Dear father
I am sure you would have loved this poster:
NEWTOWN COMMUNITY FESTIVAL
celebrating the life and times of
Donncha Rua MacConmara
“a festival of music, songs and recital to celebrate the life of
an outstanding poet. Be part of it, explore your culture”
Donncha Rua MacConmara was born in Clare and died in Waterford. In between times, he had traveled all over Europe, even to Newfoundland. Dubbed a ‘spoilt priest’ (he never completed his vocation), he was a schoolteacher, a poet, a singer, a story-teller, a womanizer and a drunkard…and not necessarily in that order! A wild man…the Brendan Behan or Jack Doyle of his times.
Newtown has finally woken up to the fact that we have a poet of renown amongst us. Well, his remains anyway. You were the one that first told me that Maggie Bluett was a descendant of Donncha’s; and John Mullins, when he wasn’t digging graves - he was more inclined towards leaning on an adjacent gravestone and admiring his handiwork - expanded further. John liked to put it around that he was an expert on DM and was willing to regale anyone who had half an hour to waste, particularly if the story-telling could take place in Micky Kent’s bar across the road.
‘Donncha Rua MacConmara (Red Dennis MacNamara) was born in Cratloe, County Clare, in 1715. As a young man he was sent to Rome to study for the priesthood, but he never completed his studies, being expelled for drunkenness and other ‘inappropriate behavior’.
After that, he led a wandering life, and he seldom settled long anywhere. ‘Ban Chnoic Eireann O’ (The Fair Hills Of Eire), his classic lyric of exile, was written while in Hamburg.
Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth
And the fair hills of Eire O’
And all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth…
When he did return to Ireland it was to Waterford he came, and he traveled around the countryside as a teacher, the fate of the ‘spoilt priest’, as his like were known in those days. In 1741 he was appointed assistant master at famous classical school at Seskinane, in west Waterford, where he remained for several years. Of course Ireland was still in the grip of the Penal Laws in those days, but the Cromwellian diktat that all native Irish had tails, and that no Catholic could own land or be a civil servant or teach, or own a horse worth more than five pounds wasn’t pursued as vigorously as previously, so Donncha survived.
As well as the drink, Donncha also liked the women, and in 1743 he had to make a hasty departure from Waterford to escape the wrath of a family whose daughter he had made pregnant. He traveled by fishing boat to Newfoundland, where he lay low until things quietened down.
A subsequent second trip to Newfoundland, where he was said to have written his famous long poem ‘Eachtra Giolla an Amarain’ (The adventures of an unfortunate man) now seems likely to have been a hoax. It appears he got no further than Waterford city, where, instead of boarding his ship he spent his time drinking and womanizing until all his money was gone. Afterwards, in an effort to convince people he really had been there, he wrote the long poem (360 verses) which tells how the emigrant ship was attacked and captured by French pirates, before eventually making it safely to Newfoundland.
Shortly after this he changed his religion and became the church clerk at the Church Of Ireland in Rossmire, just outside Newtown. However, his rakish way of life once again found him out and he was dismissed.
He was a happy-go-lucky individual whose poems and songs were part of the folklore in County Waterford . Unfortunately, a lot of them died with the Irish language
His last years were spent here in the Newton area, living on the Shanahan farm in Whitestown Cross. It is said that one of his favorite drinking haunts was this pub.
One of Donncha’s last pieces of writing was an inscription in Latin on the headstone of one of his contemporaries, the Irish poet Tadgh Gaeleach O’Sulleabhain, who is buried just a few miles away in Ballylaneen.
Tadgh is put here…
Who will sing the praises of the Irish,
who the deeds of men?…
With Gaelic Tadgh dead the Irish muses are silent….
The same could be written of Donncha Rua. He died in 1810, and is buried in an unmarked grave to the rear of the church.. He who had once been a temporary protestant in a church a few miles down the road is now very much a permanent catholic here in Newtown'.
John Mullins himself is now a permanent resident there now – along with yourself. I am sure you are aware of the similarities in John’s own life with Donncha’s; apart from being a born story-teller, he ‘emigrated’ to England once, returning home several weeks later when all the traveling expenses were drank. He, too, had got no further than Waterford city. Personally, He said he couldn’t bring himself to get on the boat-train, but I believe it was all part of a scheme to have a good drinking session away from prying eyes.
