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Sunday, 14 June 2020

St Gobnait, Patron Saint of Bees


This is where I spent this afternoon.  We are allowed to meet up anywhere in the county and so Hubbie and I met our friends Charlie and Susie in St Gobnait's Well in Ballyvourney for a picnic.  We never knew this place existed before today, but it is regarded as a sacred spot.  

On this same site are the ruins of an 8th-century church, a sacred praying circle and a holy well where people come to take holy water.  It used to be a pagan site, and the water was believed to endow women with fertility.  There are symbols over the windows of the ruined church which indicate people covering their private parts.  

Charlie told us of a holy well in Kerry called Tobair Na Suil, which was believed to restore eyesight and another really cool one in Ballyheigue, also in Kerry, called Tobar na nGealt where depressed people used to drink the water.  Years later, they discovered that this well contained the chemical, Lithium, which is used in anti-depressant medication.  

It poured rain just as we arrived, but once that cleared, Charlie put a blanket on one of the benches and we had a gorgeous picnic and then a wander around the ruins and graveyard.  What is really cool about St Gobnait is that she is regarded as the patron saint of bees.  Hence the bees carved into the plinth.  


The next time any of ye are in Cork, I'll be happy to take you there.  And as Susie said, had it not been for Covid-19, we would have met in a pub and completely missed out on this cultural gem.

Friday, 12 June 2020

Lockdown Birthday

“Mum, I’m coming home for your birthday.”

“Perfect, I’ll make your favourite dinner.”

The following day, Leo announces lockdown. No travel outside 2km.

“I must go home.”

“But you are home.”

“Dublin’s my home now, Mum.”

Early the next morning, Son, anxious to test the roads and I want to get a Curly Wurly cake, we drive the 2km to Cinnamon Cottage.

I take my place in the queue outside the Cottage. 

Respecting the two-metre distance, several people stand around chatting while hugging their takeaway coffee cups. 

A squad car drives by.   

Everyone stops talking and look anxiously at the car.

The single female garda smiles kindly and moves on.

The only curly wurly cake left is large and still frozen. I take it, and several other things as well: who knows when we might see food again.

Driving home again, we see gardai setting up a roadblock on Maryborough Hill. Time to get on the road.

Lunch at 11 am. ‘Happy Birthday’ at 11.30 am.

“Are you sad?"

“I am. But if I were 26 again, I’d do the exact same thing.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

We hug and, with a quarter of still frozen curly wurly cake in the passenger seat of his car, he left. 

Thursday, 11 June 2020

The 100 Word Challenge

Son (26) is home for Hubbie's birthday, and he's causing trouble already. He has set me a challenge to write a blog post at 100 words or less. 

"You're on," I said. "How hard can it be?" 

"Sure anyone can write a 100 words," scoffed Son (20). "It's barely a paragraph." 

"Yeah," said Son (26) "but Mum is incapable of writing a post without vomiting words all over the place."

"And Mum," said Son (20). "Go back on the coffee."

"Why?"

"Because you're miserable."

It's still no coffee today: I'm starting to feel the benefits, and I've made 100 words. 

Wednesday, 10 June 2020

Neighbours From Hell

Son (22) is one of those students that moved into the College Road area around UCC at the end of May. The day after he moved in the residents held a silent protest which was surprisingly effective. Each resident stood outside their house wearing a high visibility vest holding up signs saying, 'Students: Why Are You Here?' The protest made the main TV news that evening, all the major newspapers and was the topic for a heated debate on the radio.

In his brief visit home last Sunday to steal my best saucepan, Son (22) showed me a video a girl had taken of two elderly residents, wearing masks, break into her house on College Road. The girl recorded the incident on her phone from an upstairs window. At first, the two men stand at the garden gate, shouting abuse at the house before briefly disappearing out of view. You then hear the smashing of glass as they break through the front door. The next thing you see is the two men retreating down the garden path as a male student tries to reason with them. The older of the two men kicks at the boxes of empty beer bottles neatly stacked in the front garden and then reaching into one of the boxes, he snatches up a bottle and smashes it against the wall.   

Son also showed me a tweet tagged #StudentsLivesMatter calling on all students to stage a silent counter-protest with signs saying, 'Residents, Why Are You Here?' to be followed by the biggest house party Cork has ever seen. It was a joke. Neither the protest nor the rave happened.

My sympathies lie with the residents. We lived in an apartment on the 15th floor and had the misfortune to live above a Mr Kwan. Mr Kwan was in his eighties and from the first day we moved in, he complained about our children daily. The security men would knock on our front door and in an apologetic manner, advise me of the latest complaint. I made an effort to be quieter; switching off the TV at 7 pm and removing our shoes as soon as we entered the apartment as is the custom in Hong Kong. The complaints kept coming. It was irritating, but I learned to live with it.   Until one night. 

