NA SEASCAIDÍ

It was 1961 or 1962 when I saw Francis of Assisi in the cinema. This biopic starred Bradford Dillman as the medieval monk who founded the Franciscan order and became a popular saint after his death in 1226. Several scenes stand out in my mind, particularly the one where a scruffy-looking Francis pleads with Pope Innocent III (played by Finlay Currie) to approve his plan for a new religious order. The pope expresses doubts, telling Francis that the proposed rule for his new order is “too ambitiously severe”. One of the pope’s aides agrees, saying to Francis that “your strict adherence to absolute poverty is unrealistic”.[1]  Eventually, however, the pope relents and gives his approval to Francis’ request and so the Franciscans came into being. Elsewhere I have argued that Jesus in his public ministry sought to wean us off our dependence on money. He could see that as long as we regarded money as essential to life itself we would never free ourselves from evil’s grip. However, a clear

Were you there “the day the music died”? That line from Don McLean’s hit “American Pie” sums up for me the impact of the 1960s pop revolution. The death of music. I have described here how one man tried to stymie that revolution, at least in Ireland. But nothing could halt the juggernaut for very long and by the end of the 1960s British and American pop had spread to virtually every part of the world.  So what were the consequences for our musical tastes? The answer dawned on me recently when I was listening to some old episodes of the long-running BBC radio series, Desert Island Discs .  For those who don’t know this venerable British institution, each edition consists of an interview between the host and a well-known guest. The big difference between it and other chat shows is that the interviewee must choose eight records or discs for their possibly lengthy stay on a mythical desert island. It is a rather quaint way of allowing listeners to hear what the guests regard as their favo

Time to digest and reflect.  Two years ago, when I started writing about the 1960s, I was not interested in bringing readers on a nostalgia-rich visit to the golden age of my youth. Yes, it was great to be alive back then and my memories of the sights, sounds and smells of that time were a resource I would have been foolish to ignore.  Memory can be fickle though. Some moments stand out in my mind, but others are lost forever. My very first memory is of gazing at the smoke from my father’s cigarette as it swirled around the ceiling of our living room. Another is from a few years later when I stood beside my mother in Parkgate Street and watched in wonder as the limousine bearing US president John F. Kennedy passed by only yards away. Given the historical significance of Kennedy’s visit to Ireland, and his tragic death a few months later, it is no surprise that I should recall that day in June 1963. But why has the apparently trivial sight of those tobacco fumes stayed with me? And what

I don’t think I ever saw a doctor when I was a child. Maybe it was the cost, or perhaps we regarded doctors and the medical establishment with suspicion and fear. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away” was a familiar saying. It never motivated us to eat healthily. But that maxim was a reminder to keep doctors at a distance. Occasional childhood illnesses were usually treated with some hideous-tasting medication purchased from a local pharmacy (and maybe a few days off school). One of my fondest memories is having the mumps and being in bed for several weeks while my cheeks deflated. I spent the time reading Dickens’ Nicholas Nickleby from cover to cover. Bliss. Although childhood vaccinations were pretty common when I was a boy, even they did not bring me fully into the medical orbit. In fact I can’t remember ever being jabbed when I was a youngster. For instance I did not have any of the tell-tale pimples on my upper arm which were a side effect of the BCG shot. This was a popular va

This is pure nostalgia. A look back at the Dublin of my childhood. I have written, here for instance, of my frequent trips into the city centre during the 1960s. It is probably unthinkable now for a child of 11 or 12 to be allowed travel alone by public transport into our capital city, let alone gad about in shops and cinemas for the afternoon. Although I took it for granted at the time the freedom this afforded was exhilirating. I've been here and I've been there. I've sought the rainbow's end, But no crock of gold I've found. Now I know that, come what will, Whatever fate may send, Here my roots are deep in friendly ground. Happy Christmas. Back in 2022.

My childhood experiences as a pet owner were not particularly happy ones. I have previously related the story of my goldfish and his sad demise. I was apparently given a second chance by my parents because, at age 11 or 12, I was once again the owner of an animal, this time a tortoise. I remember very little about that tortoise. Was it male or female? What was he or she called? I have no idea. So I guess I’d better just refer to it as the “tortoise”, and use the male pronoun throughout. It must have been early spring when I found my tortoise in our back garden. I had not seen him for a long time. When he turned up again I guessed that he had been hibernating for the winter. Now that the sun was warming up our north Atlantic island again, it made sense that he had emerged from his long sleep.  I recall lifting up my pet to have a closer look at him after his lengthy absence. However he must have been alarmed by my action because he defecated on my hand as I picked him up. I was so alar