Clay Feet 

Billy was only a little boy when his mummy died; he was so little that he couldn’t remember what she looked like, except that she had a nice smell. Sometimes, in the evening, his daddy would take him on his knee and tell him stories about his mummy and how nice she was. Billy’s daddy’s name was also Billy but the grown-ups always called him Will. Billy called him Bill though because his daddy said he was too big a boy to call him Daddy. Billy liked it when his daddy lifted him up on his knees, especially in the summer when they would sit outside on the porch and watch the boats go by on the river. Billy’s father would drink a funny yellow—brown drink from a big bottle and after a while his breath would have a funny smell. The drink also had a funny taste and Billy was not sure if he liked it or not. Once when he had a pain in his tooth and was crying, his daddy came into his room and picked him up on his strong arms and sang to him and when that didn’t make the pain go away, he dipped some cotton wool into the yellowy brown drink and then put that on the sore tooth. That helped a bit and the next day he want to the dentist with his daddy and got a needle stuck into his gum but it didn’t hurt because his daddy held his hand the whole time. Later, when he got home, he put the bad tooth under his pillow and when he went back soon afterwards he found a shiny piece of money and his daddy told him the faeries had put it there because he was a big, brave boy and didn’t cry when the dentist stuck a needle in his gum. For a few days after that, he could stick his tongue into the hole left by the tooth and it felt soft and jellyish there. He couldn’t see it properly because it was in the back of his mouth and he wasn’t sure if he liked the feel of it or not. Billy could never decide if he liked new things or not. He liked his daddy though and he liked the house he and his daddy lived in. It was a nice house with a big garden with two trees in it. On one tree his daddy had made him a swing with a red seat and Billy liked to just sit there and look at the river which was at the end of the garden. He liked the river also and sometimes he and his daddy would go swimming there when it was very hot. Afterwards they always played football and Billy usually won because his daddy couldn’t run fast because he had hurt his leg when his mummy died and the motor car was taken away by the men in the truck with the crane in the back of it.

All the men in the boats that sailed up and down the river knew Billy and his daddy and they always waved when they saw him in the garden. Billy felt very proud then as he waved back and he sometimes wished he had friends to see him waving to the men in the boats. When he grew up, he and his daddy were going to buy a big boat and sail up and down the river as well and Billy’s daddy said he could be the captain. Billy never felt lonely except when he had no friends to see him waving to the men in the boats. Then he would go in and talk to his daddy. His daddy was always at home, tapping away with his big, brown fingers on a black box with letters and numbers written on little squares. It was called a typewriter and sometimes Billy would sit and watch his daddy working and listen for the little bell that rang every few moments and reminded his daddy to pul a little lever so that the letters would keep on coming in straight lines after lines after lines.

Once a man with a camera came to the house and took a lot of pictures of his daddy sitting beside the typewriter and then they talked for a long time in the living room and drank some of the browny-yellow drink that his daddy called malt and when the man went home, he shook hands with Billy and said the best of luck, Mr. Doyle. A few days later, Billy’s daddy showed him a picture of himself in the newspaper. Billy didn’t think the picture looked a bit like his daddy but he pretended to be pleased because his daddy was very pleased and he said that one day, Billy might have his own picture in the newspaper. Billy wasn’t sure if he wanted his picture in the newspaper if it wasn’t going to look like him. That night they had cake for tea and afterwards sat watching television and Billy’s daddy drank a lot of the malt and fell fast asleep in his armchair with his legs on a small stool and Billy saw that the bottle beside him was empty. Billy couldn’t wake him up when the television was over and the man on it said good night to him. His daddy was snoring very loudly and Billy could see the black hairs inside his nose move gently, just like the strands of river weeds move under water when the boats went by.

Billy didn’t really mind his daddy not waking up because he knew his daddy was very happy. The next morning when he got up for breakfast, his daddy was awake and didn’t mind him eating the rest of the cake, left over from the night before, for his breakfast. His daddy didn’t have anything to eat except for two cups of black coffee and two aspirin from the bottle in the cupboard because he said he had a splitting head. When Billy was a very small boy, he thought that people’s heads actually did crack open when they said that but now he was a big boy and he knew that his daddy only meant that he had a pain in his head.

Later in the morning, they got the little red bus into the village because Billy’s daddy had to buy some food and afterwards, as a surprise, his daddy bought him new ball because he had lost his old one a few days ago. Then they went into the front room of a house where there were plenty of small tables and chairs and a few men drinking. Billy’s daddy had a big, black drink with a creamy white head on it and Billy had an orangeade. Billy’s father laughed and said that the black and white drink was a hair of the dog that bit him. Billy laughed too but didn’t understand what his daddy meant and when he asked him where the dog had bitten him his daddy only laughed again and the man who gave them the drinks laughed too. Billy felt a bit silly then so he laughed too as if he had understood the joke.


The weather was very hot and it hadn’t rained for days and days. Billy lay in the garden all day and became very brow and he swam a lot. His daddy was very busy and said he only had time for one swim a day. Every night, after Billy went to bed, he could hear his daddy tap-tapping away on the typewriter and quite often when Billy came down for breakfast, he found his daddy asleep with his head on the table beside the typewriter and there were pages and pages scattered on all the chairs and on the floor as well. But there was no bottle of malt or anything else on the floor and when Billy asked why, his daddy smiled and ruffled his hair and said he had no time as he had to make a deadline. Billy had to make breakfast, dinner and tea for himself and his daddy but he didn’t mind. He was a very good cook as his daddy had shown him how to fry eggs and rashers, spooning the hot fat carefully over the yellow of the egg until he could see a pink tinge to the yellow. Tea and coffee were easy to make and it was simple to heat up tins of beans and spaghetti. Once he cut his finger when he was opening a tin of sardines for the tea, but he didn’t cry as he know his daddy was very busy. However, when his daddy saw the blood on his handkerchief, he kissed Billy and said he was a very good little boy but he must promise to tell his daddy immediately if anything that like that ever happened again. His daddy put a big bandage on his finger and kissed it better and said he didn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have Billy to look after him.

