Island of Saints and Scholars, oh, and Churches, Shrines and Relics

Ireland had an incredibly large and interesting collection of religious shrines, relics, ceremonial and religious artifacts, chalices, crosses, bells, monstrances, reliquaries, books, manuscripts and psalters dating from the arrival of St. Patrick in the fifth century, through the following one thousand years of Christianity. 
In its heyday, in the 9th century, Ireland was churning out books and monks in equal numbers, re-christianising dark-ages Europe 








(see 'How the Irish Saved Civilisation', by Thomas Cahill). 

Unfortunately for us many of the trappings of that immensely rich christian era have not survived to today. We lost a lot of our religious shrines, relics and artifacts when the Vikings raided our monastic settlements in the 9th and 10th centuries. They were plundering for low-hanging fruit and Ireland was an orchard of same for them. While monasteries and abbeys were generally under the protection of the local Irish chieftain or king, there was no natural enemy, save a local dispute and indeed many inter-Irish rivalries resulted in raids that  were focussed on plundering the wealth of our own abbeys and convents, just as the vikings did. 

Some monastic settlements built tall round towers, iconic, pointy-topped, stone towers, perhaps to provide a crows-nest for lookouts to identify raiding parties while still some way off. Other round towers, with their only door situated some thirty feet up the tower, accessible by a retractable ladder, served as safe-houses, immune from attack, providing protection both for the monks and for their treasured objects, which included true treasures, from gem encrusted chalices to richly decorated manuscripts. 


The Vikings were indiscriminate, opportunistic raiders, taking plunder in every form, from portable treasure, to irreplaceable books, to hostages and slaves. Mind you, lest you think we Irish were all saints, many Irish under-lords were no better in their day, striking terror into the villages along the Welsh coast in the 5th and 6th centuries, enslaving their captives, including one rather famous one, St. Patrick.





We lost even more of our ecclesiastical treasure during the reigns of Henry VIII, Elizabeth I, James I and Charles I. Monasteries with their fertile land, fish-filled lakes and brimming coffers became targets for opportunistic soldiers and civil servants in the enforced dissolution of the monasteries, destruction of the mother church and introduction of the new, imposed state-controlled established church, anglicanism.

Then finally, in the late 17th and early 18th century, came the total destruction of the old Irish order and our unique dare I say it, the non-European system of government, alliances and land use, all swept away by the English resulting in the killing of half the population in war and famine, the confiscation at gun-point of all the lands of Ireland, the destruction of the old Irish agricultural system based on cattle,  the enclosure of our fields for cultivation and rent, and finally, he slaughter of the relics, in a systematic and deliberate theft or destruction of the symbols of our christianity, idolatry to the invader, during the Cromwellian and Williamite pogrom, leading to the complete subjugation of Ireland to British Rule, and including the complete proscription of the Catholic religion during the Penal Laws. 




What had survived through the earlier difficult centuries with the help of Irish and Norman patronage, was now swept away entirely, lost forever, our past glory, gone, without trace. Churches allover Ireland burned, stripped of their glass and lead and timbers and carvings. A thousand years of Irish christianity and all that was associated with it, demonised, destroyed, stolen, eradicated.
Yet, despite these incredible odds, some church artifacts have survived, showing us just exactly how incredibly sophisticated and learned were our fore-fathers.

The Book of Kells, The Cross of Cong, the Ardagh Chalice, St. Patrick's Bell, and so many more gloriously executed items that survived, and now define our past relationship with God. Some were plundered, but survived being broken up, or melted down. Some were hidden in churches and homes, protected from destruction, but cosseted from view. Others were lost, perhaps in times of danger or attack, or simply hidden and mislaid. Either way, we are fortunate that so much has survived. We can gaze in awe at the astonishing skill and faith of our forebears. The Derrynaflan Chalice is one amazing example. 