Hubbie had left for Korea that day. The boys were in bed for 8 pm, and I went to bed myself. At 11 pm I heard the phone ring in the sitting room. By the time I got to the phone, it stopped ringing.  I turned to go back to bed.  The phone rang again. It was Mr Kwan, "You are disturbing me."

"What?" I said.

"You are making too much noise."

"I was in bed asleep. In fact, you woke me up."

Mr Kwan insisted again I was making too much noise and then hung up.  

Too angry to put on a dressing gown, I ran for the front door and too furious to wait for the lift, I hurtled down the service stairs. I knocked on Mr Kwan's door. His son answered. As soon as he saw me, he went to close it again, but I jammed my foot in the door and forced him backwards.  Mr Kwan then appeared in his dressing gown. I screamed at him, "You moron; I was asleep."     His son caught me by the shoulders and attempted to shove me back out the open door. I shrugged him off and continued to berate his father.

Back home again, with rage flooding my veins, I wrote a letter to the condo management and hand-delivered it the next day. The manager was out, but the head of security was there. He was polite and sympathetic but told me that owners of apartments have all the rights and tenants none and unreasonable as Mr Kwan is, there was very little they or I could do. He suggested that the next time I had trouble with Mr Kwan, I should call the police. His suggestion shocked me, "Why would I waste their time over neighbours squabbling?"

I rang Hubbie in Korea. "Maybe we should move out," he said.

"Absolutely not," I said, "He's the problem."

The following week, with Hubbie still away, my oldest son had a sleepover for his 12th birthday with six of his school friends. Big mistake. The boys went berserk running from room to room, banging doors and watching videos until well past midnight. I could not rein them in for fear of ruining their fun. At 1 am, there was a knock on the front door. Standing at the door were two policemen with guns and badges. One of them was a captain. I was relieved: maybe the boys would go to bed now. The boys, however, thought it was hilarious. "Cool," they said. "Wait 'till we tell everybody at school."

Without their helmets, they looked like security men, and the boys did not take them seriously. The captain warned the boys to go to bed and left.     Ten minutes later, the policemen came back.  This time there were three of them.   The boys agreed to confine their antics to my son's bedroom.

We were doomed. In less than a week, we had lost all moral authority over Mr Kwan and credibility with management.

Hubbie returned from Korea the following weekend.   He reasoned that it was a miserable situation that would never improve. He also confided in me something the landlord told him after we moved in; the previous tenants were Japanese with a little girl and Mr Kwan drove them out too. If the Japanese were too noisy for him what hope did we have? We would never be in peace so long as we stayed in this apartment. I stormed out with my passport and wallet.     I walked into the depths of Happy Valley before I ran out of steam. We moved to tower 14.

Noisy neighbours are hell. The residents on College Road deserve peace. Most of them are elderly and have been observing the Covid-19 restrictions by cocooning for several months now. For them to have their efforts mocked when they see these young, virile, healthy creatures, in clear violation of the 5km restriction, moving in with crates of beer and barbecue sets and treating their place like it's Magaluf.  If I was a resident, it would be more than a few beer bottles I'd be kicking.

Tuesday, 9 June 2020

Burnt Fingers

I'm exhausted. I can't stop falling asleep.  Day three of this Ayurvedic diet and it's boring the sh** out of me. I'm allowed spelt bread which I bought in Aldi, it's not bad toasted.  
This morning I made banana bread thanks to the Happy Pear.  The ingredients are all within my three food groups; Sweet, Bitter and Astringent.  We have a ton of bananas gently rotting since Son (22) moved out. It was either use them up or add them to the already overflowing compost heap. While the oven was on, I also made a batch of granola as per Dearbhla O'Rourke's recipe. I've been making this for three years now, and it's delicious with ice-cream and chocolate sauce.
It was coming up to 8am. I had just taken the banana bread out of the oven and placed it on top of the stove to rest next to the granola and was hanging up the oven mitts when I hear his lordship descending the stairs.  On entering the kitchen, his eyes lit up as he is enchanted by the twin aromas of hot nuts - from the granola - and warm bananas.   He follows his nose to the stove.  I didn't think I had to warn him. I thought he saw me hanging up the oven mitts.
I heard him say, "Is that ready to eat yet?" and then, "Oh sh**," then several more, "Sh**s" as he attempted to stop the hot tin falling to the floor. I ran the cold water tap and told him to put his hands underneath.   I then cut a generous stalk from the aloe vera plant on the kitchen sill, slit it open lengthways and rubbed it into Hubbie's throbbing hot, sore fingers. 
I made him a coffee, myself a Barley Cup - a very poor substitute, but needs must. Using the oven mitts, I turned out the banana bread onto a wire tray and cut us both a generous chunk. To cheer him up, I placed an Aldi 85% dark chocolate bar on top of his and we watched it slowly melt into the slice.
His Homer Simpson tactics cheered me up.  I think my Vata might be creeping back.