After the tea, Billy’s daddy said it was time that he had a rest from work so they left all the dirty dishes piled in the kitchen sink and went out for a walk along the riverbank. It was nice in the cool of the evening to walk slowly along and watch the ducks floating quietly along. Billy knew the proper names of the ducks because his daddy had once told him their names and proudly now, he pointed out the brown and green mallards and the speckled widgeons and his daddy said he was the best boy in the world. After a while, they stopped for a rest as daddy’s leg was hurting him and Billy skimmed stones across the water. He could nearly always get a stone to jump over the smooth surface of the water at least once or twice but he could never make the stones jump as far as his daddy did.

On their way home they saw a man sticking up a big coloured poster on the tree beside the road and his daddy waited for him while Billy ran to see what the poster said.  It was a big orange poster with pictures of elephants, lions, dancing horses, clowns and lots of other things and the man told Billy the circus was coming to town next week for one night only. Billy stood staring at the picture of the elephant, balancing on one leg on top of a bucket while horse with girls standing on their backs galloped around in circles for so long that his daddy had to call him several times before he heard. When Billy ran back to him he was so excited  that he had to wait a few minutes until he got his breath back before he could tell his daddy the news.

Billy had never been to the circus or to a zoo and he only knew the animals through his picture books or through the television and he longed to really see all the strange animals. He was little bit frightened too, although he would never have admitted it to anyone, just in case the animals, some of whom were very fierce, ever got loose but he knew that if he was with his daddy he would be as safe as when his daddy tucked him up in his bed.

His daddy was nearly as excited as Billy was and he said that it had been a very long time since he had been to a circus. Billy looked up at his daddy’s face  and realised that he was an old man, far, far older than Billy himself was. Now that he thought of it, on his daddy’s birthday cake last month, there were no birthday candles because, Billy now supposed, there was not enough room to show all the candles needed for his age. As they walked back home, his daddy told him stories about circuses which travelled all over the world and were welcomed wherever they went. Billy half closed his eyes and held his daddy’s big warm hand and listened to the descriptions of all the strange and exciting sights he would see himself next week. He decided that, first of all, he would like to be, when he grew up of course, a captain of a big boat on the river. Then, if he got tired of that, to be like his Daddy who knew such an awful lot about everything and then, perhaps he would like to be the circus ringmaster dressed in a big black coat with a shiny topcoat, cracking a long whip as all the horses danced around him. He was still thinking about the circus when his daddy came into his bedroom later that night to tuck him in.

At breakfast the next day his daddy told him he had a nice surprise for him. Billy couldn’t think of what could surprise him after all he had seen and heard about the circus the previous night. His daddy put down the letter he was reading and told him that his Auntie Fran was coming to stay a few days and that she was especially looking forward to seeing Billy since she hadn’t seen him since he was a tiny baby. Billy wasn’t quite sure if this was a nice surprise or not. Certainly, it was not as nice or as exciting as the circus but it might turn out to be just as good. Billy couldn’t remember Auntie Fran; in fact, he didn’t know any of his uncles or aunts although his daddy had told him he had three or four. A long time ago, Billy didn’t remember when, as he was only a little boy, but his daddy had said it was after the time his mummy died, all his uncles and aunts had stopped coming to visit them. Billy certainly hadn’t missed them and he didn’t think his daddy had either. When he asked his daddy if he were happy Auntie Fran was coming to visit, his daddy gave him a small smile and ruffled his hair and said of course he was, but Billy couldn’t make up his mind. While he was eating his toast and marmalade, his daddy told him about Auntie Fran. She was his mummy’s sister and she lived in Dublin. Her husband was dead and she was very rich. She lived in a very big house with a very small garden with no trees in it at all  near the centre of the city. There was river near her house too, but his daddy said it wasn’t the same type of river that ran past their garden. It was a very big river and the water was dirty and you couldn’t swim in it where Auntie Fran lived. Billy had never been to Dublin and had never seen the big, dirty river  but it didn’t sound very nice. His Auntie also had a large, black car and a man called a chauffeur to drive it but she wasn’t coming down in her big car, his daddy said, but by train instead. When Billy asked why she was coming to visit them, his daddy scratched the side of his face and said that was a very good question but that he didn’t know the answer.


Billy had taken his shirt off and was sitting on the swing because it was too hot to play when the taxi drove up to the gate and a fat woman in a long brown coat got out. Billy suddenly felt shy and ran to hide behind the hedge before she could see him. She looked very fat and she had four brown cases with her, three of them were  very big, and the other was quite small. She had a very loud voice and Billy could clearly hear her telling the taxi man not to scuff her cases as he carried them up the path to the hall door. Every few moments she said she wondered where in goodness Will could be and the taxi man didn’t say anything. Then Billy’s daddy came out of the house and gave some money to the taxi man  and Auntie Fran said well it has been a long time Will, and his daddy first of all looked up at the sky and then down at his shoes and said something that Billy couldn’t hear.

When he came in for his tea a while later, his Auntie was saying that the house was like a hovel. Billy didn’t understand what hovel meant but he guessed his Auntie was annoyed about something, maybe because their house had a bigger garden with trees in it, but he wasn’t sure. Then he saw that she was pointing at the kitchen sink with all the dirty dishes piled in it as well as the empty tin of steak and kidney pie they had had for their lunch. His daddy was leaning against the wall with his arms folded and was saying nothing. His Auntie stopped talking when she saw him and they both continued to look at each other for what seemed to Billy to be the longest time. He meant to say something polite to his new Auntie and his daddy had earlier suggested that he ask her if she had a pleasant journey down from Dublin but Auntie Fran was so big that Billy felt a little afraid of her.

His Auntie Fran smiled at him then and asked if he had lost his tongue and was he not going to say hello to his Auntie? Billy didn’t know what to do then and he decided she didn’t have as nice a smile as his daddy had but he said hello without looking at her. He looked at her shoes instead which were brown and seemed to squeeze her fat feet.

