenamon, Co. Tipperary- the mountain of the women.
© E.M. Powell

This was the point where it hit home that I had an extra layer of history. Yes, I was tracking the events of 800 years ago. But those boots of the Norman invaders were already tramping through history, through a land that had its unique ancient past. Slievenamon means ‘mountain of the women’. Legend has it that Fionn mac Cumhaill, Irish hero of the Fionn or Ossianic cycle of tales, and leader of a great band of warriors, chose his bride Gráinne from the winner of a group of young women who raced to meet him at the top of the mountain. Legend also has Fionn as a pragmatist: he secretly told the lovely Gráinne of a short cut, so she’d reach the summit first.

As for new arrival John in 1185, all was proceeding very badly. There were losses of life on both sides. He (or rather, his more able men) made a few gains, but his forces were well and truly routed in equal amounts by some of the native Irish kings. His less able men drank, caroused and fought with each other. When John failed to pay them, they deserted.

One would have thought that John would have accepted some responsibility for his failings. But no. Instead, he accused one of Henry’s men of treacherous dealings with the Irish. That man was Hugh de Lacy, Henry’s first Lord of Meath.

De Lacy is a major character in The Lord of Ireland. He was also a major thorn in Henry’s side, being far too good at his job for the King’s liking. He’d taken the ancient kingdom of Meath (Mide) from the Irish and constructed many castles. One was at the site of a sixth century monastery at Durrow in present day Co. Offaly. De Lacy’s mark on the land is no more. But the magnificent ninth century High Cross of Saint Colmcille still stands there, as it had done so 300 years before any Anglo-Norman’s arrival.

The Durrow High Cross and me. The cross dates from c850.
© E.M. Powell

De Lacy’s main castle was at Trim in Co. Meath. Trim is the largest Anglo-Norman castle in Ireland and still the best preserved and is incredibly impressive.

Hugh de Lacy’s Trim Castle.
© E.M. Powell


Trim Castle Interior.
© E.M. Powell

He’d also married a daughter of Rory O’Connor, the Irish High King. Some chroniclers suggest that de Lacy was lining up to take all of Ireland from Henry. We know John scuttled off to Dublin where he stayed until returning to Henry in December 1185, complaining bitterly about the Irish and Hugh de Lacy and blaming de Lacy for his failure.

In my novel, I add an extra layer. I needed a large monastery for the murdering climax of the book. And as large holy houses go, they don’t come much bigger than the Rock of Cashel. We don’t know if John ever visited, but Henry and Hugh de Lacy had stayed during the 1171 campaign. And to my joy, two of the buildings that stand now were there in 1185. Cormac’s Chapel was consecrated in 1134, magnificent inside and out.

Interior of Cormac’s Chapel, Cashel.
© E.M. Powell

And oldest of all, its Round Tower built around 1100. No one is quite sure what the exact purpose of Round Towers was, though they probably housed bells and valuables. But the architectural shape and form of Round Towers is unique to Ireland. They do things differently at the earth’s edge, y’know.

Round Tower & 13th Century Cathedral, Cashel.
© E.M. Powell

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Text & Images © E.M. Powell
MIW member E.M. Powell was born in Cork City into the family of Michael Collins. She now lives in Manchester with her husband, daughter and a Facebook-friendly dog. Her medieval thriller Fifth Knight series has reached bestseller lists in the U.S., the U.K. and Germany. Book #3 in the series, The Lord of Ireland, was released in 2016. She is also a contributing editor to International Thriller Writers The Big Thrill magazine, blogs for English Historical Fiction Authors and is the social media manager for the Historical Novel Society. Find out more by visiting www.empowell.com