Monday, 8 June 2020

The Humour Is Off Me Now


There’s an old Irish song of a milking maid who sang; ‘I must get married for the humour is on me now.’ But after a year of marriage, her song turned to ‘Sayin' I'm sorry I ever got married for the humour is off me now.

I'm grumpy this morning. I’ve had no coffee; I'm out of kilter.  I bored with this stupid Lockdown.

Limited in what I am permitted to do, I've changed my diet.  I have always been curious about Ayurvedic medicine since I came across it several years ago during a well-being workshop with my friend Maria at Cork City International Airport.

Maria and I completed the questionnaire.   Maria got the same score as me, Pitta Vata which puzzled me.  Although we are both low-sized women, we have very different personalities.

Maria went for a consultation with Suzi two weeks ago and found it powerful.  With nothing to lose except the stone I'm wearing around my ass;  I signed up for it too.  You can diet any time in any way, but the appeal of the Ayurvedic method is that it is a holistic approach.  

I had my consultation with Suzi on Thursday.     Suzi explained I had too much Pitta; angry, cross, resentful and needed more Vata which is the playful, creative side of me.  That's what I needed to hear.  Too much Pitta manifests itself in the biggest organ of the body, the skin and my eczema has gone berserk on my right hand.  To bring my Vata back into balance I need to 'sweep the temple' and address the alkaline imbalance in my body, I must not eat/drink alcohol dairy, coffee, stimulants and meat.  I have no problem saying good-bye to meat and alcohol, but facing the day without my beloved Greek yoghurt and coffee, the crutch that gets me out of bed, is hard.  It’s only the 2nd day and the withdrawal symptoms are savage. 

It's even harder when there are little or no distractions.  

So why do it?  I'm out of kilter.  When everything else has shut down, this is the perfect time to recalibrate.  In the first weekend of Lockdown, I guzzled my way through 12 cans of Bulmer's, a 12-pack of Taytos and four Cadburys bars.  I kept this up for the next four weeks.  I've long stopped that: the heartburn nearly killed me.  Then on a Friday night about three weeks ago, my friend Hilda called.  She had just been to Tesco's in Wilton and arrived at the door with slabs of Cadburys chocolate in different flavours and two large bags of crisps.  I hugged her on arrival. 

"Geraldine," she said peeling me off, "You're not allowed to do that."

I had the cider ready and waiting, but she said she couldn't as she was driving.  On a normal Friday evening, one can is enough to melt all my stress and to dissolve the barriers in my head that prevent me from reaching out to people.  The first can felt so good; I cracked open a second. In between drinks, I ate three squares of the mint Oreo chocolate bar.  Hilda and I were drilling down into philosophical matters when I opened a third. 

Hilda looked at me and said, "Are you sure?"
"It's Friday," I said, "I only have to fall up the stairs." I then repeated my lifelong motto, "What's the worst that could happen?"
I took a sup from the can and felt my stomach heave.  I waited for the moment to pass and resumed drinking.

At 11 pm Hilda collected her bits and bobs to go home. I pleaded with her not to leave.  I attempted to cut her off by the kitchen door, but she swept me aside.  She got to the front door before me, but as she sat into the driver's seat, I attempted to squeeze in with her.  Eventually, with the help of Hubbie, I released my grip on Hilda and she drove off. 

I joined Son (22) in the sitting room watching TV.  He pretended to be asleep.   I threw up that night. I threw up the next, and all the time, I tasted mint at the back of my mouth.  I felt wretched the whole weekend right through until Monday.

On Monday, Hilda rang.   "As you are sitting down?" she said. She sounded subdued. "How are you feeling?" 
"Sick," I said. "And I keep burping mint."
"That was the mint Oreo chocolate," said Hilda.
"I don't remember that."
"You only had three squares."
I felt nauseous just thinking about chocolate, "I'm never touching that again."
"Ger, I need to tell you something.  John (her husband) was tested positive at work for Covid-19."
"Oh, you poor thing.  How are you feeling?"
I'm grand, but I'm getting tested today.  But Ger, you need to be careful."
"Why?"
"Remember Friday?
"Yeah, but I only hugged you when you came in the door."
"Ger," insisted Hilda, "you slobbered all over me."  As she talked, it all came back to me.
"What will I tell Hubbie?" I said.
"Don't tell him anything yet. I'm getting tested today, and I'll let you know."
The following Friday, I received a text from Hilda, 'I meant to ring you yesterday, the test came back negative.'