‘Say hello properly, Billy’ his daddy said and, with an effort, Billy tore his eyes away from her feet and looked up at her. He meant to ask her how she was but instead blurted ‘When are you going back to Dublin?’ Later his daddy told him that  it wasn’t a nice question to ask someone who has only just arrived.

Auntie Fran didn’t say anything to him but turned to his daddy and said, ‘I declare to my judge, Will, I don’t know what kind of little boy you have here. He doesn’t seem to have any manners on him at all.’ 

Billy wanted to say that he wasn’t a little boy and that he did have manners but his daddy caught his eye  and shook his head slightly so Billy didn’t say anything.

‘Aren’t you going to give your Auntie a kiss, like a good boy?’

Billy slowly went over to the chair where Auntie Fran sat and pressed his lips against her cheek. His lips came away powdery and he rubbed them with the back of his hand.

‘Isn’t he a real man?’ his Auntie Fran said, laughing.’He takes right after you, Will. I must say, however, that hair is much to long for a little boy. If you saw him from behind, you’d think he was a little girl. We’ll have to see about getting it cut nice and short, won’t we?’

Billy was horrified by the idea. He liked his hair long and his daddy often said he looked like the picture of Cu Chulainn that Billy had in one of his books.

“The child likes his hair the way it is, Fran and I see no harm in it’. Billy’s father said quietly from the corner.

‘Nonsense, we’ll have to get it cut in the morning. That’s the way all the corner boys are now in Dublin with long hair and spitting out of them.’

After tea, Auntie Fran said she would make a start on cleaning up the mess and after she had gone into the scullery, Billy’s daddy frowned at the wall and said nothing. Billy excused himself and ran into the living room to watch television but occasionally, when the draught from the open window blew the door into the kitchen open a few inches, Billy could hear his daddy and Auntie Fran talking. Later they both came into the living room and Billy’s daddy offered Auntie Fran a drink. She said she’d have a small sherry but Billy’s daddy only had Malt in the cupboard so she didn’t have anything. For a long while they all sat in silence watching a cowboy film on television but when Billy’s daddy reached for the malt bottle to give himself another drink, Auntie Fran said quietly, ‘Easy Will, remember the last time you had a few drinks’.

Billy didn’t understand this as his daddy had a drink every night and nothing ever happened. Even if something had happened last night or the night before, Billy reasoned, how could Auntie Fran know, seeing as she had only arrived that afternoon.

‘For God’s sake, Fran, don’t rake up old memories. That was more than five years ago. Things are different now.’ his daddy said, a little bit annoyed, Billy thought

‘Even so,’ Auntie Fran insisted. ‘Even so. Anyway, it’s a bad example to give to the child. These are the formative years you know.’

‘He’a no longer a babe in arms, Fran, as you can see and he doesn’t mind me taking a drink. He is quite used to the idea. There is no harm in a man having a drop or two after his tea.’

‘But that’s just the point, he’s not even seven yet and to see you, every night, I suppose, could have a very serious effect on his life later. Anyway, I think you know who is listening so we will talk later.’

‘Fran, there’s no point in …’ Billy’s fathers voice tailed off and Billy looked up but his daddy was looking into the glass he held in his hand.

When the cowboy film was over, Auntie Fran looked up and Billy asked her if she wanted to watch the other channel instead. 

‘Off to bed now, love, aren’y you? I’m sure you have had a tiring day for a little boy.’ Auntie Fran smiled. Billy was going to say that he never went to bed until the television shut down for the night and sometimes he even stayed up later, on Christmas and on his birthdays but his daddy looked over at him and said, ‘Just this once, Billy, like a good man’.

As Billy was going up the stairs, he could hear Auntie Fran saying, ’Will, this has got to stop. You’re spoiling the child. I’m warning you, you’ll get no thanks for it. He’ll turn into another cheeky little monkey. As it is, he looks a disgrace with the length of the hair on him.’ 

For a long time after Billy got into bed, he could hear voices downstairs and sometimes he could make out parts of a sentence – ‘ … got to be firm …’ ‘… advice … him … boarding school … ‘Nothing wrong … Billy …quite happy … ‘ … wreak and ruin … ‘ … naturally a quiet boy …’ ‘ … needs … some manners … ask me …’.


The next morning, Billy was playing in the garden with his football when his daddy came out and sat on the swing. After a while he asked Billy how it was going. Billy didn’t have to answer and instead threw his ball at his daddy who caught it and threw it back at him, He jumped up into the air to catch it and then fell into the long, dewy grass and rolled over. He liked the feeling of the wet grass and he liked to see the drops of dew shining in the sunlight. He threw the ball then quickly and his daddy missed. Billy shouted ‘D for Donkey, D for donkey.’ 

His father picked up the ball and sat down again on the swing and, instead of throwing it to Billy, turned it over and over in his  hands.

‘If I asked you, Billy, as a favour to me, would you get your hair cut?’

Billy stopped rolling in the grass and looked at his daddy ‘Why?’

‘Because that old … because Auntie Fran thinks you’d look like a much older and bigger boy if you did.’

‘I don’t want to look older and be bigger. I want to stay like this for always. Anyway, I like my hair.’ Billy said stubbornly.

‘I know you do, Billy, but it’s just this once and then you can grow it again when Auntie Fran leaves. She’s only staying a few more weeks. Besides, it’s good for your hair to have it cut now and then, like the grass in the top paddock. It makes it grow all the stronger. However, if you don’t want to do me a favour … that’s all right.’

Billy waited a while to see if his daddy would say anything else but when he didn’t, he got up and took the ball from his daddy.

‘Alright,’ he said carelessly, ’I will get it cut!’. He kicked the ball the length of the garden and ran after it.


