On right is a photo of the famine memorial at Delphi County Mayo. Hundreds perished here after being forced to trek  overnight for alms then refused.

Today is National Famine Commemoration Day.

In honour I publish for the first time a short story I wrote set amongst the landscape, if not the exact time period, of An Gorta Mór.

The hungry grass

Crossing the shallow holdings high above sea
Where few birds nest, the luckless foot may pass
From the bright safety of experience
Into the terror of the hungry grass.

Here in a year when poison from the air
First withered in despair the growth of spring
Some skull-faced wretch whom nettle could not save
Crept on four bones to his last scattering,

Crept, and the shrivelled heart which drove his thought
Towards platters brought in hospitality
Burst as the wizened eyes measured the miles
Like dizzy walls forbidding him the city.

Little the earth reclaimed from that poor body
And yet remembering him the place has grown
Bewitched and the thin grass he nourishes
Racks with his famine, sucks marrow from the bone

(Poem, Donagh MacDonagh, 1906-1968)

Seamus peered out the glass pane at the rain beating down outside. On a clear day the distant blue of the ocean could sometimes be seen its vastness offering the twin possibilities of escape and loss in its depths. Sometimes they seemed the same thing.

Closer in lay the lough but today with the grey clouds low over the mountain and with their relentless cannon onto the silent hillsides it was hard to see much at all. The short lane down to the larger boreen which linked his property to the outside world alternated between a stream and a path as conditions varied. Of course vehicles could use it theoretically but last time the oil lorry had refused to deliver claiming the route was not ‘road worthy’. Lazy is all, he thought. One time he used run an old motor up and down himself, on trips to the village or a very rare sortie up to town in search of women and diversion in younger years. Little diversions now.

The landscape was bleak but beautiful, at least to the tourists. The cottage nestled away shielded by trees in part but almost wedded to the mountain side in the main.
A bedroom, a fireplace, a kitchen area and a back yard were all he really wanted though the cottage had more than he needed. The infant of Prague regarded him solemnly from above the hearth whilst the holy water font in the porch had not been filled in some time. He seldom went to church now, though one time he never missed it. Too much hypocrisy and not anything to do with those scandals either, although those youngsters had had it rough by all accounts. Rougher than him with a father away and a mother run ragged, almost lost in the crowd of his own family and scrabbling for his supper amidst the remains of the day. Well who is to tell now.

If he went outside he could see the lough but it held no draw for him these days, or at least no magic. He tried the boats once and there was good money in high season but you were born to it or you weren’t and his legs were firmly of this earth. Hated the water if the truth be told. No shortage of it cascading down the steps and making a waterfall of the front yard at present anyhows.

Letting the floral foil of the blinds drop back into place he moved away from the window and what lay beyond. He didn’t really need the blinds up here, away from everything but it gave something to look at in the dead of winter. There was the box in the corner of course but that thing wasn’t much. He gave that up a long time ago too.
Reaching up he lifted an anorak off the hook and shrugged into it enveloping his frame. As good a time as any to make a break he thought and what would he do for the day otherwise. Pulling his hood up over his head he opened the door and stepped forth into the tempest outside.

He made his way first to the outhouse. Slipping back the bolt he stepped over a pile of drying sheafs, harvested earlier during the too brief summer. Beside them lay a pile of roots, some now decaying leaves and in a small barrel beside, the remnants of the potato crop. Heathers, stalks and clusters of tied nettles covered the floor. The distillation took time but a complex apparatus betrayed innate simplicity, like herding or trout tickling or any the ancient crafts. He leaned over the bench and regarded the piping and sediments. Lifting a bottle off the shelf, the label bearing only passing resemblance to the contents within, he tucked it carefully inside his garments. Turning back out the door he began to pick his way through the puddles and to descend down the path his figure casting a moving black spot against the otherwise greying hillside.

Though it was barely noon he had been up half the day already, waking at dawn and rising in accordance with the habit of a lifetime. The old mattress was alright but he rolled into it most nights without any great comfort at least not physical. The days were long and the nights were short and it didn’t change with the seasons. One of the sheep had become entangled in fencing earlier and it had taken him some time to cut it loose. It was almost an adventure sometimes accounting for the animals although it too waned with time. He swore he’d lost some and never noticed, others claimed as much but that was bound to be just more digs about the boundaries, or maybe the drink. The latest lamb had been unfurled from the wire and galloped in gaiety up the mountain. Youthful exuberance and an impatience for life saw it disappear up the slope. He had watched its path as it weaved through the yellow and purple thicket and up by the stream, minding its way past the odd scattered stone wall.