All my life, I've wondered what it's like to live during an historical event that changed the world like the American Civil war, the War of Independence in Ireland, the Blitz in London and the Vietnam War.  On a girly shopping trip to Ho Chi Minh City several years ago, we explored the Cu Chi tunnels, which I found fascinating.  Later that day in a phone call to Hubbie, I told him that I could see myself as a Viet Cong guerrilla wriggling down one of those tunnels for the freedom of my country.  The heat would suit me fine.
"Where are you ringing from?" said Hubbie
"My hotel," I said.
"Is it a nice hotel?"
"Fabulous; it's a five star.
"Yeah, you'd make a great guerrilla."

Here I am in the midst of a global event which will change the way we work and live forever.  The world as we know it will never be the same yet I'm bored.  I wanted the planet to stop so that I could get off for ten days and that's exactly what I got.  Careful what you wish for.    I finally get to experience a world-changing global event, but I’m finding it's not all it's cracked up to be.  The humour is off me now.

Friday, 5 June 2020

The Second Best Tits In The School

Elaine from Monaghan is married to Ryan from Canada.  Like me, she plays in defence.  Unlike me, she doesn't fall apart under pressure. I made captain for the Ladies B team for the All-China Championships in Shenzhen. Ryan, who was on the selection committee, gave me the news just before our first game.  
I protested, "Why am I, captain?"  
"You're the most experienced player on the team," said Ryan.
"That's not fair," I said. "I don't want the responsibility of motivating others: I've enough crap to be dealing with."

'My team' stood miserable and rudderless on the side of the pitch.    Jules, an American and mother of four small children, came to accompany her husband TJ, who was on the Men's B team, only to find herself roped in to make up the numbers.    She was almost on the verge of tears.  I attempted to comfort her.  Jules told us of the conversation she had with her husband that morning. "I'm shit," she said.  Her husband looked at the player list and laughed, "Don't worry, you're all shit."
"Excuse me…!", I said.

Just as we were on the point of a complete meltdown, Elaine hobbled over on her crutches.  She snapped her Achilles tendon in training and couldn't play. Ryan must have tipped her off on our fragile mental states.

She sent me to find the referee and ask which direction we were playing.   Happy to be given something to do, I scampered away. 

The GAA in Ireland had flown out two referees; one from the Tyrone, the other from Sligo.  The man from Sligo flipped a coin. I returned to my team. "Well," said Elaine, "Which way?" I couldn't remember.  

Elaine directed the game from the side-line.    Once a match starts, I forget my fears, and I enter the happy zone when time stands still.   I heard someone shout, "Ger."  I looked over.  It was Sarah the sub.  She made a rolling gesture for me to come off.  I ignored her.
Then I heard someone bark, "Ger." This time it was Elaine.  She gestured with one of her crutches to come off.   I obeyed.

When I play in defence, I have no interest in how the match is going.   If I'm marking you, there is no way you are going to score.  I stick to you like Velcro and I will either outrun you or slap the ball out of your hands.  Of course, people score.  Catherine from Shanghai figured that out. I'm only five-foot-tall, and when I rush her, she lobs the ball over my head before I reach her.    In one particular match, we were playing Japan A, and I marked this girl - a mother of three children - so closely that at the half time whistle, she kicked me in the shin.  I saw it happening but don't remember feeling it. She had my sympathies: I would do the same. 

Soccer and rugby go quiet in the summer.   GAA is the only sporting action in town.  We attract all the new arrivals to HK who, anxious to keep up their fitness, join us the for the summer months.   In 2005, we had the good fortune to welcome Erin Blankenship.  Erin, an American, played soccer. The All Asian Games were coming up, and Hong Kong GAA was hosting it.  The A team had been selected and the rest of us hopefuls were waiting to see if we'd get picked for the B Team.  With Erin's arrival, it quickly became obvious that she was a fantastic football player.  Fergal, the coach from the A Team, came sniffing around our end of the training ground.   Serena urged John Hone and Ryan to select the ladies B Team before the A-Team grabbed her.  Erin was offered to play for the As. She refused, she was happy to keep practising with us.  

In the tournament final, when Erin was alone with the ball and not under pressure, Dara, our couch would shout "Soccer, Erin, soccer." This meant that Erin didn't have to pick up the ball and could stick to what she knew best.   We won the Plate Final.  I still have my lime and navy kit with the dragon logo of Hong Kong and that uniquely Irish word 'FECK' emblazoned on the chest. It's a bit tight, but I plan to be buried in it. 

Speaking of chest, in conversation with Elaine one night in Delaney's pub, I asked her how she met Ryan.  She told me they met while teaching together in a school in Thailand. As part of the story, she mentioned a colleague, Moira who was voted by the other teachers to have the '2nd best tits in the school.' I bit the hook, "Who had the first best?" Elaine smiled and said, "Me, Geraldine, I had the best tits in the school."