Mickey Kent has gone too, and his beloved Donncha Rua Bar, so carefully preserved as the shebeen in must have been in Donncha’s time, has been given a facelift. And a roof-lift, and very other kind of lift possible to ensure that it is now no different to fifty other bars in the region.
The festival was in two parts; Saturday night saw a religious ceremony in the church, though I don’t expect DM would have been too impressed by its long-windedness – he would have been across the road in his shebeen sinking a few jars! The most striking fact to emerge was the strong links evident between Kilmac and Newfoundland. That the fishing boats and whaling ships traveled long distances in those days was attested to by the large amount of local surnames still flourishing all over Newfoundland. The best part of the evening was the pre-celebration drinks at the parish priest’s house for the dignitaries and invited guests. Yours truly being one of the invitees because of my literary talents! Vince Power was also invited, but the occasion clearly wasn’t grand enough for him
Sunday morning saw DM’s grave being blessed after Mass. Of course the location was pure guesswork because nobody had a clue as to where that might be. ‘Somewhere around the back wall of the church’, was the nearest anybody could place it. Pity John wasn’t around; he would have shown them the exact spot. He would probably have found a few relics too. Well, he had been finding them for tourists for years!
The afternoon was reserved for the festivities; open-air dancing, marching girls, and live bands in the sports field. Then the heavens opened and all the open-air activities had to be cancelled. We all retired to the Donncha Rua Bar, and come closing time even the parish priest was legless. I am sure DM would have been suitably impressed
Your loving son
Tom.
Dear father
Do you recognize this picture? You should do. You were sitting in the back of the car, as it rolled uphill, shouting; ‘There you are then doubting Thomas. I told you all along I was right’. In all the time I had known about the phenomena I had never really believed it – another phisog as mother would say – but seeing was believing.
(insert picture of The fairy tree)
I had forgotten all about the story until last year when I was having a chat with someone in Limerick, who, when he discovered where I came from suddenly said:
‘Oh, you must know all about The Magic Road, then’.
I had never heard of the magic road, and it was only when he began to describe an area in the locality, where cars apparently rolled uphill, that I realized he was talking about Mahon Falls. Nevertheless, it was the first time I had ever heard it described as the Magic Road.
‘Cars have been rolling uphill there for a long time’, I replied. ‘Even before they were invented’.
He insisted the story was true. That he had been there and tested it for himself.
I must admit I was still skeptical but when I mentioned the story to you, you verified it and insisted on driving up here to confirm it. You even knew the best spot to stop; by the Fairy Tree. It’s a hawthorn bush really, but the road is long and straight at this point, and there does seem to be a noticeable slope down to the Falls themselves. The car, however, rolled the other way!
The reason I remember it so well is because it was one of our last trips together. After our experiment we all sat there on the rocks enjoying a picnic, watching the water cascading down the slopes. And I recalled a similar picnic many years ago when a group of us from the Tech in Portlaw had clambered up those same slopes to the plateau high above and marveled at the two lakes up there, Crottys Lake and Lake Coumshingaun. Coumshingaun was so dark and so still that it frightened you just to look at it. Crottys Lakewas much less intimidating, and nearby was Crotty’s Eye, a needle-like projection where Crotty, the highwayman, used to lie in wait for his victims to come by in the pass down below. Not that it did him much good in the long run; he was hanged for his troubles in Waterford later on.
That afternoon you spotted a fox skulking in the heather near us, and motioning us to be quiet you held out a piece of chicken to him. After about five minutes of gradually edging nearer, the fox suddenly darted forward, grabbed the chicken and vanished in to the heather again. You never said how you knew he would take the food, and on subsequent visits I never again caught sight of him.
It might interest you to know that a few years after our visit, RTE turned up here to test the theory out – and their reporter came away convinced it was true. He must have convinced a lot of his listeners too because there has been a steady stream of visitors ever since then. Oh yes, the ‘Comeragh Drvie’ is now promoted in a big way.
So what causes the phenomena?
One theory is that there is lodestone under the hill, creating a magnetic field that pulls objects towards it, and a local legend is that it is the pull of angry fairies whose fort lies in the path of the road. However, recent studies by a bunch graduates say it is nothing more than an optical illusion.
I now know it is not a unique experience; I have since read of a similar road outside the village of Carlingford, near Dundalk, and another one near Dhofar, in Oman. Perhaps there are hundreds world-wide.