So also is this item below, the Moylough Belt. Moylough, in the southern part of County Sligo, was under the protection and support of the O'Connors, the last high kings of Ireland and a family who more than many, oversaw the creation and ultimate survival of  so much of our church history
Just imagine if you lived in that era. What was Ireland like? Imagine what the people were like? That's the sort of conversation I have with my guests on my Walking Tours of Galway ... and hey, everyday is a school day! (Nah, school was never like this). 

Brian Nolan, Galway Walks - Walking Tours of Galway www.galwaywalks.com or @Galwaywalks on Twitter and Instagram 

The Moylough Belt

"Dating from the 8th century AD, the Moylough belt shrine is one of the great treasures of early Ireland. Fashioned out of bronze and silver, it was found in 1945 by Mr John Towey as he dug turf on his father’s farm at Moylough, Co. Sligo. Slicing through the soft peat, he unexpectedly hit something hard at depth of c. 4 feet below the surface. Presuming it was a large stone, John bent down and cleared away the soil with a small garden trowel. To his amazement, what was revealed was not a stone, but instead, a glistening, metallic object. The Moylough belt shrine had been discovered.

The belt consists of four bronze segments, each of which enclose a strip of plain leather. The bronze sections are richly decorated and are also hinged together, so that the components are flexible. This means that the belt could, if desired, be placed around the waist. Indeed, wear patterns visible on its surface suggest that it was often worn/used.

Each of the bronze segments contain a centrally placed medallion featuring a ‘Celtic cross’, while their ends are further ornamented with panels of stamped silver foil or openwork bronze. The most elaborate decoration is seen on the two front segments, which take the form of a false buckle and buckle plate. These are embellished with silver foil, glass and enamel, as well as animal and bird head motifs.

This beautiful artefact more than likely represents a shrine that was specifically made to encase the leather segments. It is these simple leather strips then, and not the costly casing, that are the real treasure. They were probably associated with a local saint and must have been important relics to have been so richly adorned.

Photos: National Museum of Ireland

Sources

Duignan M.V. in O’Kelly, M. J. 1965 ‘The Belt-Shrine from Moylough, Sligo’ in The Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, Vol. 95, No. 1/2, Papers in Honour of Liam Price.

O Floinn, R. 2003 ‘The Moylough Belt-shrine’ in J. Fenwick (ed.) Lost and Found, discovering Ireland’s past, Wordwell, Bray"

The Emergency

Military ‘attack’ on Loughrea, February 18, 1943. The report in the Connacht Tribune on the 18th of February 1943 reads as follows; "From 2p.m. to 6p.m. on last Sunday, large-scale exercise in which all of the voluntary services of the district took part, were carried out in Loughrea. The town was “attacked” at 3 o’clock from all sides by L.D.F. units from neighbouring villages, while units from the town defended. Incidents arising from these engagements brought the L.S.F. into action and this branch had a busy time dealing with attempted “bank robberies”, “looting of food depots”, etc."

I think this photograph may have been taken on that day the mock invasion 'exercise' took place. 

The photo reminds me of that BBC TV series, 'Dad's Army'. It was taken outside the Court House on the Fair Green, by the lake in Loughrea. It shows the Loughrea LDF, or Local Defence Force, taken some time during 'The Emergency'. The 'Emergency is the Irish euphemism for WW2. Most cars were banned from the roads for the duration of the war. Travel was severely restricted. Food and other necessities such as tobacco and tea were rationed. Men and some women, who did not toe the line or were known firebrands were interned in the Curragh military camp without trial. Strangers, were all treated with suspicion, as potential spies. The army was beefed up and our borders and ports protected. We were at war in all but fact. 
As a country, we Irish tried to stay out of the war, though it waged all around us for 6 years. We remained 'Neutral' during the second world war, mainly because our government under Eamon DeValera could not countenance or stomach the idea of Irish men fighting for the Union Jack, only 20 years after our own war of revolution against the British and then our Civil War, which like all civil wars, was not civil in any way. Suffice it to say, while the Irish love a good fight, this fight (WW2) was not ours. 