After we moved back to Ireland, Elaine became pregnant with their first son Finn.  I met Finn as a baby sleeping peacefully in a sling on a return visit to Hong Kong two years later.    Finn is now 14 and has cancer.  Niamh McMullen, also an ex-player is rallying all Hong Kong GAA players, both past and present, scattered around the world to run 5km on Saturday 13th June to help raise funds for Finn's treatment.

Already, there are people training.  Nora, from Ballyvourney and now a firefighter in the UK, intends to run in her uniform.   Our boys, Hubbie and I will be doing ours on the fast arse mile between Rochestown and Blackrock Castle. We're supposed to wear a costume, but Serena and I will be wearing our 'FECK' tops.    I'm so out of shape; it's sure to bring back memories of my first training session on New Year's Day seventeen years ago, "I can't do this, I can't do this. Oh, I've just done it. I'll keep going so."

Wednesday, 3 June 2020

Biddies in Whiddy

I am the last to arrive at the pier. The first thing I see is Horace soaking wet. He has just emerged from the sea; with his dripping jeans clung to his legs, he looked like a seal. My heart swells with pride; our tutor is a free spirit and having a few minutes to spare before the ferry leaves for Whiddy Island he spontaneously jumped into the sea to experience the ice-cold, soul cleansing, brain freezing waters of Bantry Bay.

I climb into the ferry. Paolo, the ferry driver, switches on the engine. Horace is still on the pier talking to a large, bearded man.

"Wait, Paulo," I said, "we're missing our tutor."

"That's not all you're missing," said Paulo revving up the engine.

To my relief, Horace climbs on board, and so does the fat man.

In the marquee, our classroom for the week, Horace introduced us to Max. Max's physique and manner reminded me of Peter Ustinov when he appeared on the Late Late Show in the early '80s.

"You're all women," said Max looking around at the eight women seated in a circle around him. He seemed surprised.

"Now, Max, these women have all paid through the nose to be here, so I expect you to be on your best behaviour," warned Horace. "Why don't you introduce yourself?"

Max did so. Horace suggested we introduce ourselves "briefly" in return. The mood had turned sour, and without understanding why, I said, "Hi, I'm Geraldine, I'm an alcoholic." That broke the ice.

Max took the floor. "I was arrested by one of your gardai, you know," he said, looking around at us wide-eyed at the injustice of his story, "for something I didn't do.  It went all the way to court, and I got done for it. Then the Daily Mail wrote about it because the garda knew someone in there and they printed an article about me that's entirely untrue."

"Is your name Ian Bailey by any chance," asked Gillian. We laughed. 

"Do you want to hear a joke?" said Max.

I was the only one to answer, "Yeah, go on." I was fascinated by this man with his naked, bulging belly overhanging his still wet pants, his bare feet, and his black jacket tied with one button which could barely contain him.

Max rolled up his sleeves. "A man goes for a sex change. After the operation, he meets a friend. The man said to his friend, "Do you know what the most painful part is of becoming a woman?"

"Is it when they gave you breasts?" asked the friend.

"No."

"Is it when they cut off your reproductive parts?"

"No."

"No, what could be more painful than having your penis cut off?"

"It's when they stuck a straw in my ear and sucked my brain out."

I sniggered. My classmates did not react.

Horace took back control, "Is everybody ready to read their homework?"

No-one spoke. I offered to go first. After I finished reading Max looked around and said, "Is this a writing group?"

Horace clapped his hands together, "It's almost time for coffee, so I'll give you your next writing assignment now." Horace explained how a sense of place is essential in travel writing. "For instance," he said, "in describing my childhood growing up on a sheep farm in South Wales, I could write about a clump of nettles growing out of the bottom of the barn door, and that would sum up my childhood perfectly. My mother, on the other hand, was a stranger to Wales and knew nothing about sheep farming when she married my dad. She called her sheepdog 'Toss' because a neighbour told her it was the Welsh word for sheep. She named two of her sheep 'Prolapse' and 'Uterus.'

We all laugh except Max. "Sorry, Horace, what's a prolapse?"

"You'll know when you have your sex change," said Ellen.

"Ssssh," hissed Gillian,. "Don't encourage him."

Horace looked at Max in surprise, "Are you serious; you don't know? A prolapse is when a woman's womb collapses."

Max closed his eyes and shuddered.

Horace continues, "I want you to imagine an empty space of someone you know very well. Describe that space, and from your description, we should be able to visualise the owner of that space. For instance, I could describe my mother's armchair in such a way that you'll know instantly that she was elderly, faded in places and a woman. "Then peering out the opening of the marquee, he said, "since it's still such a lovely morning, you can write it outside. Go!"

Max stood, "Could I possibly borrow a pen?' he asked. I grabbed up my pencil case and quickly zipping it open, I handed him a fat one.  He took the pen and then said, "Now I need some paper." Elaine ripped a sheet from her notebook and handed it over.