They’d had a good stripe of this hillside once. Further up the slopes a heap of timber and stone marked the original homeplace his people had held at one time. All of that before the evictions when generations of his past were forced to watch wretched as the flames tore asunder the life they had made. Some escaped abroad or elsewhere but many lost the will after that and never tried to live again. The winters after took care of the rest when the hunger came upon the hills. Stories still lingered of children fell dying, their lips grass green, collapsing to ground where their bones scoured the soil. A pittance had survived in ever diminishing freeholds right down to the plot now occupied by his cottage their last claim on the mount. And even that now contested.

Reaching the main road he pivoted right and began to walk along the lip of the lough shore. He rarely drove now, he was never fully confident and it was hardly worth the bother after they put him off it three years before. As the rain continued to seep down
an odd vehicle appeared through the blanket, pairs of lights signalling its progression in advance. Most the lake side houses were foreign owned now with gates, walled gardens and foreboding entrances. Abandoned mainly outside the Summer months the big house was an undiminished presence here. A shower sloshed over him as another silver machine swept past oblivious to his presence. Damp but determined he continued unabated on this trail he knew so well. There’d be few enough in Louis’s now, the time and the nature of the day, but there’d be enough. It’d be worth the trip.

Back up the hillside the rain began to ease but a wind picked up bringing icy portents from higher up and sending the animals to seek out shelter from the gorse or hawthorns where they could find them. Occasional stoned walls stencilled across the canvass but offered little by way of comfort, even where they stood erect still. Towards the top, beyond the sheep trails and nearer the summit, a remnant of life lingered, a defiant stone sill and some charred timbers marking a dwelling place one time before. A giant hawthorn tree had once kept watch over the site and some levelling out of land just beside betrayed attempts at one time at settlement. Small holdings had once been carved out into the frozen soil but were long since abandoned. Long but wispish grasses guarded the approaches and now moved with the winds giving an appearance of waving to anyone regarding from below.

Seamus pushed against the door of the public house, giving a brief glance back at his surrounds. The mountain made a stark solemn wall always in the background but the narrow streetscape afforded an outlet beneath. The steeple defined the village, being the most immediate landmark, but the pub was the real place of worship. A surly post office and a grocery store come filling station completed the compass points. Postcards were available but fuel and fags were the main draw this time of year.

“Before the cock crowed three times it called for Seamus” .. Louis opened.

“Aye we’ll hear the bells soon alright” Seamus replied, dismissing the remark.

“Never ask for whom the bell tolls, Seamus, in case it calls for you!” .. Louis attempted a smile and pulled the tap down to full port, watching the stout flow into the glass beneath. A standing joke over the years, angelus bells were as much a call to nourishment here as they were to the spiritual kind supposedly on offer across the road. For many it was the only source of nourishment worth travelling out for.

“Well Seamus … what have ye for me today?” .. inquired Louis.

“It’s a fresh one for ya” answered Seamus “One the last for the year”.

From within the folds of his clothing Seamus produced the bottle and placed it on the inner shelf behind the counter. Louis nodded and raised it up, the better to study the liquid inside. The contents shimmered a grey, dirty kind of gold almost translucent with a silting residue running down the inside of the bottle as he turned it.

“Aye that’ll keep you for a while Seamus” Louis smiled and moved to lock it into the private quarters beyond. Barter had never quite disappeared in these parts, and when a man had no paper to offer well there may be other wares that he can trade. The Poitín had started almost a hobby, something to break up the year, but often now it had become the daily bread. Louis would accept it in trade for porter and a place to pass the time and sometimes others could be persuaded to part with real money in return.

Seamus drew on his pint and enjoyed the flow like mothers milk wash down his gullet and into his insides. He sat onto the stool and glanced around. Beside him couple other wooden stools bordered a narrow counter behind which lay three taps, a range of optics. Along the wall, beside various other ads for boat hire and taxi cab numbers and an oyster festival calendar, he noticed one new notice; a cleaner for hire was now on offer. Sure that was a laugh he thought, something only for the tourists. Although someone had to keep an eye on the places in winter he supposed. He’d caught an odd glimpse those places sometimes, passing on the road. Only in winter mind, when the trees were barer, though by then, the houses were equally bare, generally speaking.