The back of Billy’s head felt cold and bristly and when he ran, he could no longer see the shadow of his hair bouncing up and down against the ground. He didn’t like getting his hair cut but, as his daddy said, it was a special favour to him and his daddy very rarely asked him to do  him a favour. Anyway, as a treat, when they left the barbershop, which had an oily smell Billy didn’t like, they went to a café while they were waiting for the bus. Billy’s daddy bought him a bottle of red lemonade which he mixed up with vanilla ice cream in a big glass.The ice cream fizzed and bubbled when the lemonade was poured on top. The mixture was cold, creamy and lovely. Billy thought it was the nicest drink in the world.

When they went home, Auntie Fran said that Billy looked like a nice boy now instead of an old cissy. Billy decided he didn’t care what Auntie Fran thought he looked like and he made up his mind to avoid her as much as possible while she stayed with them.

However, whenever she saw him, at mealtimes and at night when he was watching television, she always had something to say to him about having dirty fingernails or eating his food too fast. He went to bed early every night now and he noticed he was sent off to bed a little earlier than the night before. He didn’t really mind all that much because his daddy had asked him as a favour.

Sometimes, when Auntie Fran was washing the dishes in the scullery and his daddy was in his armchair in the living room, Billy would run to him and sit on his knee and it would be just like before Auntie Fran came to stay. Once she came in when he was on his daddy’s knee and she called him a big cissy.

His daddy frowned but didn’t say anything so Billy got off and sat in his own armchair. Later that same night Auntie Fran told Billy to stop fidgeting in his chair and for a while he stopped but in a few minutes he forgot and started again and Auntie Fran leaned over and smacked him on his bare leg. It wasn’t a hard slap but it was the shock of being slapped in the first place that hurt because Billy’s daddy had never smacked him.

Through the prickling tears that made everything look blurry and far away he could hear his daddy saying if the child needed punishment, he himself would do it and no one else. Auntie Fran said a good slap every now and then did a child a world of good. His daddy didn’t say anything but Billy knew he was annoyed with Auntie Fran.

The next day the circus arrived and in the morning Billy ran down to see the men put up the tents. They all took off their shirts as the sun got hotter  and Billy could see the muscles in their backs and bare arms working as they pulled on the long ropes and suddenly, as if by magic, the big grey tent mushroomed up. People hurried by, shouting and hammering iron spikes deep into the ground but there was no sign of the animals. However, when he asked a man, he was told all the animals were arriving after dinner.

Billy walked home slowly for his lunch but decided he wouldn’t go to the field that afternoon to see the animals arriving because he wanted to see them at their best, parading under the bright lights of the tents. He was so excited about the coming night that he could hardly eat his dinner and Auntie Fran kept asking him what he was smiling at.

After lunch, he didn’t know what to do so he went out into the garden. It wasn’t a nice day any longer, the sky had clouded over with big black clouds and it was very warm but it wouldn’t rain. Billy thought it might thunder and lightning and he hoped it would because he loved to watch it when he was safely tucked up in his bed and could see the trees wildly tossing their heads about in the sudden short flashes of sharp blue light.

The afternoon slowly dragged on and Billy counted each moment of it. After a while, he got tired of rocking on the swing and went in to watch his daddy work. The steady tapping of his father’s fingers on the typewriter, punctuated by the little bell which he could never see, calmed him and before he knew it, he fell asleep, curled up in his armchair. When he woke up it was tea time and immediately after it was all over, Billy wanted to set out for the big field. His daddy, however wasn’t ready as he had to finish off some very important business and besides, he said, they had all the time in the world. Billy was so anxious not to miss a thing that he made his dad ring a man up on the phone and find out the time of the last show that evening at 9:30pm. Restlessly Billy walked up and down the hall, his coat hanging ready on the bannisters.

Then it got very dark and Billy heard a tremendous crash and a noise as if someone was throwing stones on their tiled roof. The thunder began and, pleased with the distraction, Billy ran up to his bedroom and lay on the bed beside the window. It was raining very heavily now and the river was being whipped into a grey and white foam. The next time the thunder roared, Billy was ready and he had only counted three when the room was brilliantly lit with an electric blue light that remained in his closed eyes long after the flash had gone. Sometimes the huge forks of lightning seemed to be coming directly at him and Billy shivered with a terrified pleasure and sometimes they seemed to be running through the sky away from him.

Finally it was time to get ready and Billy ran downstairs for his coat on the bannisters, calling for his daddy. Before he reached the hall, the living room door opened  and Auntie Fran came out. ‘What’s all this noise for Billy, your daddy and I were just ….’

She broke off as she saw Billy struggling into his coat. 

‘I hope you don’t think you are going out into that storm, mister, do you?

‘We’re going to the circus in the field and … 

‘But it’s already well past your bed time  and I am most certainly not allowing you out in this weather, no matter where you think you’re going,’ Auntie Fran said firmly. ‘Will, what’s this nonsense about going to a circus on a night like this?’

Billy’s father came out into the hall and looked at Billy, all dressed and ready to go.’Well’, he said, ‘it is a circus and I did promise the boy …’

‘Are you mad?’demanded Auntie Fran.‘In this weather? Do you want the child to catch his death of cold? Anyway, it is long past his bed time. I really don’t understand you, Will. Just listen to that rain. I’ll tell  you this much – not one or the other of you will leave this house tonight unless it is over my dead body.  There’s more important things than circuses, you know? I’m sure Billy understands, don’t you, love? You can always go to another circus.’

Billy’s dad hesitated and Billy’s heart stood still.

‘I want to go to the circus, Bill, I don’t care,  I want to go. Daddy, you promised’

‘Your Auntie’s right, you know, Billy. Not even a dog would go out in this weather. We can always go to another circus and … ‘

‘You promised’.

‘Besides, Billy, it’s very late and the only place for little boy like you is wrapped up nice and snug in his bed,’ Auntie Fran added.

‘But daddy …’

‘Now Will, you have got to be firm with the child. I told you something like this would happen. You have spoilt him to such an extent that he can’t take no for an answer.’

‘I promise, Billy, I’ll take you to the next circus that comes and that’s a genuine promise, cross my heart, but your Auntie is right, we can’t go out tonight.