Some men from Loughrea went to Northern Ireland or took the boat to England and signed up for military service, and while the country officially vilified them, privately, many Irish people supported or even envied them, despite the danger, they wanted to see an end to Hitler's tyranny and were willing to risk their lives to see that it happened. Loughrea had a history of fighting, having had many men serving in the British regiments in WWI, or engaged in the Volunteers during our war of independence and our civil war. Loughrea even had men volunteering to fight in the Spanish Civil War, on both sides. By 1943, fully half of Loughrea's men-folk were enlisted in the professional Irish Army, or were volunteers in the LDF, the volunteer local defence force (later the FCA). I remember my dad telling me that the LDF group he joined in Tynagh and Duniry placed huge trunks of trees across large fields in the locality to deny the enemy a landing field for aircraft, much to the annoyance of the local farmers. 

All across Ireland LDF men were engaged in making sure that house lights were covered at night so that overflying aircraft would not be able to identify which part of Ireland they were flying over. More were tasked with taking down and hiding all local signposts, or worse, putting them back up in entirely irrelevant places, or pointing them in the wrong direction. They even painted over the names on schools and halls, so that the invaders wouldn't be able to orient themselves in an invasion. Others were keeping watch should aircraft attempt to land, or catching any spies who may have been abroad on the roads at night. It gave folks a sense of being involved...don't forget Europe was at war and though we were neutral, many men felt we should have been involved, on the British side, though a minority were republican and German sympathisers. Thus, by definition, the expected invaders would be Germans, not British. Ironic eh!

Dermot Harrison (RIP) who owned a drapery shop on Main Street in Loughrea, once told me of the night in April 1944 that Loughrea was 'invaded', though this attack was not a planned LDF exercise. 
The LDF in Loughrea only had one 303 Lee Enfield rifle in their 'arsenal', and though a relic from the British army in WWI, it was still a lethal weapon. Some of the LDF men had shotguns and 22 rifles, but there was only one big gun in town, and everyone of the men wanted to be carrying that weapon when the invasion actually happened. Consequently, that sole 303 rifle was rotated amongst the volunteers, passed by rota, from one LDF member to another LDF member each night, to the person who was to be the nightwatch sentry, 'on duty' that night. To add insult to injury, they also only had one clip of five 303 bullets as ammunition for said Lee Enfield, and there were strict instructions from 'on high' that those five bullets should only be fired if the town was in 'mortal danger'. 

And so it came to pass on that April night in 1943 that it was Paddy Bowes' turn to stand guard. (Bowes house is now Beatty's, beside AIB, and formerly Nolan's, my parents home for 50 years). Paddy Bowes was not your average guy, in fact one could say Paddy Bowes was prone to excitement, and certainly not to be trusted with even a toy pistol, not to mind a Lee Enfield Mark III 303 rifle with a range of 2 miles.

Dermot Harrison described to me the absolute shock and terror of being woken from his slumber around 4am by a volley of shots from a few doors up the street, Paddy Bowes's house. It had finally happened, the long threatened German invasion of Ireland had started and Loughrea was in the thick of it. And wouldn't you know it, Paddy Bowes was the lucky man 'on duty' with the 'big gun'. Dermot related to me the thrill he felt, the adrenaline rushing through him as he tripped down the stairs in his under-clothes and out into pitch dark Main Street, ready to do his bit and die for Mother Ireland, or at least surrender gracefully, hopefully the latter.  

Up and down the town the story was the same as the brave, and the not so brave LDF men leapt out of their comfortable Main Street beds, bidding goodbye to their still slumbering wives, while gainfully pulling up trousers and galoisses, and grabbing hurley sticks or broom handles or kitchen knives, before rushing out onto the street as they's been drilled to do, to mount a defense and stop the Nazi invaders in their tracks at the entrance to the town at West Bridge or Bride Street, only to find a wide-eyed Paddy Bowes, in his undershirt, barefoot, still waving the rifle around, and obviously delighted with himself, thumping his chest, totally on a high. 