Your loving son
Tom
I am sure you would have loved this poster:
NEWTOWN COMMUNITY FESTIVAL
celebrating the life and times of
Donncha Rua MacConmara
“a festival of music, songs and recital to celebrate the life of
an outstanding poet. Be part of it, explore your culture”
Donncha Rua MacConmara was born in Clare and died in Waterford. In between times, he had traveled all over Europe, even to Newfoundland. Dubbed a ‘spoilt priest’ (he never completed his vocation), he was a schoolteacher, a poet, a singer, a story-teller, a womanizer and a drunkard…and not necessarily in that order! A wild man…the Brendan Behan or Jack Doyle of his times.
Newtown has finally woken up to the fact that we have a poet of renown amongst us. Well, his remains anyway. You were the one that first told me that Maggie Bluett was a descendant of Donncha’s; and John Mullins, when he wasn’t digging graves - he was more inclined towards leaning on an adjacent gravestone and admiring his handiwork - expanded further. John liked to put it around that he was an expert on DM and was willing to regale anyone who had half an hour to waste, particularly if the story-telling could take place in Micky Kent’s bar across the road.
‘Donncha Rua MacConmara (Red Dennis MacNamara) was born in Cratloe, County Clare, in 1715. As a young man he was sent to Rome to study for the priesthood, but he never completed his studies, being expelled for drunkenness and other ‘inappropriate behavior’.
After that, he led a wandering life, and he seldom settled long anywhere. ‘Ban Chnoic Eireann O’ (The Fair Hills Of Eire), his classic lyric of exile, was written while in Hamburg.
Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth
And the fair hills of Eire O’
And all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth…
When he did return to Ireland it was to Waterford he came, and he traveled around the countryside as a teacher, the fate of the ‘spoilt priest’, as his like were known in those days. In 1741 he was appointed assistant master at famous classical school at Seskinane, in west Waterford, where he remained for several years. Of course Ireland was still in the grip of the Penal Laws in those days, but the Cromwellian diktat that all native Irish had tails, and that no Catholic could own land or be a civil servant or teach, or own a horse worth more than five pounds wasn’t pursued as vigorously as previously, so Donncha survived.
As well as the drink, Donncha also liked the women, and in 1743 he had to make a hasty departure from Waterford to escape the wrath of a family whose daughter he had made pregnant. He traveled by fishing boat to Newfoundland, where he lay low until things quietened down.
A subsequent second trip to Newfoundland, where he was said to have written his famous long poem ‘Eachtra Giolla an Amarain’ (The adventures of an unfortunate man) now seems likely to have been a hoax. It appears he got no further than Waterford city, where, instead of boarding his ship he spent his time drinking and womanizing until all his money was gone. Afterwards, in an effort to convince people he really had been there, he wrote the long poem (360 verses) which tells how the emigrant ship was attacked and captured by French pirates, before eventually making it safely to Newfoundland.
Shortly after this he changed his religion and became the church clerk at the Church Of Ireland in Rossmire, just outside Newtown. However, his rakish way of life once again found him out and he was dismissed.
He was a happy-go-lucky individual whose poems and songs were part of the folklore in County Waterford . Unfortunately, a lot of them died with the Irish language
His last years were spent here in the Newton area, living on the Shanahan farm in Whitestown Cross. It is said that one of his favorite drinking haunts was this pub.
One of Donncha’s last pieces of writing was an inscription in Latin on the headstone of one of his contemporaries, the Irish poet Tadgh Gaeleach O’Sulleabhain, who is buried just a few miles away in Ballylaneen.
Tadgh is put here…
Who will sing the praises of the Irish,
who the deeds of men?…
With Gaelic Tadgh dead the Irish muses are silent….
The same could be written of Donncha Rua. He died in 1810, and is buried in an unmarked grave to the rear of the church.. He who had once been a temporary protestant in a church a few miles down the road is now very much a permanent catholic here in Newtown'.
John Mullins himself is now a permanent resident there now – along with yourself. I am sure you are aware of the similarities in John’s own life with Donncha’s; apart from being a born story-teller, he ‘emigrated’ to England once, returning home several weeks later when all the traveling expenses were drank. He, too, had got no further than Waterford city. Personally, He said he couldn’t bring himself to get on the boat-train, but I believe it was all part of a scheme to have a good drinking session away from prying eyes.