For the first time in a long time, Billy made no attempt to hide his tears which flowed freely down his cheeks. Turning, he ran blindly up the stairs, the lightning searing his eyes. 

‘I hate, you, I hate you, you promised me, I hate you.’

Sunday, Bloody Monday.

I was listening to some music recently – ‘ Ever since the British burned the White House down*’ and I was reminded of the time – long ago now – when I burned the British Embassy down! That’s a pretty bold statement and i suppose I’d better backtrack and try to sketch in the situation. Even the most outlandish things can be tempered by the situation. Can’t they?

It was 1972, I think and I was repeating my first year of University in a predominantly Catholic country of the 26 counties, aka The Republic of Eire so I had plenty of time on my hands. We had Protestant neighbours of course – I can remember two different families on the square where I lived, one of which consisted of three teenage girls ranging in age from 14 – 19, while the other family were, to say the least, an odd bunch, with the son, about my age, engaged in taking apart an oily motorbike on the carpet in  the bedroom of his three story home. Needless to say, I spent more time with the girls who lived diagonally opposite my house at the time.

Anyway, the ‘troubles’ were on the rise in the six counties, aka Northern Ireland, a legal part of the United Kingdom with England, Wales and Scotland and predominantly Protestant with a sizeable Catholic population. Unbelievably, just over four decades ago, basic civil rights were not equable among the differing religious groups and the situation fermented from its much older republican roots into a civil rights / independence movement. The situation that year continued to deteriorate but I, snug in university life far to the south of the troubles, was rarely impacted by the casual but small time slaughter that was becoming a daily occurrence in ‘the North’. One of my sister’s friends was a nurse working in a hospital in Belfast but came home to discover her fiancé shot in the head while still in bed!

Interestingly, some of my fellow students here in the south were from Northern Ireland and on a better government stipend than most were in the republic but I certainly don’t ever remember discussing politics with them. They were just mates but then we were all safe in The South. As the months rolled on, it became increasingly apparent that the presence of the British Army in the Six Counties as a policing force was not working. And then, on a memorable day – to my shame I can’t remember the day or the month but I think it was around late winter, early spring 1972 – a civil rights demonstration calling for one person, one vote was stoped by the British Paratroopers. I am not sure what happened next, bu stones were thrown and immediately the Paras reacted, opening fire and killing more than a dozen at point blank range. I remember watching on the tv news  – both Irish and English channels and seeing a middle aged man, crouching forward, holding up a white handkerchief while he tried to assist someone already wounded. Was he a clergy man? I don’t remember but he was shot too. I suppose it was a taste of what daytime tv could broadcast into your living room – the front line where people fought and died.

I remember the shock we all felt and the next day, all classes were called off by the Student Representative Council (SRC) – we didn’t have a student union at that time – and a protest march was planned for lunchtime, leaving the suburban campus at Belfield and marching into the city centre to protest outside the British Embassy on Merrion Square in the heart of Georgian Dublin at the wanton killings by the Paras at the civil rights march in Derry, (not LondonDerry) 

Delighted to be released from the symbolism of something like Moby Dick, I was more than happy to dessert the lecture theatres and the library – God forbid that I’d have been caught there – and join the mob clustering around the student pub near the artificial lake. After some shuffling, griping, moaning, etc, the whole student body began to trudge off. Regular stops became part of the journey as public phone boxes were pillaged and the Yellow Pages torn out, and burnt in piles at significant crosspoints on our way into town.  Yellow Pages, apparently, were funded by the CIA who had just engineered the downfall of Salvatore Allende in Chile and that seemed like a good reason. 

I had rarely been on a protest or demonstration match before but because of my lusty voice someone from the SRC caught a glimpse of me and gave me a hastily improvised armband of ‘ steward’ and a bull horn.Obviously it was a sombre affair but I remember it as one of fun and expressionism.

There was solid line of Gardai Siochana – the local Irish police force – lined up three or four deep in front of the embassy steps up to the gracious Gerogian building, one linked in an elegant tree-lined square around a private park, reserved, I think, for the nearby Archbishop’s residence.

On arrival at the square, other groups – unions, transport, secondary and tertiary level groups and masses of others – surged around the railings while the implacable police remained impassive.

Speeches were made from the back of ha halfback truck from an emotional man and then as the early dusk and light rain began, the first serious attacks on the building started. Somehow,  someone managed to evade the police, scale the railings and climb up the front of the building to one of the first floor wrought-iron balconies.. Swinging what looked like a hammer, he struck at the window only to have it bounce back and strike him in the head, toppling him backwards.

A skinhead kid ran up to me, a dripping brown flagon in his hard.

‘Yis got a ligh’? and obediently, I flicked my lighter and lit my first ever Molotov cocktail. The kid ran forwards but the soft misty rain had slicked the pavement and he slipped as he hurled the flagon which crashed and exploded few metres in front, doing little or no damage but that may well have been a signal for a wave of molotovs which forced the police into a baton wielding charge. That probably gave others the chance to hurl more molotovs into the basement recess areas while someone else managed to scale the first floor balcony and succeed in smashing the window so more molotovs could be hurled inside.

In the swirling mess of the light rain, dusk, the smoke and acrid stench of petrol and burning, the crowds pushing and shoving one way and another, I ran like a headless chicken, calling for my friend when suddenly a burly copper loomed in front of me, his baton already on the downswing. I collapsed where I stood and the blow landed almost painlessly on my shoulder as I swerved away in search of Donal. Across the main road away, from the mayhem in front of the embassy, was my father’s hospital in Holles Street, although he always insisted that it be called The National Maternity Hospital of Dublin. I darted in there where the ambulances waited before finally venturing out, my shoulder beginning to ache now. Most of the crowd seemed to hav left although there was strong police presence again in front of the embassy while firemen forlornly tried to hose down the internal conflagration.

I got a bus home and managed to avoid any questions from my parents by leaving my smelly coat out in the tool shed in the garden while I muttered something about a headache from studying and went up to bed.

