Standby for a big day out.

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions as they say and it is certainly as true of my blog writing as it was of my well-intentioned efforts to keep up with tips / reviews when I was writing for the wonderful Virtual Tourist. Nine days without a peep out of me although up until the 23rd there was damn all to report with the little there is will follow here shortly. I do hope you like images of fried breakfasts!

15th July – nothing to report. Fry-up (didn’t even take an image), visited Father in the nursing home, couple of pints and then home for an evening of documentaries (mostly Food Network, which I love) and then bed for a read. I managed to read eight books in the month I was there.

16h July – ditto. As we used to say in the Forces when asked for our hourly Sitrep (situation report) – “All Quiet, nothing to report” which leads me in one of my all too frequent rambles to exhort you to read the book “All quiet on the Western front” by Erich Maria Remarque, himself a German WW1 veteran. It is a very powerful work about the horror and sheer bloody (I use the word in it’s proper sense here) futility of that War, or any war for that matter. It has been adapted for film and TV and somehow this apparently random thought seems to fit in seamlessly with the rest of my writings about this trip, many of which seem to have been hung on the First World War in one way or another.

17th July – more of the same which I won’t bore you with.

I was rather proud of this.

18th July and at least I have a do have some images here to bore you with for this day. That brunch was put on the table just after 1300 which is about my normal time for eating. I just cannot eat for several hours after I wake, no matter what time that may be but a plate like this is my absolute delight and I virtually live on them when I am back in the “old country”. Yes, I did tart up the presentation a bit for the image, I am like that but I do like to present my food well anyway. Be honest, it looks almost good enough to eat, doesn’t it?


These images are of the War Memorial at the top of the town and I already have dozens of images of it so why take more? It is to do with a newish hobby of mine although it is tangential to something I had been doing for a number of years.

Those that know me and even those who have recently come upon my somewhat demented and incoherent ramblings will know that I have a great love of military history which extends to military graves, War Memorials, Regimental Museums and all the rest.

I do not have a particular period that I specialise in, I love Roman military history, the Crusaders are a particular favourite, medieval knights and all that entails are a joy to me and indeed on my trawl of the numerous charity shops in the London Borough of Havering on my return to London I scored a mint condition book on Eleanor of Aquitaine (look her up, she is some character) for the princely sum (pun absolutely intended) of 50 pence. Moving on chronologically, I have a huge interest in the Peninsular / Napoleonic Wars and again things come round in circles. In the late 18th (Indian campaign etc.) and early 19th centuries (both campaigns mentioned above), over 50% of the “English” Army was composed of Irishmen and good proportion of Scots not far behind. Whilst there were certainly plenty of “stout English yeomen” they were definitely in the minority.

Forward again through the Boer War (further Irish involvement as you shall see shortly) and we come to WW1 which seems to have permeated so much of this trip one way or another. On again and a mere 20 years after the “war to end all wars” although the world was to find out that it wasn’t when Hitler, Mussolini and Hirohito made a bid for world domination like some sort of bad cartel of James Bond vilains.

Again, men from the island of Ireland (it had been partitioned by this time) were to the fore and one of the many books I read back home and as mentioned above, was simply called “Irish Generals” by a guy called Richard Doherty. I think I have mentioned it before and I am not going to go dredging back to check but do check out the book. “Monty”, “The Auk”, Tim Pile (I’ll bet you have not heard of him but look him up as he is an incredible man), Alan Brooke, arguably the best ever commander of the British army ever are all from the tiny island of my birth, there are many more and that is only the Generals! Put in the rank and file including my uncle Tommy, murdered by the Japanese whilst a POW, my aunts Peggy and Maisie who served in the WAAF, my uncle Freddie in the RAF etc. etc. and the contribution becomes massive. I know there are other members of my late Mother’s family who also served but I do not know the details and so will not post speculation here. This is my site and I want to be able to stand by every word I publish. Old-fashioned I know but I am old-fashioned and make no apology for it even in these days when a liberal media controls the country.

Oh dear, I am at it again, I do hope I am not boring you. This first part of the the entry was meant to be a fairly quick whizz through some fairly uneventful days before getting onto the good stuff later on and now look what has happened, it is bloody “War and Peace” all over again. I really must find another literary work to use as an analogy. I am thinking Tolkein’s “Lord of the Rings” perhaps and I am physically restraining myself here from launching into another diatribe about that particular book.