Men gathered around Paddy on the rapidly filling street, excited, relieved that the danger had passed, leaning into the knot of men, and him telling anyone who'd listen that he'd gotten two of the bastards, shooting one right between the eyes, the other in the back, loosing off the remaining three bullets in the clip, before the third one fled over a gate into the laneway behind Sweeney's hardware. 

"I got them lads, I got them, killed two of them winged another!' A great hurrah from the men, though some were still nervous, still expecting that a squad of German stormtroopers would round Brogan's corner any minute, or worse, a tank and they'd be looking for vengeance, out for blood, all because of trigger-happy Bowes.

Finally some order began to descend. An NCO from the Hibernian Bank arrived on the street, and it was noted by some that like all NCO's, he hadn't been first to answer the call, to risk all for the town. No, he'd waited 'til the worst of the fighting was over before coming to claim the credit, and the rifle!. He cleared a path to the now famous Paddy Bowes and in officer fashion, took the rifle from Paddy's hands. 'I'll take that Bowes, Good man, now, which way did they go, how many did you see, where are the bodies of the two dead Germans?' 

"Germans? Germans? Whaddya mean Germans?
It's cats I shot, not krauts, I shot the bleddy tom cats on McInerney's roof, had me awake all night with their squealing and wailing! Well they won't be doing that again, no-sir-ee ... bang, bang, bang, ya should've seen 'em fly, deadly, jeez I'm buzzin'!' 

Well, I dunno if Paddy Bowes is in that old LDF photo or not, but if he is, then it was definitely pre-April 1944.

Photo credit to Laurence Smyth for the LDF photo via Loughrea Memories on Facebook. 

The Dead, Love, Loss and Licence.

Michael Furey's burial place is immortalised in the last lines of James Joyce's short story, 'The Dead'. Michael was Greta Conroy's first love and was the foil for her husband, Gabriel Conroy's jealousy in Joyce's beautifully poignant short story, which was the final story in his first published book of short stories, 'Dubliners'.

Later in her own autobiography, Nora Barnacle (James Joyce's wife), who lived at 4 Bowling Green, opposite St. Nicholas Church, mentioned her first teenage crush on a young Galway boy, Michael Bodkin, who died on the 11th February 1900 of 'consumption' or 'TB' in the Galway Fever Hospital, in what later became 'The Men's Club' in NUIG and is now the 'Centre for Global Women's Studies'.

Michael Bodkin is buried in the family vault Rahoon Cemetery and there is a plaque to this connection there, and Joyce's poem, 'She Weeps over Rahoon'. There was a plaque at Richardson's Pub on Eyre Square, beside which, in a small sweet shop on Prospect Hill, he had lived and where Nora visited him. He was older than her and probably blissfully aware of her interest in him, but nonetheless, Joyce personified this young love between Nora and Michael Bodkin in the strained relationship he so perfectly described in 'The Dead', between the fictionalised, but easily recognisable, Greta Conroy and Michael Joyce.

These final lines refer to a grave in Oughterard, where Nora's father was buried, having long been estranged from her mother in Bowling Green. Joyce loved the song 'The Lass of Aughrim', having heard Nora Barnacle's mum sing it in the little house on Bowling Greet in 1909, and that song, tellingly also appears in 'The Dead', so typical of Joyce to turn the knife, again and again. Have a listen to these last lines from 'The Dead', it's very short and very beautiful and James Joyce and Nora Barnacle's own relationship, and their relationship with Dublin, Galway and Ireland are resonated in every line.

The last Lines of 'The Dead' .... see https://youtu.be/A_-KlGCSCJE

The ghost 'lady' of Long Walk, Galway

The ghost 'lady' of Long Walk. 
In October 2012, the Galway Independent (another Galway ghost newspaper) reported that photographer Jonathan Curran was “freaked” when he noticed he'd captured the image of a lady in a cloak when taking photographs of the end of Long Walk (beside where the mud-dock is). He took 12 other pictures and the ghost 'nun' did not appear in any of them, just in the one photo. The long Walk, he decides, was 'haunted'!