We scuttle out of the marque and emerge into the brilliant sunshine. I sat at one of the picnic tables with my back to the sun and facing the door of the 'Bank', which is a pub and café. After 20 minutes, Horace announces 'time up'. I duck into the pub for a pint of water. I spot Max with a pint of cider chatting to a blonde lady.

"I think we've seen the last of Max," I whisper to Ellen as we headed back to the marquee.

"Thank God," she said.

Max did not return. We read our pieces. The morning ran late, but since the ferry was assigned to our group, it would not leave without us. However, Gillian had a business appointment at 2.30 pm and was anxious to get home.

It was now 1.30 pm. Everybody in the class was on board. Gillian pleaded, "Can't we just leave?"

"No," said Paulo, "I am scheduled to leave at 1.45 pm. I am not allowed to leave sooner."

Gillian fidgeted and twisted in her seat.

"Text them that you'll be late," said Ellen.

"I'm old. I don't do technology," said Gillian. She sighed again and glanced anxiously at Paolo.

"Ring your husband," suggested Ellen.

"He's in Cork this morning."

At precisely 1.45 pm, Paolo started the engine, but just then three ladies appeared at the top of the gangway. One of the ladies was elderly. Paolo waited as she painfully inched her way down to the boat. Then Max appeared on the horizon. He seemed surprised to see the ferry still there and started to stroll down the gangway. Paolo waited. Gillian tutted loudly and twisted the watch on her wrist. With Max safely on aboard, we headed back to Bantry harbour.

Monday, 1 June 2020

The 1% Club

I had always wanted to run a marathon but was afraid. Afraid that I would hurt my body and intimidated I would not have the mental stamina to see it through. In 2017, my son Tom, to stand out in a competitive job market, registered for the Cork City Marathon. He told me only 1% of the world's population ever completed one. I registered too. Tom did his training outdoors; I did mine on a treadmill. 

Six-foot-high streel barriers lined the street on both sides, giving the impression of an animal cage. At 8.45 am restless and cold, Tom and I entered the cage and stood a few yards behind the start line.

Soon we were joined by hard-core lean, wiry men with not an ounce of fat between them in their thin singlets, tiny shorts and low digit race numbers. Then we saw men with yellow balloons tied to themselves with numbers like 3.00 and 4.30 written on in black ink. "I think we're in the wrong place," I whispered to Tom, "maybe we should go to the back?" "Stay where you are," he said.

As I stood there, nervous as a new bride, I mentally updated goal. Not only did I want to finish the marathon, but I would do it within the course time of six hours.

Suddenly, we heard the countdown, and we were off. I ran at the same pace as the pack: I had no choice. Corralled into the tight space and it was run or get run over. After a few yards, we spread out to the full width of Patrick Street; I kept up the pace. The cold morning air crushed my lungs. I tried to breathe through my nose to calm my brain. My legs were doing well, but my mind and lungs were killing me. Tom was long gone. We turned left onto Parnell Place and left again onto Merchant's Quay. I kept it up. We had now made a full loop. Then I got a stitch.  I slowed down to walk it off.

I arrived at the Jack Lynch tunnel at 10.15 am. The north-south bore was open just for us runners. I ran into the gloom with my arms outstretched shouting, "I'm running through the tunnel." Two men to my right laughed and advised me to "Take it easy: there's a 50-mile speed limit around here." 

Jogging up Centre Park Road, I hit the wall. A fellow runner Aisling said, "This is so lonely, I don't know if I can go on." I felt instantly better. My mind and legs had swapped roles: the legs were crumbling, but the mind said, 'keep moving.'

Opposite the Elysian building, a blonde lady held out a box of Jaffa Cakes. I wobbled over to her. I couldn't get my swollen fingers to single out a biscuit. Laughing, she said, "Take two, or three!" I took two.  
  
Except for a long line of portaloos and final-leg relay runners waiting their turn, Model Farm Road was deserted. I eyed up the loos. Maybe I should go. But once on the potty, I couldn't get up again. I used the door handle and wash-basin to lever myself up. The basin came out of the wall and landed in my lap. Somehow, I straightened up and fled the scene.

Turning right into the Carrigrohane Straight, I saw Aisling chatting to a fellow woman runner wearing a Carrigaline AC top. I shuffled painfully to catch up with them.

"Where is mile 23?" asked Aisling. I looked around and immediately felt dizzy.

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe we passed it?"

"Couldn't have, I've been looking out for them. They're what's keeping me going."

Up ahead, Aisling spotted a sign on a lamp post. "Is that mile 23?"

"I can't see it. It's slipped down behind the toilets."

We got closer. The sign said 'Toilets.'

We plodded on. On a lamppost outside the Kingsley Hotel, almost hidden by trees the sign said, 'Mile 24'. We cheered.

At Mardyke Walk, I could not persuade my legs to up their game from walking to running. I crossed the river, and in the quietness of the shaded walk, I heard reassurances from the other runners, "Nearly there lads, keep going."