* Bob Dylan, Tempest, Narrow Way 

Crises We Have Lived Through

My Irish father and mother were born in the last century, in 1911 and in 1914 respectively so my father would have been 7 years old at the outbreak of Spanish Flu in 1918 which appears to have been the worst global pandemic since the Black Death or Bubonic Plague which ravaged Europe and killed 25 million people between 1347 and 1351at a time when the world’s population was only 450 million. Back in 1918, approximately 20,000 people died in Ireland from the Spanish Flu while 800,000 were infected out of a population of about 4 million but I have no recollection of my parents ever mentioning the effect of the pandemic on their lives or that of their parents or grandparents.

And then there was WWII and my parents, along with most of neutral Ireland, survived that too, although my mother had stories of crouching, terrified, under the stairs when Germany bombed the North Strand in Dublin in 1941, only a few hundred metres from where she lived in Whitworth Road. My father, on the other hand, mentioned that while he was in the  Irish equivalent of the British Home Guard or Dad’s Army, the Local Security Force (LSF) the worst thing he had to endure was the filthy language some of the men used!

Then in 1958, when I was 5 years old, the world was rocked once again by the Asian Flu Pandemic with 2 million estimated deaths worldwide but once again, I and my family remained untouched.

In 1967 I jumped out of the second floor of an abandoned building in Sea Point, near where I lived at the time, and broke three bones in my left leg and left arm and spend the entire summer, lying on my back, swathed in plaster of paris and the Hong Kong Flu Pandemic, with another death toll of one million, passed me by once again, although I do remember the public warning advertisements on TV of ‘coughs and sneezes spread diseases’.

HIV / AIDS struck in 1981 or thereabout but I was living in semi isolation in a kampong on the north-east coast of Malaysia at that time, without newspapers or radio (I didn’t get a telegram telling me of my father’s death until a week after he had been cremated) and was totally unaware of what was happening world wide where 25 million died of AIDS while millions more are living with HIV.

Then in 2000, I moved to Hong Kong to live and work when Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome (SARS) was first reported in 2003, infecting over 8,000 people in a matter of weeks and taking approximately 750+ people’s lives. I remember being ‘inconvenienced’ in several ways then – my favourite Australian bar in Kowloon closed down, I had to wear a face mask when teaching and my new wife refused to accompany me back to HK in April 2003 after we got married in Perth, Australia but once again, the angel of death seemed to have passed me – and all of mine – by once again.

Although SARS did not claim a large number of lives, it changed the way the world responds to global spread of infectious diseases. Like today’s COVID-19, SARS was caused by the coronavirus, and was spread much like the common cold, through close person-to-person contact and respiratory coughs and sneezes.

In November of 2019, I managed to tear the Achilles Tendon in my (again) left leg and while that was getting better, I somehow ruptured the tendon in my other leg in late February 2020 and have been wearing an orthopaedic ‘moon’ boot ever since. So this recent COVID-19 pandemic, of which I took a fairly unalarmed view initially until my nursing daughter compared it to the Black Death, has once again passed me by as I am house-bound, barely able to hobble around the house and garden. Nevertheless, the extraordinary lock-downs and social isolations the world is experiencing, the incredible impact the pandemic is having on people’s lives and livelihood, the mounting loss of life worldwide and the ever increasing restrictions on daily life imposed by governments in an attempt to stem this tide of disease, death and destitution is impacting upon us all.

Home isolation is easy for me now, crippled temporarily as I am, as are the other restrictions but I wonder how well I will cope once I am mobile again.

Throughout history, there have been tumultuous waves of change (The Flood?) – from the wave of agriculture that transformed the world from that of hunters and gatherers to that of the industrial and later technological and communicative waves that revolutionised the way we live. Other waves too, of mass emigration for example, which so recently threatened to overwhelm Europes’s borders, have threatened to swamp us, ever since the first people left the Rift Valley in Africa and set out to people the world, and the barbarians broke through the natural frontier of the Rhine to bring about the demise of the Roman Empire in the fifth century but, like all waves, pandemics too typically slow and come to an end on their own, though the process may be accelerated through effective preventive strategies, such as the measures world governments are putting in place right now.

So, in the words of, I think, Winston Churchill, ‘if you are going through Hell, don’t stop, keep going’ and, above all, stay safe and well.


A (very) long time ago, when I was a student, I ended up working nights in a small French, basement restaurant in Leeson Street in Dublin – La Belle Epoque. I have no recollection of either how I got the job – dishwasher à la kitchen hand and general dogsbody- or retained it for most of the academic year because the restaurant never seemed to have any customers. Jack, one of two full time chefs, said something about the previous owners not having paid their telephone bill so the service was suspended and the new owners – my employers – refused to pay the outstanding charges. So, no phone and hence no reservations and the only customers we used to have were the very occasional punters dropping in on the off chance and, sometimes, the music group Dubliners and that was only because Jack, I think, was one of their mates.

Anyway, among other delights, like unlimited access to ice cream sorbet and gargantuan meals that the chefs would prepare every night – for themselves and the other staff – I fell in love with a simple, rustic-style vegetable dish – ratatouille that always seemed to be available.

Years passed and it slipped, like so many other things, from my memory until recently, travelling along the south shore of the Black Sea, I came across variations on a theme and fell in love with it all over again.

Back home I made it myself for the first time but my wife was aghast at the amount of olive oil I used and I may very well have been a little bit heavy handed there, I admit.

Anyway, jump to the present and, foolishly perhaps, after a sustained and concentrated boozy December, I decided to abstain from all alcohol for the month of January and while I was considering the difficulties that might impose upon me, I thought I might as well go the whole hog and become vegetarian for the month as well, in addition to submitting myself to some form of daily exercise – it is summer here after all and the beach is only a few kilometres from where I live. Anyway, casting around the other day, bored and listless – Day 10 alcohol free – I decided to cheer myself up with a succulent dish of summery vegetables of eggplant, zucchini, capsicum and tomato.