Since then the 'paranormalists' in the city have debunked the photo, rounding on the photographer for his ghostly photo-shop stunt. But was he trying to pull the wool over our eyes, or did he actually inadvertently capture the spectral image of a woman from another ear. 

That is what our ancestors believe that 'Samhain' was all about, where spirits could slip through the crack between the fabric joint at the end of the old year, where it met the beginning of the new year. Could the spirit have been seen through this ethereal tear between the two years, just for one split second, becoming visible to us humans, and the photographer, a glimpse of the otherworld, that parallels ours, a continuous, perpetual reliving of our world, and theirs, with occasional glimpses of one from the other? Who knows, maybe that is what ghosts are, faint and random glimpses from their timezone to ours, from another life, a parallel, and previous one, where the cracks have appeared in their zone, and through the cracks we catch a glimpse, the ghostly images we see sometimes reported,especially at Halloween. 

Whatever this photo is, the garb she is wearing is unmistakably a Kinsale or Kerry or Galway cloak, which were worn by Irish women, to cover their indoor clothes, protecting them from the dust and dirt of 19th century Ireland, and providing them with shelter from the weather and perhaps a bit of anonymity too, especially if she'd prefer to remain out of sight, unrecognised, given the male-dominated nature of our society two hundred years ago, much as a burqa or hijab provides to women in the more closed muslim society today. 

Was this a ghost, or a fake? If it was a ghost was she a victim, or just a phantom? Was she drowned, murdered, a suicide, an accident, or was she simply slipping out of her 19th century cottage to enjoy the tidal effect on the constant in our world and her's, in Galway, the river Corrib? 

I guess we will never know. 

With thanks to Alan Micheal Fahy and Galway Memories for prompting this story. Galway Walks, Walking Tours of Galway. Haunted Tours. Ghost Tours. Horrible History Tours.

Pádraic Ó Conaire

Pádraic Ó Conaire, 
(28 February 1882 – 6 October 1928), was only 46 when he died suddenly in Dublin while visiting his employer, The Gaelic League. Born in his father's house, a bar on the docks in Galway, he was orphaned by age 11 and moved to his uncle's house in Rosmuc where he became fluent in Irish. He moved to London in 1899 and started writing in the Irish language there. He married, had 4 children and moved back to Galway in 1914, writing many books and stories, he was perhaps the first modern writer of fiction in Irish. The then Taoiseach Eamon De Valera had the first statue of him erected in Eyre Square in 1935, which was removed for safety to the Galway museum some 15 years ago after being decapitated by some over-friendly students, and was only replaced by the new green statue in the square two years ago. 


I missed his exact anniversary, 6 October, but wanted to mark this largely forgotten Galway writer's 91st anniversary with a post and a few photos. I must confess, I never warmed to the few pieces of his huge trove to work that I read in my student days, but perhaps I will revisit and try again. He lived for a short while in Salthill, roughly where The Nest is located now. He is settled into the square now, though sometimes I think he is pining for the two cannons that used to flank his old statue in the square, but now grace the lawn in front of City Hall today, neither frightening our politicians, city civil servants, nor even wayward Connacht supporters! I think they'd look great planted either side of him, protecting his flanks, painted the same verdis green, they might perhaps scare away the students, and the drug-dealers and make a rather unique, heroic tryphich! 

A paean for the forgotten.

'Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered'

Yes, if they move the cannons back, I promise to read all of Padraic's books. 
Deal?

With apologies to Alfred Lord Tennyson.

Greyhounds, ghosts, and things that go bump in the night

Fabulous photo - Great context. 

I saw this photo on the Facebook page 'Mount Talbot - A Journey through the ages'. It totally piqued my interest for one reason... Ghosts!

