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

I think the fundamental premise is very true, that FB communications have become degraded due to the sheer volume of often unimportant traffic. How to sort the wheat from the chaff?

Worth a read:

http://www.jonworth.eu/facebook-isn%e2%80%99t-working/

This year I feature in two categories, this blog is in under ‘Best blog by a politician’ which I quite like as before I was lumped in with ‘political blogs’ which was good company sure, but difficult on a competitive level where the categories differed subtly. Some were dedicated commentators and analysts (including some professional journalists) and others were trying to knock out a few words when time permitted to give a local heads up. So the new category makes sense and is better suited here.

During the past year I also joined the team at IrishElection.com which is a previous multi-award winner and I would like to think their new recruit’s alternate analysis and keen counterpoint to the anti-establishment bias gives them a more complete portfolio and may even nudge the award back into the IE camp again. This time with me joining them in the winners’ enclosure of course

Full list of nominations and categories here:

http://awards.ie/blogawards/2010/02/20/2010-irish-blog-awards-nominations/

This post stems from a discussion in the comments section under ‘All politics is local’. We were comparing and contrasting the UK and Irish systems in terms of how rooted politicians must be within their local constituencies. I think there is significant difference between the two jurisdictions, to some degree due to FPTP (First Past The Post) but also due to population sizes.

The system in UK will often see ‘heavy hitters’ or party favourites being positioned within safe seat constituencies to be assured of election. This can mean that Ministers for example are relatively free to concentrate on national matters, whilst a local party machine gets on with the ground work. The constituency being either red or blue (or sometimes yellow) is more or less taken for granted as a loyal stronghold in any event.

Similarly party HQs (Lab and Cons) will often operate a list system, where aspirants are on a waiting list, and are then slotted into various constituencies as seats become available. The link between ‘home turf’ of the constituency and the representatives is far more tenous than here. Whilst there are cases like the Prime Minister himself, who is a passionate and proud son of his Kirkcaldy constituency, his predecessor Blair had never set foot in Sedgefieldprior to the by-election. Also, due to the sheer size of parliament and the country, by elections come up so often that these more mobile candidates seldom have to wait too long to find a suitable opening. In fact, in the UK system, what is sometimes done is that new candidates will be ‘blooded’ in a ‘no hope’ constituency where a seat of the opposite colour comes up, before been given a real crack at a safe seat of their own. Tony Blair was ran in a Tory stronghold (Beaconsfield), purely for campaign experience before being allowed a proper go of it in the Labour seat of Sedgefield. What this does mean in practice is that the party convention is the real election rather than the public vote.

In Ireland opportunties really only come up, once every couple of years, if even, with Council being a ususal prerequisite for a Dáil run, and whilst ocassionaly parachute celebrities feature, generally the candidate will be rooted very deeply within that particular geographic area before even being considered a viable runner. The idea of party favourites flitting from one constituency to the next would be unlikely to work well within the Irish electoral context. The likes of Mary Lou or even Joe Higgins demonstrate that some mobility is possible around the Dublin (or possibly Cork) city constituencies but it is still unlikely to succeed outside those large urban centres. Within the Irish system, the situation remains that having a large local network cemented around a particular area remains the formula for electoral success.

Interestingly both jurisdictions, despite the different approaches and voting methods (FPTP and PR), have produced similar results. The parties all end up chasing the middle, that all important and much sought after floating voters of the centre ground. In the UK with so many seats a foregone conclusion in either direction, the real battle is after the handful of centre lying ’swing’ constituencies. Whilst in Ireland despite a widely differing system, in the form or porportinoal representation, the centre ground is also chased to attract those all important transfers. Then in the US we end up with RINOs and ModDems (alignments within the parties almost closer to the opposite side). Maybe the perfect electoral system is still a work in progress.

http://www.irishelection.com/2010/01/highs-and-lows-2009/

Quite a few comments and discussion if you want to drop by there.

There was going to be a challenge from the start in rallying public support for a mass campaign of protest and unrest, as the anger of earlier months had begun, in many quarters at least, to morph into a kind of bitter acceptance and grim reality.