Taking advantage of my wife’s temporary absence I commandeered the kitchen and all the paraphernalia I would need and decided to cook the vegetables separately first, then combine them to cook to a glorious creamy stew.img_2568


Extra virgin olive oil,

1 large eggplant, roughly diced,

5 garlic cloves, chopped,

Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper,

2 zucchini, sliced into rounds about as thick as a doubloon or a sovereign (!),

2 large onions, diced,

4 red capsicums, roughly diced,

1 kg tomatoes, seeded and chopped,

1 400g can of tomatoes,

Bunch of thyme, parsley and basil, chopped,

1 Tablespoon of sugar

img_2570I decided to cook the veg separately. But, as an alternative to frying the eggplant, which would soak up a huge amount of oil, I decided to toss the diced eggplant in a little oil in a plastic bag and then spread it in a single layer under a very hot grill to brown, before tipping the lot into a large bowl.img_2579

img_2574I heated a generous splash of oil in a heavy-duty casserole dish over a low heat and lightly fried the chopped garlic along with a generous sprig of rosemary. I scooped out 2/3 of the garlic and discarded the rosemary before adding the zucchini and sautéing until tender, then added it to another bowl.img_2575

Next up, I returned the pan to the heat and added just a splash more oil, another third of the garlic, and sautéed the onion, and capsicum until tender. Once again I dumped the lot into a dish as before. By this stage I had too much stuff for my casserole dish so I img_2587combined all the cooked vegetables into a large pot and added the seeded and chopped tomatoes along with a tin of toms which I whizzed in the blender before simmering the lot gently for about 1½ hours. Remove from the heat, taste for seasoning and stir in the chopped basil. I also used dried thyme and marjoram as I had forgotten to pick up some fresh stuff.

img_2591Serve with a soft-boiled poached egg, so the yolk can anoint the delicious vegetables.

As I mentioned, I seem to have made rather a lot but leftover ratatouille has many possibilities – fill a long, crusty bread roll with it or slather it on a slice of sour dough toast. A small amount of ratatouille makes a lush filling for an omelette or scrambled eggs along with some chopped pitted black olives and a little fresh goat’s cheese or coarsely grated Parmesan. Yum-oh!

Trains and Boats and Planes

With the exception of balloons, submarines and helicopters, I have tried most major forms of transport – yes, even camels, elephants and horses – but I have to admit that trains are my favourite mode of travel – especially long distance ones, with a sleeper and a restaurant car, hurtling me through time and space.

There have been disappointments of course. One time, on a short trip from Dublin to Cork, I treated myself to a first class ticket, but warm cans of Guinness from a ‘bar-cart’ – not even a bar-car! – detracted from the overall experience.

I was looking forward to different train trips in the Caucasus but unfortunately there were no trains along the southern shore of The Black Sea in northern Turkey which I covered in hops and leaps in very comfortable, intercity coaches but I was really looking forward to the overnight train from Batumi, just over the border from Turkey, in Georgia to the capital, Tbilisi.IMG_1860

Because of prior difficulties regarding statehood, nationality, form of government and current strains of economics and global trade, the entire region seemed to be unhappy with its immediate neighbours. ‘Turkey has no friends,’ lamented one young professional who had taken her masters at a Dublin university and that story was echoed in one way or another in each of the countries I visited.IMG_1861

Tbilisi would be my hub and from there I could get an overnight train to Yerevan in Armenia and to Baku in Azerbaijan. The only problem was that since none of the countries permitted inter-travel, I would have to retrace my steps to Tbilisi each time before heading off again. While I could enter Armenia from Georgia I couldn’t continue on to Azerbaijan. I’d have to return to Tbilisi the same way and then take another train to Baku on the shore of the Caspian Sea.

Similarly, I could take a train from Tbilisi to Baku but I couldn’t go from Baku to Yerevan in Armenia. What that all meant was a lot of overnight train trips from Tbilisi throughout the Caucasus.

Impressed with the modern Stadler train which whisked me effortlessly from the brand new looking station in Batumi to Tbilisi, I expected, foolishly perhaps, something similar on a longer, overnight, cross border experience.IMG_1862

Despite starting in Georgia, the train was Armenian and didn’t look remotely like the sleek brute that had delivered me to Tbilisi a few days previous. This particular train looked like trains did in Hitchcock movies so, pre-warned there was neither bar nor restaurant car on the fifteen hour trip between the capital cities, I stocked up on red wine and brandy accordingly. Thank God I had because the only amenities provided turned out to be a box of sugary jellies, a bottle each of still and fizzy water along with a fresh pillowcase and sheets.

I handed over my first class ticket to the burly blonde guarding the steps outside my carriage who glared uncomprehendingly at me when I greeted her and asked her name. ‘Lana’ she growled before ushering me up the steps impatiently as if the train were just about to depart.

IMG_1865Strolling up and the down the narrow corridor outside my compartment – there was another twenty minutes before the train was due to leave – the only differences I could see between the carriages was mine had the top two bunks removed, leaving only the bottom two.

The window in the compartment was sealed shut and masked with voluminous drapes of bleached out nylon. Only every third window in the carriage corridor outside opened partially. Not a major issue if the air conditioning worked, but when I found Lana, brewing coffee in her private ‘office’, and made IMG_1864panting sounds, mopping rivulets of sweat running down my face and neck and pleaded for the air con to be turned on, the brutal blonde overseer of the first class compartment seemed not to notice the 37 degree heat and only reluctantly turned the a/c on low, only to turn it off every time the train crawled into another small, sun-baked station.

When I tried to open the half window in the corridor outside my compartment to get a breath of air, she bustled bossily down and shouted at me, along with emphatic hand gestures, to close the window.

“Well, turn the bloody a/c on again” I retorted peevishly, the sweat stinging my eyes and my shirt sticking like a wet rag to my streaming skin.

My initially chilled beer  was almost tepid when, glaring at the sugary jellies and the bottles of water I opened it.