He’d witnessed the other side once. Curiosity caught him and whilst gazing past the manicured gardens and statues of stone, he’d been startled to spot life in the house itself. Giant clumps of Rhododendron, themselves invaders, had shed the summer, affording views to the house beyond and revealing a woman moving within. A sallow skin and confident manner betrayed a non native and whilst her years may have even neared his, the yards may have been worlds apart.

He was reminded of that time as laughter drew his gaze to a couple in the corner, students probably, fresh from a visit back home. Not a common sight here but sometimes they would come and kill time maybe before a bus back to civilisation. He watched as they spoke together and caught some rays from the hearth comfortable in each others presence and unafraid of the world. Catching his glance she pulled her cardigan a little tighter around her and nestled closer to the flames. Embarrassed he turned back towards his pint. Shortly after, a coach cast shadows through the window of the snug and the couple left to join it, leaving empty glasses upon the counter.

Sometimes in his cups the wind would whisper to him faded memories of playing by the streams and running along the slopes. Along with his brothers they would chase the dragon flies and catch the frogs and small creatures that populated their world.
His mother then in flush of youth and his father still with them, stern and strong and proud, making what he could, working on the land. Land that lay farrow now untilled and unmarked and gone from them all. Death and taxes had taken their tolls. Such dreams were his only remembrance now and for his clan he remained the sole representative on earth.

The fire crackled and spat occasional embers out upon the hearth whilst the winds coughed and calmed in turn but continued always to lick upon the window panes. The optics sank slowly as the malt entered Seamus body and served a salve for the stout running beneath. A street sign flapped out front of garage and litter worried, dashed against the kerbside.

A couple of workmen came and went and the news had been and gone while Seamus remained alone upon the stool. The fishermen would come later and the remaining locals with only drink and each other for company. Some the regulars had been through and one had approached, asking re his special harvest. He didn’t like it being this way but once they paid a fair price he was not in a position to refuse. While they weren’t to know, the crop had failed two years now, withered whitened stalks mocking him as he pulled them useless from the ground. The reserves had just about lasted and some remained for Louis and such customers on whom he was reliant. But his own supplies had dwindled and he had been forced to travel further and become more creative. Reluctantly but with increasing dependence he had been taking to the higher grounds to supply more varied produce into his distillations.

Even the sheep rarely reached such parts, away above the sea where birds seldom nestled and shepherds feared to tread. It was mortal lonesome up in those hills. If a rogue sheep or expectant ewe did venture here the shepherd would be hasty about his work and return the animal to the slopes below with a shiver, pulling their woollens tighter and never without a husk of bread inside pocket, kept for such occurrences.

At once he became tired.

“That’ll do Louis” he said eventually.

Giving a gruff farewell he wandered out onto the street outside. Not yet nightfall but into the remains of the day he began the shuffle back towards base. Putting one leg before the other he regarded the crags above as he trod out his journey home.

Daylight whipped him into shape as he brustled up the slopes, the better to navigate by sight. A luxury but not a necessity though his feet were not so sure as one time.
The village vanished beyond as he threaded the trails and hauled himself up the last way. Reaching the house he moved inside and felt a shiver about his person. The hearth lay bare save for the embers of the chair he had fuelled it with last night. Parts of the bed frame and a last shelf of the dresser were stacked by the sill. A wooden crucifix adorned the wall above the grate although he was sure it too would feel the flames if needed. But not yet, he would warm himself in other ways before it came to that.

Working in the moonlight now he moved out back and picked a bottle from the shelf choosing carefully from his newest and as yet untested batch. Reaped from the highest ground, yet the grasses had formed a kind of malt blended with the potato poitin base.

Still inside the shed he twisted loose the cork, and raised the bottle to his lips taking a slow deliberate swirl. The heat warmed him instantly and he shuddered but with surer senses. With a second phial in his pocket he stepped out into the night. He looked at the house for a long slow minute before turning to regard the hill above. Though the wind howled around him he felt drawn and, unsure at first, but with gaining gait, he began to pick his way up the sheep trails towards the hilltop.

Drawing strength from his provisions, every so often he took rest upon a wall and glanced back around beneath him. The lough was stirring now as tides washed in from beyond and begun to push back the day. A tapestry of greens, browns and blues laid out before him like a fine carpet beneath his feet. Trees leaned towards the wind and punctuated the briar and gorse grass lands that swept up along the slopes. Some lights still twinkled away in the village but up here rabbit drops and woollen tufts were the only signs of life. In the lough some islands formed a breaker for the waves. He could see the sea in the far distance and the darkness was beginning its descent.

