Out and about in Cork with Old Cork - and some other guys (October ’19)

Episode 1.

Perhaps our first meeting with the bus driver might have been better handled.  Actually, if the driver had paid attention it might have been worse. He was waiting for our party outside Cork Airport in appalling weather and so we had to rush the gear into the bus without much opportunity for small talk. He introduced himself to El Presidente and as we settled down in our seats for the 6km drive in the semi-dark to the town centre the President told us the drivers name was Jean.

“Must be a French bloke” thought the Wing Centre, knowing that the President hadn’t paid much attention to Mrs Muirhead in the French Class back in the day and so could be forgiven for the pronunciation. Some of the others were a little doubtful.

“That’s a lassie’s name where we come from” said another of the fellow travellers which was quite a witty remark but probably would not have been made-though its wasn’t very loud-had some drink not have been taken earlier in the pilgrimage. Whether the driver heard the comment or not what is true is that he switched on his intercom and said “Welcome aboard McCarthy’s Bus.” There followed some rules and regulations about respecting the bus which would be with us for a day or two - and then he introduced himself thus.” My name is Eugene - but you can call me Gene - and I’ll be looking out for you.”  He wasn’t to know he needed to.

So there we were back in Ireland - first time for a while. But then again it is instructive to remember that Glenurquhart Shinty Club has strong ties with Ireland - so we like to think. However, while individual players including the girls have made trips across the Irish sea as members of international squads at various levels, the Club had not been across since 2006 when we made it to Dublin to clash with Whitehall Colmcille.

We ended up in Cork not because we were making a pilgrimage to the birth place of Roy Keane nor indeed even of Michael Collins (everyone knows Michael Collins but you can google up Roy Keane) because Neale Reid’s big brother Stuart is actually coaching a GAA club in the nearby town of Bandon and through him the invitations went out to the lads - and with the lads came some of the elderly and curious. Amongst them were numbered the Treasurer, Old Cork, the Women’s Manager (useful fellow to have on a lads’ trip) Old Ali Mac and Davie S. Why we all ended up on the trip remains as yet unclear but it turned out not so bad.

Now there are two parts to every shinty trip to the Emerald Isle: there is the dealing with the local culture - in Cork that meant dealing with the Slovenian desk girls and the Greek barmen - and of course the games themselves. Always the first gets in the way of the actual games. The first issue was breakfasting the next morning. 

The grub had been pre-paid for but that was difficult to prove. The Treasurer wasn’t much good because he deleted the whole WhatsApp Group with the vouchers included on them but old Cork managed to pull off a feat of technical wizardry and with a flick of his finger the nice but resolute Slovenian lady had the required authority and we were released into the breakfast room to make sport with a full Irish - which is the same as a full Scottish without the haggis.   

 

The day had been well mapped out: free morning then the Jameson Distillery and the Dogs. Such must have been based on the template for preparing for sporting fixtures as organised by the SFA circa 1974. Whatever - while some went for a walk and others to watch rugby in congenial surroundings the Wing Centre took a trip to the Crawford Art Gallery which is worth a trip for the culturally inclined. It is interesting in that in amongst the portraits of Anglo-Irish toffs from the 18^th & 19^th century, the romantic landscapes and the other stuff there were some treasures that make you realise you are in a different place. 

Entitled “The Men of the South” it shows a party of men in a “shooting brake”-the word shooting is used advisedly. In Ireland this is an iconic painting. The subjects are men from an IRA Flying Column during the Irish War of Independence (also known as the Anglo-Irish War). The men who sat for the portrait belonged to the 2nd Cork Brigade and they travelled to Dublin during a Truce to sit for artist Sean Keating.

Off then to the English Market which was filled with German and Japanese tourists - and while taking a coffee at a counter I was joined by a local man who was keen to strike up a conversation presumably because the Wing Centre was the only local looking chap there – and he was wearing a green anorak to blend in. He told me he was a Mr Crowley which meant “fierce warrior” in Irish. I agreed and told him to his face that he looked very fierce -though not really as fierce as the guys in the painting which I did not say. Nor did I tell him that the only Crowley I had ever heard about was Aleister Crowley the crazy occultist, and dabbler in black magician who owned Boleskine House back in the day and presumably fixed it with Satan for Boleskine to win Sutherland Cups in 1964 and 1966.

However Mr Crowley from Cork seemed a pleasant fellow - he turned out to be an optician on his dinner break and he proved his professional worth by pointing out that “the spectacles that yourself is wearing are in need of a polish” and in fact he duly polished them which allowed the Wing Centre to find his way towards the Welcome Inn in Parnell Place where the squad had promised to gather for a pint. 

There they all were standing in the pavement getting ready to go on to visit the Jameson Distillery when a random punter came up to the party and shouted, “You lot are sh***. Kinlochshiel are much better” which wasn’t true even in Ireland.

“Come over here and say that to my face” said Old Cork.

But the guy trotted off down the side of the river- and was never seen again. It was an Irish experience for which there is no explanation other that that he was a MacGrath.

In Episode 2 we visit the Jameson Distillery and go to the Dogs.

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