Mickey Kent has gone too, and his beloved Donncha Rua Bar, so carefully preserved as the shebeen in must have been in Donncha’s time, has been given a facelift. And a roof-lift, and very other kind of lift possible to ensure that it is now no different to fifty other bars in the region.
The festival was in two parts; Saturday night saw a religious ceremony in the church, though I don’t expect DM would have been too impressed by its long-windedness – he would have been across the road in his shebeen sinking a few jars! The most striking fact to emerge was the strong links evident between Kilmac and Newfoundland. That the fishing boats and whaling ships traveled long distances in those days was attested to by the large amount of local surnames still flourishing all over Newfoundland. The best part of the evening was the pre-celebration drinks at the parish priest’s house for the dignitaries and invited guests. Yours truly being one of the invitees because of my literary talents! Vince Power was also invited, but the occasion clearly wasn’t grand enough for him
Sunday morning saw DM’s grave being blessed after Mass. Of course the location was pure guesswork because nobody had a clue as to where that might be. ‘Somewhere around the back wall of the church’, was the nearest anybody could place it. Pity John wasn’t around; he would have shown them the exact spot. He would probably have found a few relics too. Well, he had been finding them for tourists for years!
The afternoon was reserved for the festivities; open-air dancing, marching girls, and live bands in the sports field. Then the heavens opened and all the open-air activities had to be cancelled. We all retired to the Donncha Rua Bar, and come closing time even the parish priest was legless. I am sure DM would have been suitably impressed
Your loving son
Tom.
Dear father
Do you recognize this picture? You should do. You were sitting in the back of the car, as it rolled uphill, shouting; ‘There you are then doubting Thomas. I told you all along I was right’. In all the time I had known about the phenomena I had never really believed it – another phisog as mother would say – but seeing was believing.
(insert picture of The fairy tree)
I had forgotten all about the story until last year when I was having a chat with someone in Limerick, who, when he discovered where I came from suddenly said:
‘Oh, you must know all about The Magic Road, then’.
I had never heard of the magic road, and it was only when he began to describe an area in the locality, where cars apparently rolled uphill, that I realized he was talking about Mahon Falls. Nevertheless, it was the first time I had ever heard it described as the Magic Road.
‘Cars have been rolling uphill there for a long time’, I replied. ‘Even before they were invented’.
He insisted the story was true. That he had been there and tested it for himself.
I must admit I was still skeptical but when I mentioned the story to you, you verified it and insisted on driving up here to confirm it. You even knew the best spot to stop; by the Fairy Tree. It’s a hawthorn bush really, but the road is long and straight at this point, and there does seem to be a noticeable slope down to the Falls themselves. The car, however, rolled the other way!
The reason I remember it so well is because it was one of our last trips together. After our experiment we all sat there on the rocks enjoying a picnic, watching the water cascading down the slopes. And I recalled a similar picnic many years ago when a group of us from the Tech in Portlaw had clambered up those same slopes to the plateau high above and marveled at the two lakes up there, Crottys Lake and Lake Coumshingaun. Coumshingaun was so dark and so still that it frightened you just to look at it. Crottys Lakewas much less intimidating, and nearby was Crotty’s Eye, a needle-like projection where Crotty, the highwayman, used to lie in wait for his victims to come by in the pass down below. Not that it did him much good in the long run; he was hanged for his troubles in Waterford later on.
That afternoon you spotted a fox skulking in the heather near us, and motioning us to be quiet you held out a piece of chicken to him. After about five minutes of gradually edging nearer, the fox suddenly darted forward, grabbed the chicken and vanished in to the heather again. You never said how you knew he would take the food, and on subsequent visits I never again caught sight of him.
It might interest you to know that a few years after our visit, RTE turned up here to test the theory out – and their reporter came away convinced it was true. He must have convinced a lot of his listeners too because there has been a steady stream of visitors ever since then. Oh yes, the ‘Comeragh Drvie’ is now promoted in a big way.
So what causes the phenomena?
One theory is that there is lodestone under the hill, creating a magnetic field that pulls objects towards it, and a local legend is that it is the pull of angry fairies whose fort lies in the path of the road. However, recent studies by a bunch graduates say it is nothing more than an optical illusion.
I now know it is not a unique experience; I have since read of a similar road outside the village of Carlingford, near Dundalk, and another one near Dhofar, in Oman. Perhaps there are hundreds world-wide.
Your loving son
Tom
posted by tomobrien at 12:11 PM
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