Hoisting up his haunches once more he picked his way across rock and more difficult terrain. Yet the dried grasses here provided a perfect source of materials to his hedge distillery. Whilst the spirit strengthened his resolve he felt the beginnings of his body starting to wilt. Almost smiling at the feeling he came at last in sight of the ruin where his family lay. Rain drops beating upon his back he stumbled once, then twice on the final ascent. He summoned the final effort to crawl across the site perimeter with the feeling in his bones reaching fever as he took another gasp of his grass liquer.

The ground beneath him crunched as bog turned to ice and low cloud began a long slow smother. He limped beyond the stone walls and onto the patches of lank white grasses that beckoned from beyond. His throat ached bone dry as he swallowed huge mouthfuls, then he tripped, smacking his head off the hawthorn and falling strewn upon the ground. His limbs turned to lead and a hunger swelled his belly. Crawling for the grasses, nails clawing into the earth, he brought the waves underneath his stomach as it began to churn and contort and his muscles to spasm. The grasses welcomed him, consoled him, and yet taunted him as they had always hosted those who had hungered before. As his head hit the ground his eyes rolled open, he could see green lips on blue bodies lying everywhere upon the ground and all around him his people keening calling until he became just one of many and finally at peace.

© 2009, James Lawless

Who fears to speak of 96?

We’ve had some good moments this year, was great see Kildare do so well in Leinster, and of course still in the series, last night fairly convincing over Wicklow. Kerry appear to have vanished last I checked they were losing to Antrim and whilst a second half comeback seems inevitable, it does open the championship this year to see them struggle so.

Hurling I fancy Tipp to make an impact, perhaps not knock off the Cats but probably go closer than anyone else. Galway are doing very well but I’d still rank them third after KK and Tipp, at this moment anyhow. Limerick held their own against Dublin and it was great to see the Dub hurlers (as opposed to the footballers grrr) doing so well.

Not much else to look at, everyone else gone, Waterford just about alive, Clare gone to the dogs, Offaly, Antrim obviously awful..

I save special mention for my own Wexford. What has happened to the spirit of 98? How the mighty have fallen again and again. I was brought up to know a team that could challenge every year, and as my father-in-law is very fond of saying, the last team ever to win a ‘proper’ all-Ireland (in 1996 just before the backdoor introduced). Even up till quite recently we were a force to be reckoned with. In 2003 I finally persuade my wife to attend a hurling match with me and she was rewarded with the “game of the century” as some commentators in their more hyperbolic moments after described it, 2003 hurling semi-final Wexford v. Cork, absolute cracker of a game, Wexford ahead at half time and a replay sealed by a goal ball in the last puck of the game.

So how the hell are they not able to win a game to save themselves now? Offaly doesn’t count, sorry. We want to see Wexford challenging the best of them and able on any given Sunday, to thrill and spill and pull off the upset because that’s what they always did.

The relegation finals are now in sway and it is Wexford against Antrim next weekend to see one team go down to the Christy Ring next season. From a hurling point of view I want to see as much hurling as possible and encourage as much play as possible so I would say Carlow, Antrim, Westmeath, Laois bring them on, let them play and let them stay and lets make a contest out of it.

But Wexford I reserve opprobrium. I remember once during the election I was canvassing out a country road by Punchestown and I met a man walking. He opened by telling me he was a “raving Fianna Fáiler – and always would be” .. but no way would he vote for me or any the others in this election because he just despaired. What has happened to the mighty party he agonised. It pained him but he was going to punish the thing he loved this time around. He left with the words “Sometimes the animal needs to lose a limb to save the life”…

I feel that way perhaps now about Wexford hurlers. Other teams I can humour, forgive, even encourage on an off day. But Wexford deserve more and can give more and are capable of more. If relegation is the kick needed so be it. But I am sick of watching half-hearted miserable attempts and want the real Loch Garman back – whatever it takes to get there.

Which leads me nicely into this piece. A few years ago I took the ‘Political Compass‘ test to see where I sat on the political spectrum. I took it again yesterday and nestled in again at almost the same spot. According to the compass I am a ‘left-libertarian’. Interesting. What makes it especially interesting is looking at where others are plotted on the same graph.