Whatever the ghosts of the past, the ghost of times present needed to dole out the harshest medicine if we were to dream of seeing the ghost of times future at all. As Bord Snip author, McCarthy himself, opined so succintly, “the government hasn’t run out of compassion, it’s run out of money”. With almost eighty percent of public spending divided almost evenly between public sector wage bill and welfare payments, and four billion in savings to be found, well something had to give.

So for the unions it was always a delicate course to steer a populist earlier anger into a cohesive and longer lasting chorus of dissent. And more importantly to bring to bear a real, actual influence on events by proposing tangible alternative solutions. We saw in the NAMA debate how naysayers became derailed through too broad a coalition of interests and most damningly lack of a credible alternative.

It seems what hope the good ship union had of navigating the storm has now been fatally becalmed by various utterances and admissions of the past few days. Last night’s RTE FrontLine witnessed a truly cringeworthy performance from SIPTU’s Jack O’Conor where he bluffed and blustered and became quite belligerent at times, whilst it became apparent he had no real plan, ace or even jack (excuse the pun) up his sleeve to provide alternate means of addressing the acknowledged shortfalls. It is common place to hear politicians weave around the question and offer platitudes in place of plain speaking but Mr. O’Conor acted as though he was on a pub bar stool and not on a national TV show with a co panel, live audience and hundreds thousands more at home. Despite a growing petulance and repeated protestations to “listen to what he was saying” noone in fact seemed anywhere near the wiser when he was finished.

The chestnut again of who exactly are “the most vulnerable in society” saw some cold figures poured over it as a (welcome new face) tax lawyer ‘did the math’ outlining how a 75% tax rate on couples jointly assessed at €75,000 combined income would be the reality of an enforced effort to secure the required savings in taxation measures alone. The much loved but sadly vapid solution “Tax the rich” really depends on who the rich are. When one man’s “rich” turn out to be another man’s “vulnerable” then we really have gone full circle and we begin to run out of grass. There just aren’t enough “really rich” people left in the country to go around. What loopholes remained have largely been closed already whilst the demise of the celtic tiger has largely put paid to many of the rest. To make it worthwhile any taxation measures would have to apply at a level that massively disincentives labour and has a possibly far more putative effect on the self same masses than a public pay cut would lead to in the first place.

Peter McLoone appears to privately concede reality in this morning’s leaked memo, when despite his colleague O’Connors obfuscation, it transpires that reducing the public pay bill really is a simple question of cutting jobs or cutting pay.

The Unions really are on rocky shores also with the “not our fault” mantra having had a seat at the top table right through the boom years. They often appeared to exert more influence than many back benchers and at the height of it even first mate McCreevy was dispatched to Brussels as not profligate enough for the required ’social justice’ creed that partnership sought at high tide.

But after too many late night’s supping rum at the captain’s table, it is time to shrug off the hangover and grab an oar like everyone else. A rising tide lifted all boats once but now it is time to pull together or face the ocean floor alone.

(This article also appears under my contributions at IrishElection.com)

Sometimes I’ll cross post, sometimes I won’t depends on the topic. This weekend, it’s a bit of fun, Halloween scare the (big) kids kind of stuff, check out my latest post here – http://www.irishelection.com/2009/11/could-fianna-fail-be-the-john-and-edward-of-irish-politics/

So I’m making an appeal. If you like this blog or if it provokes you in any way please say so.  Just try leaving a comment after you read a post. Tell your friends, spread the word. Lionise or lacerate, your choice.  But either way I’d love to hear your views..

PS To those of you who already comment thankyou it is much appreciated.

Here’s the updated version : http://jameslawless.ie/about-2/

Anyway I’ve digressed but my original message was to say whilst I haven’t been posting (blog wise) a lot lately, I’ve been busy over on twitter which to be honest is a whole lot easier than writing a full article. So for anyone interested you’ll find me over here in between blog posts…

PS Our former leader (Bertie Ahern TD) begins his News of the World column tomorrow, and whatever about apple tarts, the man knows his sport. Might even pick up a copy as my usual business post is sadly lacking in the green field department..