'This is and extraordinary photo of Matthew Dolan of Cloonlaughlin, Mount Talbot who was born in 1842. It is not everyday one can see a photo of a person who lived through and survived the Famine in Ireland, the population of Cloonlaughlin was halved as a consequence of the great hunger, the largest drop of any of the townlands in our parish. This photo dates to the 1st or possibly second decade of the 20th century, the dress of Matthew is very different to what was worn even a few years after this time, the suit jacket is longer and a very unique shape, made no doubt by Tailor Kelly of Corrocot. He stands tall and proud, his white beard and large hat hiding a face that had witnessed enormous changes in the country. He lived through the famine, land war, Boer war, the rise and fall of Parnell, the lesser famine of 1892, the Plan of Campaign, the passing of the final Home Rule Bill, World War 1, 1916 Rising and possibly the War of independence and Civil War too. (special thanks to Matthews great grandson John for photo).'

His living memory of the Famine era and the Land League agitation would have been extraordinary. He looked quite the dandy in that three-piece suit. The waist-coat looks quite contrasting. The long swallow-tail coat style is unusual. Ironically, just such a coat was described to me by my father in a story he told me about the time a ghost terrorised his greyhound in a stable beside a ruined estate house near Killimor. Turned out that a man had hanged or shot himself, (I disremember which) in that very same stable in the 1880's and his ghost had been seen there many times, ensuring the locals gave it a wide berth. 
My father was teaching in Raheen, between Killimor and Lawrencetown in 1938, staying in 'digs' in Killimor and had just started kennelling his greyhound (which he raced in Galway) in the old two-storey stable, at very little cost!. He couldn't understand why the dog was off form and one winter's evening he went down to walk and feed the dog after teaching school. He described how after galloping the dog on a misty evening, in the fading light, he was drying and brushing the dog before locking him up for the night. 
He was just brushing the dog's hind-quarters, when the dog became terrified, backing into a corner whimpering. He looked around to see an old man, 'dressed in an old-fashioned swallow-tailed, frock-coat, hat and breeches' raising a stick and coming down the stairs towards him. Needless to say, he wasted no time running for the door, followed by the dog, and no doubt the ghost. He never went back there, but he told me that story maybe twice over fifty years. Until now I was picturing a gentleman, in a dress suit, with swallow-tail dinner jacket, but now I see that it was the style for the country folk. 
You see, even in folk-memory there are little telling details that substantiate or anchor a tale, a minute observation or aside, without which the story could be dismissed as just another story to pass the winter evening around the turf-fire.
And who said there's no such thing as ghosts!

#Ghosts #Ghosttales #Ghosttours #Haunted

If you are on Facebook, you can find my page on 'Galway Walks'  @WalkingtoursofGalway

The cross atop Saint Brendan's Cathedral in Loughrea, County Galway

John Ryan, aka 'big-spit' Ryan, was a farmer with a house on Abbey Street, Loughrea, County Galway, where he milked his cows and had a dairy. I remember one of us going down to the dairy each evening in the early sixties for a pail of milk, with the cream floating on the top, still warm from the cows' udders. That was before Morgan's Dairy delivered a dozen milk bottles daily to our door.

John Ryan's farm was roughly where the Supermarket complex stands now I think, on the Athenry road. John was a great friend of my dad's. He'd wander up to our house late at night for a chat at the fire, tamping his pipe out on the Aga, much to the annoyance of my mother. I remember his big hat on his knee, the plumes and smell of the tobacco smoke and him spitting into the fire, thus the nick-name, I suppose. He told tales of old Loughrea, about the Land League and the faction fights and the elections and the 1916 Rebellion and the Black and Tans.

He told dad about being hired with his horse and cart, carting the thousands of old glass negatives from the old Loughrea Printers (Kelly's The Printers on Main Street), out to the Yellow Bog to be dumped. They'd been printing local newsletters and pamphlets back as early as 1790,

Can you imagine the history he saw destroyed?