It would appear I am in Ralph Nader territory (nothing particularly wrong with that). Might be surprising however for one who recently contested an election for what is sometimes described as a ‘right wing’ or a ‘pro-business’ party (Fianna Fáil). So lets dig a little deeper. I did a tot across the suggested reading list for those in my quadrant (the “lib-lefties”) and found the following:

Naomi Klein – No Logo ; Check
Fast Food Nation ; Check
Noam Chomsky ; Check
Michael Moore ; Check
Al Franken ; Check
Repeat..

Yes in a list which includes much fringe American punditry as well as more universal globalisation literature and more far reaching material, I’m pretty much up to speed. In fact all the above grace my library shelf already.

Lets have a look at where others sit on the graph. Interestingly the majority of modern politicians from all parties occupy the top-right quadrant. That includes Obama, David Cameron, Hilary Clinton, Joe Biden, John McCain, Tony Blair, Gordon Brown and our own FF and FG at governmental level. In fact there is barely a whisker between any of them really. This plotting of positions is achieved by weighing either executive decisions of government or individual senate voting records across a variety of test issues.

It is illustrative to note how a politician like Hilary Clinton, for example, who would be considered ‘leftist’ in the States, is actually a conservative centrist by European standards.

Quoting from the site, it is also true that “Democracies with a system of proportional representation give expression to a wider range of political views. While Cynthia McKinney and Ralph Nader are depicted on the extreme left in an American context, they would simply be mainstream social democrats within the wider political landscape of Europe. Similarly, Obama is popularly perceived as a leftist in the United States while elsewhere in the west his record is that of a moderate conservative”

So it’s all relative in one sense. My own position is to the left of the chart. Which would initially appear at odds with my party’s interpreted position in government. And also at odds with several international politicians I support such as Barack Obama and Gordon Brown. So is the compass correct?

I invited several political friends to join me in this test and the results were again interesting. The sole Fine Gaeler to take the test occupied the busy spot up on the top right alongside the various worthies and world leaders mentioned above. However all the Fianna Fáilers joined my spot on the graph, just below the horizontal and left of the vertical. The Lib-Left quadrant. These FFers of my acqauintance would be broadly my own demographic – thirty somethings, university grads and obviously online types. Whilst I don’t think any elected reps were in the group, certainly all participants would have been quite strongly involved with the party from college days to the present and most would have own ambitions of attaining public office at some point.

So what does all this mean? There is inevitably an element that power brings responsibility and attitudes necessarily harden once one dons the mantle. Unimpeded by consequences we can freely liberalise or philosophise at will. We see a similar effect in the US primary system where the nominees veer left or right to win over the base but return rapidly to centre in order to persuade the wider public in the autumns. And elsewhere too it’s a familiar pattern.

There is no easy way to label ‘left’ or ‘right’ in modern political discourse – there are too many positions and too many possibilities. The political compass makes an excellent attempt at addressing the multiple factors and whether it is the group of Ogra FF alumni in one corner, or the clustering of world leaders on the other, obviously commonalities do exist which are trapped by the system.

But the local situation is more complex. I will speak for myself but I suspect the same analysis may apply across the rest of my peer group, including some if not all the FFers of my control group. So here goes:

I can identify with the ‘religious right’ (being strongly pro-life, pro-family and ethically guided) whilst being socially left on issues like drug policy and delinquency. I concur with such ‘left’ international causes as the anti-war movement (at least re Iraq) whilst I marvel at the technical advances arising from military research, not least in space. I support strong regulation of industry and do not trust corporations to run untethered yet am simultaneously unsympathetic to victims of the free market, certainly those who embrace it eyes open, and whose greed or naïveté led them to a crash landing (be they a bankrupt global corporation or a suburban couple who overreached themselves ‘keeping up with the joneses’). I would be regarded as left on social justice issues such as anti-poverty, the provision of basic public services including education and healthcare and would firmly believe in the moral imperative to provide for those who have not. I meanwhile respect the wishes of those who desire a higher-order service once it applies to levels of comfort and protocol rather than basic access or outcome. I advocate the importance of opportunity and an admiration for individuals who better themselves and society through economic advances, lifting all boats on a rising tide. I may be very un-PC in third world context, wondering sometimes whether penny-pauper sweat shops are still better than certain death from disease or starvation and a necessary starting block on the road out of poverty. That’s not forgetting that the base poverty arose from imperial colonisation in the first place but perhaps again then it was a Darwinist landscape and the roles could have been, and often previously were, reversed. I believe the state has responsibilities to its citizens and I would happily subsidise services from theatre to transport as delivering higher order benefits than purely the pursuit of profit. I support pan-national initiatives such as fuller European Integration whilst being an proud supporter of the Irish nation-state. I support secession in Palestine but not Northern Ireland.
….

