A Bloomin' Book

When my cousin Raymond Murray was asked way back in 1975 by John K**** (our tearaway, black sheep of a cousin) who his favourite cousin was, he told him. And he told him straight: 'Adrianne'.

Roscommon July 2015. L-R, John M, Adrianne, Suzie, Raymond

K**** was crestfallen: 'Adri-fackin'-anne? She's a fackin' girl.' Indeed she is. I, however, was never asked this question as a boy. If I had, I would have said Raymond. Though Adrianne would certainly have been on the podium too. Anyway, it's all immaterial now. I'm in my fifties and love Raymond, Suzie and Adrianne in equal measure. I probably told them as much last weekend. As for K****, he was a wrong 'un. He fell off the radar many moons ago and these days will either be inside or underground.

In 1975, Raymond kept a book. And in this book he transcribed every Top 40 singles chart rundown as broadcast by Johnnie Walker on Radio 1. This would have been on a Tuesday lunchtime when chart positions were everything and Radio 1 was still broadcasting on 247 meters on the medium wave.

I saw this book for only the second time last weekend and it was spellbinding. The level of detail that has gone into it is quite staggering. There's even a (very early) cloud showing every group, every artist, every novelty act who made the chart between 1 January & 31 December. It is indeed an historical document.

Or, depending on your standpoint, just a bloomin' book.

We only steal them

Beer by Black Donkey (legs c/o Suzie Medhurst)

In the 18th century the good folk of Roscommon (Rossies) would raid their neighbours in East Galway and steal their sheep. No big deal; I can think of worse sheep related crimes.

Fast forward 200+ years and, as part of the burgeoning craft beer scene in Ireland, Black Donkey Brewing are commemorating this ancient pastime with a sensational beer called, you guessed it, Sheep Stealer. On the pilgrimage to our maternal grandmother's home last weekend (a weekend filled with joy and sadness), a number of these bad boys were consumed.

A big thank you to Gleeson's for making our stay both a memorable and poignant one.

The McNamaras are coming (back)

'Roscommon' acrylic on canvas

Later this year I shall be making an emotional return to Roscommon. From being a babe in arms to a stroppy teenager, I and the rest of the Medds went on an annual pilgrimage across The Irish Sea to my maternal grandmother's year after year after year. And for the first fifteen of those summers I had a blast. But by 1977 I'd had enough. So much so that two days into the vacation and I baled: a quick 'phone call to my favourite Auntie north of the border and I was travelling, alone, on a bus through 'the troubles' and spent the rest of the fortnight in Lurgan, Co. Armagh. Happy days.
  But now, I want to go back. See the old place again. Will it have changed? Probably. Will I recognise the place? Definitely. Will I be able to take a walk down to Hessions and grab myself an ice cream wafer. Alas, no: Cyril Hession, like the lone Texaco petrol pump on his forecourt, is long gone.
  My cousin Raymond, who will be joining us on our quest, sent an email to the local rag ahead of the trip. I'm not expecting a ticker-tape reception, but a pint of the black stuff with their reporter & toggy would be nice. Here's what Ray had to say.


I am Raymond Murray, son of Aidan Murray (born 1934, Ballyleague) and Carmel McNamara (born 1936, Strokestown). My mother’s family moved to Ard-na-Greine in Roscommon town around 1940. My grandfather was Sergeant Joe McNamara, my grandmother, Mary (Maxie), nee Lynch from Donegal. They produced 14 children, Sean, Phyllis, Gerry, Joe, Myra, all deceased, and Mabel, Olive, Dolores, Carmel, Paddy, Adrian, Noel, Bernie and Stella. 

My granny may well be remembered by many still living in the town. She was a renowned golfer and a tremendous consumer of a product called Jameson’s Whiskey. You may have heard of it! My aunt Stella (Finnerty) has lived locally in Knockcroghery for 40+ years, a couple of doors down from the great Jamesie Murray’s pub. As you know, in the 1950s work was hard to come by in rural Ireland, with many having to go overseas to support themselves. 

My parents moved to London in 1953, returning to marry on 5th August 1957, before returning to England until 1968. We now live in Lurgan in County Armagh. Several of my mother’s sisters also moved and settled in England and live there to this day. As separate families, the various McNamaras travelled from parts of England to visit Ard-na-Greine each summer, but often our paths would cross as we squeezed into granny’s three bedroom house. As is normal, you veer towards those of your own age. So John Medd (born 1960. son of Dolores), Adrianne Stone (born 1959, daughter of Mabel), Susan Medhurst (born 1959, daughter of Olive) and myself (born 1959) formed special bonds. 

Memories of ice-cream from Cyril Hession’s shop opposite the county hospital; what seemed like very hot summers spent at Portrunny on the Shannon in the pre-sunscreen days of old; and the occasional night out to Con Moran’s pub or the Kon-Tiki near Rooskey to hear the soon to be famous Brendan Shine. Then life took over…..we grew up, we married, had children, did what people do….and drifted apart. John, Adrianne and Susan remain in England, but let’s not penalise them for that. We did, after all, thump them at rugby quite recently. But with many of our domestic commitments now fulfilled, and with luck having smiled on us, we have recently rekindled our friendships. We had a wonderful gathering in Lurgan in 2013, but always felt that a visit to Roscommon town would be a fitting way to seal our reunion. It is now 40 years since we spent a summer together in your town……and it’s been too long. Flights are booked, cars are hired and the four of us are staying in Gleeson’s on Saturday 4th July along with our wives and husbands. The girls have husbands, the boys have wives. (It’s not something you would have thought necessary to mention in the 1960’s but the times they are a changing). We hope to visit some of the afore-mentioned places and perhaps pay a tribute to Jameson’s, which killed my poor granny at the age of 93. Legal proceedings are ongoing. I hope this story is of interest to you.

They do things differently there

Just lately I feel like a character in a Samuel Beckett play. I'm surrounded by the past: instead of it being something I look at occasionally in the rear view mirror, it’s coming right at me. I've had long lost relatives coming out of stasis, finding me via social networking sites and, since moving house, I've discovered that my next door neighbour and I share links to friendship circles going way back. And don't get me started on the photographs I've come across; photographs that purport to be me. Really? I was that young? And I've even got Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep as an Earworm.

But most recently I've been getting flashbacks of childhood summer holidays spent in Ireland - including vivid, high definition, room by room dreams of my grandma’s house in Co. Roscommon. I couldn’t get the images out of my head; so a couple of weeks ago I Googled the town and the street where she lived. What happened next should be filed under ‘s’ for spooky: the house had just been put on the market. One click was all it took and I was being given a virtual room by room tour on the Estate Agent's website. Just like in my dreams.

To those looking for a profound final paragraph asking what all this means and demanding a compact summary of what this says about the state of my head at the moment, you've come to the wrong place. Regular readers will know I'm neither cut out to give such erudite summations and nor would I want to. Regular readers will also know that, truth be known, if I could go back and live in 1972 you wouldn't see me for glitter dust.