I don't know when John Ryan was born, but Dad said he'd gotten married on the same day Alcock and Brown flew across the Atlantic, and crash landed in Clifden, so that would be 1919, so let's say he was born around 1890.

During one of his visits to our house he described the raising of this huge iron cross that sits atop St. Brendan's Cathedral in Loughrea to my late father Dermot Nolan, probably sometime in the early sixties before John died. Dad related it to me on one of the many long radio-less car journeys we did those days driving greyhounds to dog-tracks all over the country, usually to lose, and then drive back again, listening to more stories. I wish I'd listened better.

The cross, which is over 14 feet tall, was designed by William Scott, who designed much of the wrought ironwork in Saint Brendan's Cathedral. Probably cast in several pieces in Dublin, the cross was assembled in front of the cathedral, most likely using Scully's Forge where the crane is, as the workshop, to do the final riveting and welding.

Here is the story, as best I remember my father telling it to me, as a child, just as John Ryan had told it to him.
I don't say it's entirely true, but I am sure it has some truth in it.

The year was 1901, so John Ryan was probably eleven or twelve, just a boy, but this was an historic moment and he took it all in.

By 1901, the stonework of the spire had just been completed and the builders needed to have the cross installed before the elaborate wooden scaffolding could be removed.

They also needed the cross installed in order for the lightning rod to be affixed, (you can see the lightning rod cable in the photo, it runs all the way to the top of the cross) before any lightning strike could do damage to the unprotected building.

John Ryan's story went something like this;

'It took 16 horses, huge draught horses, tied off in four teams of four to haul the rope cable that lifted the cross from the ground to the top of the spire. They had a scaffold up there, up on the spire, with a pulley, high up above the spud-stone that's up there, at the base of the cross. It was another thirty feet taller than that.

The cable went from the cross, through the pulley, and back down again, to a spot outside Scully's Blacksmiths, where the horses were hooked up to the harness.

With lots of urging from their teamsters, the four horse teams began pulling, slowly and carefully, straining at the huge weight of the enormous iron cross. They were almost at John Hanafin's house (the doctors surgery with the steps and railings on Main Street) by the time the cross reached the top of the scaffolding, and then, while the men on top man-handled the heavy iron cross over the spire, they had to back, back, back-up the horse teams ever so slowly, easing the slack on the rope, with shouts and signals from the men on top of the spire, to the men below, and then more shouts along the line to the men in charge of the teams of horses.

Back and forth, the horses straining, back a bit, back a bit more, hold it, hold it, forward a bit, too much, back a bit more. It took what seemed like hours and it was very dangerous. If something went wrong, or a rope or harness snapped, someone could be hurt or even killed.

There were cables on the far side of the spire too, to counteract the pull of the horses. Nothing was left to chance. There were hundreds of people watching, from a distance, being kept back by the police and the military who had been called in to help. Children were running everywhere and the excitement was contagious.

The gentry and their ladies were there too, watching and marvelling at the sight. It was like the Horse Races at Knockbarron, there were that many people in town!

The priests and the bishop were there too as the cross was their pride and joy and it would soon dominate Loughrea's tallest houses and the Protestant church too.

Slowly they eased the long base of the cross down, down into the hole in the spud-stone at the apex of the spire, and once it was settled in, everyone waited while the cross was levelled, and bolted onto the huge wooden beam inside the spire, and others, using special wedges and molten lead, fixed the cross permanently in place, where it still stands today... a great day for Loughrea!'

Imagine!

PS. Thanks to Larry Morgan for letting me use his beautiful close-up photo of the cross on the spire that reminded me of all this 'history' or whatever one might call these Loughrea memories. St. Brendan's Cathedral, is in Loughrea County Galway. It is a treasure trove of Celtic Revival art, stone and wood carving, stain glass windows and architecture. There is also a museum open to the public daily showcasing unique Church and local history.

My Walking Tours are generally in Galway city but I am happy to walk you around my home-town, Louhgrea, anytime, or indeed around Connemara and the Burren too.