So what does this all mean? Lots more thoughts but too many for one sitting to I will analyse anon..

The two events are not particularly related. But just struck me how local the world has become. And whilst ‘yer man’ was of the thirteenth tribe, he had a Wexford connection (probably how he found me).

I drafted a longer blog entry earlier which on re-reading I’ve realised is my own realisation of Obama’s blue state / red state 2004 DNC address. That we “are not so divided as our politics may suggest”. Will publish later or tomorrow..

Was a busy enough Summer. Fitted in a family holiday which was fab and where lack of Irish media afforded me a substitute fascination with UK politics (the travails of New/Old Labour), sampled some fine Tuscan wines, braved Italian mountain passes in a hired Fiesta and took on (maybe too much) sun sheltering from 41 degree heat at times..

Closer to home, had no problems with sun exposure, whilst politically I was nominated by my home cumann (Sallins) to contest local elections next year (onto the Naas Ward of Kildare County Council). That covers Sallins, Kill, Kilteel, Caragh, Rathmore, Eadestown, Athgarvan and all of Naas town itself. So a big apple indeed and especially so for a first time candidate. But I’m honoured and exhilirated to be put forward and am relishing the challenges ahead.

I feel entering electoral politics is a logical progression from the work I’ve been doing the past few years. I’ve been active on so many different issues, with a variety of lobby/activist groups, and have become aqauinted with the whole process, “Going Native” shouldn’t be a huge culture shock for me. In fact it should represent a formalising of a role I’ve already performed for some time. If I get elected of course and only the people can decide that.

Much of my activity and outlook should be apparent to readers of this blog and of course I shall continue to update here into the election and beyond. I’ve also had a slight redesign and I hope people like the new look.

Sin é for now..

I live in Sallins, beside the railway tracks as it happens, where I share my home with my wife Ailish, our two children, a dog, a cat, a guinea pig and a goldfish.

Living in Sallins gives easy reach to the capital to which I commute daily, with the train providing an escape route to purer pastures once the day is done. I am an outdoors person and enjoy walking, fishing and believe in making the most of the natural environment and heritage we have around us. We are particularly spoiled in Sallins with the canal and Liffey both within easy striking distance and unique features such as the Leinster aqueduct enrich the landscape. Where I live is Osberstown, a townland serving as the traditional divide between Sallins and Naas and there is a natural walkway right into Naas town along the Grand Canal which runs only a puck of a sliotar from my door.

Leinster Aqueduct on the canal at Sallins

A sports fan, and especially Gaelic games, in 2003 I was part of the first adult hurling team fielded by Sallins GAA in nearly twenty years. Whilst I have since hung up my boots, I consider hurling a sport without equal in terms of skill levels and pace of the action. I also play the odd round at Bodenstown Golf Club whilst being partial to the Gee Gees is almost mandatory around these parts.

I enjoy cooking and, with a young family, a simple meal at home with good wine and good produce, locally sourced if possible, forms the mainstay of many a weekend. In fact I’ve a leg of lamb in the oven as I type, generously sprinkled with rosemary and garlic (perhaps too generously but blame the kids:)

In the day job I’m a Technical Architect where I design computer systems to basically make sure they do what they’re supposed to do. Being interested in almost every subject in school, I followed a scientific route through college and ended up with a B.A. in Mathematics and an M.Sc. in computing, both from Trinity College. History and the arts, I read for pleasure..

Outside the workplace I keep myself busy with political activity through a number of local community groups and through Fianna Fáil. My initial motivation for getting involved was a purist dedication to the Republican cause and a sense of social justice and whilst my policy interests have broadened since I remain passionate on those core beliefs.

My politics remain green (in every sense) but like De Valera, I came to understand that ultimate freedom and is about good governance as much as borders and about enabling the people be the best they can be. On a local level there are many issues where one can achieve immediate results to immediate betterment of ones community. I have worked on many of these in the past and will continue to do so into the future.

In future entries I may share some thoughts on commuting, on local and national governance, on our local environment, on sport, on food, on family and on life in general. Maybe even the odd tip for Punchestown – watch this space!

But for now ….. Slán go fóill…