Welcome

Welcome to Rialto. This is a blog where I hope you will find something of interest to you. I work in Further Education and my hope is to supplement my work in the classroom with extras and advice. I also like to dabble in creative writing and you will find bits and pieces along the way. Feel free to subscribe or pass by again and you may find something of interest.
John.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

The Savage Loves His Native Shore

Carrick-on-Suir is the town I was born in. Greystone Street, Carrick  is the street that I took my first steps, plodding down the shiny grey tiled steps while hanging onto my mother's arm. My mother-not a Carrick woman- would probably have been taking me to my paternal Grandmother's house in William Street. To get there one could go through the West Gate and along the Main Street. Then, under the arch at Chapel Street that leads to St. Nicholas' Church adorning the top of William Street, a church resplendent in its Catholic majesty,  replete  with the echoes of Carrick prayers that anxiously float like ghosts in the candle scented air. Or one could saunter along Town Wall or the more modern equivalent Pearse Square with its proud place in the heart of Carrick under the gaze of the Church steeple. The Protestant Church over the road  is sombre and dignified  and now houses a heritage centre. The Protestant fraternity that lie at rest in hallowed soil have the half-prayers of many a wayfarer.
I  loved William Street then and I love it today. My footprints are somewhere there along its three score and ten feet. There was along that small street three thriving shops. Tom O' Keeffe and Sons were merchants of paints and hardware and fine goods. Up the street Lizzy O' Connor ran a grocery store with weighing scales and drawers and glass jars of bulls eyes and bags of flour. Directly across Paulie Stewart and his mother Maggie ran something similar albeit with less attention to detail with the bonus of Barney the flat-backed dog that chased Volkswagens. Once that 'chugga-chugga-chugga' could be heard Barney was out of his slumber snapping at the car for 30 feet or so only to return defeated by his noisy quarry. The famous Clancy brothers were born and reared on that street. Surely when they got to heaven they insisted on a William Street replica and all the old residents would pass them by daily and join them for a drink or a song or a prayer or even  a final breath.
William Street is part of the so-called Tipperary side of Carrick;in the Gaelic: CarraigMor. When I was seven we moved to the so-called Waterford side- Carrickbeg. Only the steadfast Sister river separates them but they are different. The spirit is wilder in Carrickbeg. It is where I reside today, where I lay my head at night and it is where my bones will return to the fecund ground, guarded over by Sliabh na Mban while my ghost will wander o'er the Waterford coast seeking my final destiny in another time and place.
Sometimes I like to walk around Carrickbeg. Down the Yellow Road onto the Co-op Hill and then passing the parish and the famine wall, I traipse up past the Friary. The Friary tabernacle lies bare now after 800 years. The Franciscans finally gave way to the secular impulse and had to move on. The convent once home to so many priests and brothers is now a Respond apartment complex; social housing for senior citizens. They are blessed to reside on hallowed ground and the Christian call while stilled, whispers ceaselessly in the communal setting of Carrickbeg.
My hometown is small; a provincial market town that sprang like rushes beside the river. It nestles among the claims of Tipperary and Waterford while the tiny river Lingaun keeps Leinster at bay. It has a heart like any human being, is hurt and broken, joyous and alive. But just like a beautiful love it holds you and pulls you back into its arms and you are finally at peace. At peace on your  native shore.

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