I emerged on to Bachelor's Walk and bright sunshine. I saw two male volunteers leaning against a wall talking. I asked them the time and when they told me it was 'a quarter to three' I realised I could still make the six hours. I heaved my screaming, aching carcass into a running position and propelled myself in a forward motion.

At the bottom of Shandon Street, directed to the right, I crossed the bridge where volunteers gestured to run straight on down North Main Street. I was confused: I seemed to be heading away from Patrick Street and the finish line.

A man shouted, "Keep going, you only have 500 yards."

At Washington Street, I turned left. Up ahead, at the traffic lights on Finn's Corner, twenty pedestrians had started to cross the road when the garda managing that junction spotted me approaching.

Even though the pedestrians were halfway across and would have made it, he stopped them and ordered them to go back.

That made me laugh. Amazingly, the pedestrians obeyed him and, far from resenting the inconvenience, they applauded me as I passed.

I turned left onto Grand Parade and almost immediately veered right to take the corner onto Patrick's Street. I stopped. "Where's the finish line," I roared. Nobody answered. I kept going, and there was the finish line in front of Penney's. My race time 5 hours and 48 minutes. I had twelve minutes to spare!

I found Tom sitting on the pavement in front of Brown Thomas, his medal around his neck, eating a banana. His race time 4 hours and 20 minutes. He could've gone home or for lunch but he chose to wait for me.   

We had joined the 1% Club.

The British Empire. My Part In Its Downfall

For Christmas 2018, Hubbie’s brother, Paul treated his siblings and mother in Cork to dinner in the new Japanese restaurant, Ichigo Ichi on Fenns Quay. Our booking was for March 2019. The restaurant had just been awarded a Michelin star. Over the 12-course dinner, Hubbie’s sister, Audrey told me she was reading Meda Ryan’s book, Tom Barry: IRA Freedom Fighter and that there was a Dr Blake mentioned in it. She asked whether this Dr Blake could be my grandfather. My heart flipped.   “Maybe,” I said. "There were hardly two Dr Blakes in Cork City back then." 

I asked if she would lend me the book when she finished it. Audrey went one better; she ordered the book for me online and it arrived in the post a week later. I scanned the book and found the reference to a Dr Blake on pg. 235 but no first name.    I was already familiar with Meda Ryan as she is a highly respected historian on West Cork.  In her book, The Day Michael Collins Was Shot, she is the only historian that finally nailed down who fired the bullet that killed Michael Collins in Beal na Blath, during the Civil War.   

I rang her publisher, Mercier Press and asked to speak to Meda Ryan. They politely told me that due to GDPR legislation that this was not possible but if I wanted to send an email, they would forward it to Meda. 

On Tue, 9 Apr 2019 at 15:20, Blake, Geraldine wrote: 

Dear Ms Roberts, 

I wonder could you do me a favour. I am currently reading Meda Ryan’s book, Tom Barry: IRA Freedom Fighter. 

A Dr Blake is mentioned on page 235. My grandfather was Dr Thomas Blake who lived on the Western Road, in a house called Edenmore which is now a guesthouse called Garnish House. He was a junior house doctor in the Mercy Hospital during the War of Independence. He was the school doctor for PBC when it was on the Western Road and had his GP practice on 22 Patrick’s Hill, Cork City. I know very little about my grandfather other than he came from Buttevant, Co Cork and died bankrupt in December 1943 when my father was 15, so I never met him. 

Would you be kind enough to ask Ms Ryan whether the doctor she mentioned is the same? 

Best regards, 

My interest in the War of Independence started after seeing Neil Jordan’s movie, Michael Collins which came out in 1996. I always loved history but relished the fact that Michael Collins is regarded as the mastermind behind the War of Independence, (1919 -1921) which forced the British government to seek a truce and this, in turn, marked the beginning of the end of the British Empire.

I asked my father what role our family had in the War of Independence. He told me that we had none. When I asked why not, he looked a little embarrassed before admitting, “We were doing OK, we had no reason to change the status quo." I asked Granny Blake. She also confirmed we had no connection but did remember one day in 1919. She was 17 years old and was cycling with a friend along a country road near Mitchelstown where she grew up. Both girls sensed something was about to happen and they returned home immediately. Later that same day, marching British groups on that road were ambushed and several were killed. Granny said, “It always surprised me that if two teenage girls could sense something was going to happen why couldn’t trained soldiers?” 

The following year, the Graduates Association of UCC, forwarded a letter dated 27th January 1997, to my Uncle John in Dublin, written by a Mrs Meredie O'Donoghue.  

Dear Sir/Madam, 

I wish to pay tribute to a graduate of your medical faculty.