Usually, the regular clack-clack of the train would lull me to sleep but this time, seeming to compound the heat, the train groaned along, accompanied by what sounded like extended and sporadic heavy machine gun fire from the iron wheels.  I had already finished the wine and was about to dose myself with the brandy when immigration marched down the train, collecting passports and then disappearing with them for a worrying length of time before returning them just as the train ground to a noisy and shuddering halt at the border with Armenia. IMG_2083 Surprisingly – and pleasingly – smartly dressed Armenian officials came down the corridor with laptop computer scanners and handed back my passport within a minute of collecting it.

Dawn broke as I panted by a window I had furtively opened – no sign of the bossy Lana – looking at a high white cloud before eventually realising it was the snow-capped peak of Mount Ararat towering over the plains. IMG_1876Arrival time rolled around and the train still trundled noisily over flat, dusty plains with no sign of an imminent city. IMG_2081Questions to Lana about the expected arrival time were dismissed with a brusque hand gesture and a shrug and it was a good four hours late before the train finally shuddered to a halt in Yerevan itself.

I was here, that was the main thing and Armenia is famed for (among other things) its brandy – the only brandy Winston Churchill would drink, apparently – so what could go wrong? And there was the return trip to look forward to and to compare with the overnighter to Baku later on.





Dilettante, Renaissance person or just MOOCing Around!

I was talking to someone recently who regretted that, more than 40 years ago; they had never gone on to tertiary education. I couldn’t quite work out if it was because the fees were too high or because they had not made some type of academic grade at the time deemed necessary for university entrance.

I have to admit to having coasted through my first year at University so much so that my second year was spent repeating the year to get a marginally higher grade allowing me to progress to a slightly higher level in my overall degree.

Even then I felt that knowledge and ability didn’t always merit a badge of recognition, a public certificate, for example in swimming or social media or marketing or historical periods or anything for that matter. Knowledge could just be for enjoyment and pleasure.

I got my first computer in 1985 without having the slightest notion about what a computer was or what it could do for me but it soon became apparent that (some) academic qualifications were unnecessary with regards, anyway, to computing. Some people just took off and seemed to have an innate understanding of how computers and their coding languages worked long before both PC’s and Macs introduced their graphical interfaces. A blinking C:>Dir/w on a blank, black screen seemed scary while it became apparent that in the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man was king.

It all seems so small and petty now. Jump forward to the present day and there are literally tons of free and open courses offered by a plethora of institutions, academies and universities worldwide. Perhaps the most widely known is MOOC – Multiple Online, Open Courses – which is an umbrella grouping of thousands of courses offered by hundreds of providers. “We don’t need no piece of paper from the city hall” Joni Mitchell © 1970 – “My Old Man” from the album Blue. The main idea here being things (education} are free, certification is not.

So, whether you want to learn through watching videos, or through assigned readings and discussions with others world wide studying the same courses or whether you just wish to broaden your knowledge of, for example, Art History or brush up your high school Spanish or delve into quantum mechanics, there is a free course available for you. Rediscover deep interests in things from many years ago and invest time in them now but without the burden of either payment or financial stress by using one of the incredible MOOCs now so easily available.

And therein lies the problem which I call the Chinese Menu syndrome – there is so much on offer that to wade through the various offerings can be daunting in itself. To find something you might be interested in just try MOOC, or to narrow down your search slightly, try any of the following,




One of the extraordinary things I’ve discovered is that after i signed up for a free course in an area that particularly interested me, but which wasn’t due to start for another month or so, I got an email “recommending” some other courses which were starting soon and which I might like!

I paged down contemptuously (how dare they think they know what I like, sort of thing) and was gratified to find that the first half dozen courses they offered had no interest whatsoever for me until something caught my eye – Trinity College Dublin.

When I went to university in Dublin in 1971, Trinity was pretty much the preserve of the old Protestant Ascendancy. Catholics were not excluded from the university but the Archbishop of Dublin, at the time, would demand written reason why Trinity and not the Catholic university was suitable for the recognised course of study.

Anyway, it caught my eye and I signed on to Trinity for a short two week course in such and such an area – something I knew nothing about and had never seriously considered before – and I thought I would just ghost through. Instead, maybe because of the video lectures or the reading content or provoking questions, I became interested enough to follow the first week of material.

Initially tempted to reply to other participants comments with a curt “well done” or “I agree” type of comments, I found myself engaging with people I had never seen or heard from before. I think that is really the first time I have ever done that. Not anyway since I first got a modem and heard non-global sounding squawks and squeals from cyberspace and logged on to obscure chartrooms where abuse and requests were hurled.

MOOCs, TEDs are all amazing and I wish you well in your explorations.

First off the Rank

Welcome to Tastes – a fairly eclectic and very personalised collections of culinary bits and pieces.  I will include recipes – Irish cuisine initially but I will probably widen the scope and include dishes, snacks and main meals that I have enjoyed world-wide.  Other times, it might be snippets of information about culinary oddities, explanations, queries and so on.

First off the rank, as I say, is traditional, Irish Mince pies that were always served to visitors and family in my childhood Dublin.  I found an old, ratty cookery book belonging to my mother stuffed into the back of the kitchen cupboard here in Perth.  I have no idea how old the book is, the cover and half a dozen pages are missing but it was a promotional booklet issued by Unilever, some type of multi national that, along with a myriad of other products also made margarine and every recipe in the booklet, under headings like Rock Cakes, Sandwich Cakes and Sponges, Icings and Fillings, Pastry, Fish, Meat & Poultry, Batters and Hot Puddings, includes a healthy dose of margarine.

In an age when cholesterol levels were an unknown factor and the emphasis was on taste, coupled, I suppose, with economy, margarine was the king among ingredients!

Oh, one last thing, I have a rather pretentious photo of a place setting which I will use as the featured image for Tastes.

I hope you find something you like, or at least can laugh at – i.e. my attempt at very Short crust pastry mince pies.