On the 4th of June 1921, my mother had gone into labour. The nurse attending my mother requested the assistance of a doctor. My father went to the Mercy Hospital around the corner from our house which was on Sheare Street. The young house-surgeon, Dr Tom Blake, agreed to come to my mother. He had to run a gauntlet of snipers who were shooting at the civilian population. He wore his doctor’s white coat. He had no weapons only his courage and dedication to human life. He carried the Red Cross flag for protection. This did not deter his attackers who fired indiscriminately at him. Bullets entered the bedroom where my mother was lying. He still courageously attends to his patient. A bullet flew past her face just as her child was born, lodging in the woodwork of the window. 

He left mother and child to the care of the midwife. My mother’s hair turned white overnight. I had pneumonia but survived, thank God. 

Next morning, my father heard a knock at the hall door. At that time a notice giving the name and description of the people in the house had to be pinned to the door (Martial Law). When my father opened the door, he was surprised to see two high ranking officers of the British Arm standing there. He knew by the decorations and insignia on their uniforms that they were senior officers. They requested information about the incident the previous night. They expressed their apologies and admitted it was a serious violation of human rights. They hoped the ‘lady of the house’ and the baby were alright. They also paid tribute to the young doctor. 

My father told me this story when I was eight years old and how the carpenter had come to put in a new window. In the frame of the window were the marks of the bullet. 

I tell my grandchildren about this wonderful brave young doctor. He carried no weapons, just his courage and dedication to this profession. 

I hope you record my story about this young hero who believed in courage. 

Yours sincerely, 

Mrs Meredie O ’Donoghue (nee Buckley) 

The covering letter from the Graduates Association mentions that with the help of Professor Denis O’Sullivan, they were able to confirm that after Dr Blake left the Mercy Hospital, he set up his GP practice on 22 Patrick’s Hill but other than that she could not provide further information because records for that time are no longer in existence. 

Our copies of both letters are framed and hang in my mother’s house. 

Two days later after I sent my initial email to Mercier Press, Meda Ryan replied.  

From: Meda Ryan 

Sent: 11 April 2019 17:22 

To: Blake, Geraldine 

Subject: Re: Dr Blake 


Dear Ms Blake, 

From the information that you have given, it appears that it was your grandfather who administered medical assistance to Tom Barry, following the Kilmichael ambush and throughout his life. He appears to be the only doctor that he mentions by name. Barry was taken secretly to the Mercy Hospital shortly after the Kilmichael ambush. Also, Barry lived in a flat on Patrick Street, so throughout his life, it would have been convenient for him to go to Patrick’s Hill or to the Mercy Hospital to attend a doctor. 

It is sad what happened to Dr Blake your grandfather. But I expect many professional people in those days had a very poor income, and doctors being in the caring profession would and did work for nothing as during the War of Independence. 

Thank you for sharing knowledge of your grandfather. If I come across his name at any future date, I will let you know. 

Kind regards, 

Meda Ryan 

I was beyond ecstatic.  I immediately replied, gushing my thanks and gratitude. I then rang Audrey hardly able to breathe with excitement. I also rang Hubbie and my mother-in-law who is from West Cork.    

I then went looking for my colleague John who I felt would also appreciate the enormity of this happy discovery. I knocked exuberantly on his office door and announced I had great news. 

“And what’s that then?” he said. 

I told him 

He leaned back in his chair and smiled, “Well,” he said. “That just proves one thing.” 

“What?” 

“Your grandfather was a Fianna Failer.” 

I looked at him baffled, “What are you talking about?” 

“Tom Barry was very careful about who he trusted.” 

“So...?!” 

“If Tom Barry suspected that your grandfather was a Blue Shirt, he wouldn’t have allowed your grandfather anywhere near him.” 

I stared at him struggling to understand. “Hang on...” I said. Then the cogs in my brain finally connected, "“Fianna Fail wasn’t created until after the war." 

“That’s right,” said John 

“So Fianna Fail doesn’t apply to him,” I said, “And another thing,  if Tom Barry arrives into the hospital on death's door with the British Army looking for him, he’s in no position to decide who operates on him or not.” 

“Admit it,” said John. “Your grandfather was a Fianna Fail man.” 

I didn’t speak to John for a month. John was only doing what all political animals love to do, ‘ball hopping’. He annoyed me yet I was surprised how upset I became. The Civil War came and went 97 years ago and it still rankles.

Still, I was puzzled. Why had my father never told me? I inherited my love of history from him and so if he had known about his father’s connection with the notorious Tom Barry, he would have told me. The only explanation that makes sense is that the Kilmichael Ambush happened in November 1920. My grandfather didn’t get married until 1927; six years after the war ended. My grandmother being pro-British would not have approved of Tom Barry being her husband's patient and so for a quiet life, he probably just didn’t tell her. My grandfather died when my father was 15 and so if he wasn’t prepared to confide in his wife, he would hardly tell his children.