The reason for all this was to tell you about my new “hobby”. For years now I have always taken images of Commonwealth War Graves wherever I have found them in the world. The Commonwealth War Graves Commission (CWGC) is a first class organisation who have catalogued hundreds of thousands of war graves all over the world and photographed many of them which is where my problem came in. Certainly in the British Isles just about every war grave has been photographed and by a team of very professional people (albeit they do not get paid) using excellent equipment. Every grave I photographed on my little battered compact camera had already been done and much better than I could do it. Please do not misunderstand here, I do not visit CWGC sites purely to score brownie points on some imaginary list, I do it because I think it is the right thing to do.

There was always a “sideline” with the CWGC site which was linked in to the Imperial War Museum, another fine institution, and that was the recording of war memorials. Fortunately, the two projects have been separated which makes them more manageable and the War Memorial work has been well funded from various statutory and voluntary bodies. The definition of a war memorial is very broad and again I think they are worthy of cataloguing. Yes, we all know the obelisk standing in the middle of the town or village nearest us and with the names of the fallen inscribed. That is great although there are many issues with it which I will discuss in a future entry.

However, the official IWM definition of a war memorial is much broader and rightly so. Since my return to London I took images of a church hall that constitutes one! You have numerous inscriptions on gravestones e.g. “In memory of Mary and John Smith and also their loving son Francis who was killed in X on Y date and is buried there. Again, a war memorial. Park benches, plaques, tablets in places of worship, books of remembrance in schools, the list goes on. They are all war memorials and whilst I have decided the Graves project does not need my very limited ability, I am good at ferreting out unusual little places, indeed I “discovered” several in a place as grand and well-visited as Armagh (Anglican) Cathedral which you will read about shortly.

Naturally, with my hugely inquisitive nature they all had to be researched and what stories they had to tell. I would encourage you to get involved, it is great fun and a good excuse to visit out of the way places. If you have kids, let them take a pic of the memorial and then go and research it online later (under supervision of course). It is like a treasure hunt for real and will teach them much about war, death, mortality, morality and so much more but I am not going to get into that or we will be here all week! If you do want to play, start here.

Right, am I back to my trip to Northern Ireland again? I think so.

19th – same old same old and so with 20th, 21st and 22nd. Because I had the house to myself I found myself slipping into a very comfortable routine and one that frankly suited me. It surprised me greatly because even a few years ago a couple of weeks back in Northern Ireland would have had me going round the bend as it is so quiet. OK, Belfast is a kicking city and is a major tourist destination now but Tandragee has not changed for years. Maybe I am just getting old and slowing down although I did spend a bit of time sketching out a trip for after Broadstairs Folk Week which I have come back to the mainland for. I am sure most of you know but I am do not lie about it and I shall be 60 before the end of this year. I will speak more of this in my summation in the next entry.
The next few days are a whole load of nothing so I shall skip to the 23rd July which was D-Day (Departure Day) – 1. I knew my brother and sister in law had to go into Armagh for a meeting at lunchtime and then going to visit Dad in the nursing home which is only a couple of miles outside the City so that sounded like a plan.  I could go and have a wander round the City where I lived briefly (for about eight months) and could then get a lift home. Happy days.

I had not set an alarm but I woke up ludicrously early having read until about 0300 but it did not seem to affect me. It was that bloody “Irish Generals” book again, I swear it is a page turner! I had been drinking little (by my standards), eating quite a lot (again by my idiotic standards) and generally sleeping quite well so it must have been doing me some good.

Again, this is a bit of an in joke for those that know me but I even did a bit of gardening. The complete lunacy of this statement will only become apparent when I tell you that I have never lived in a dwelling with a garden I was responsible for in my life although obviously my parents had them. I do not know a rake from a hake, a hoe from a whore (although I believe American urban youth have adopted the word) nor a mower from a molar. As always I consulted the kid brother who had very helpfully trimmed the hedge and mowed the lawn whilst I was there. He knows about these things. Had I started with the hedge trimmers I would undoubtedly have lost a limb, and the lawnmower would have blown up the garage as I filled it! The problem was this.

The route from the front of the house to the back (kitchen) door is covered by a beautiful wooden archway which I love as it is covered with creepers. As well as that, the back path from the kitchen door to the garage where the washing machine and dryer are was being seriously overgrown by an ivy type creeper plant (do not ask me what it is) and which was also slowly covering my Father’s bedroom window. On the other (garden) side was a lovely rose bush with yellow blooms but they were on stalks about four foot long and drooping down over the path. I snagged my trousers on it on several occasions. Having spoken to “The Kid” as I call him (he is 58 years old so hardly a kid any more) and he told me just to savage everything. Father was not there to enjoy the blooms, it was in danger of causing structural damage to the rear wall, it was unsightly etc. I took to it with a will. Sanctioned wanton destruction of beautiful things, what a joy. Let’s be honest, Damien Hirst has made himself a multi-millionaire out of doing just that. It was one of the most satisfying things I have ever done.

I have spoken pretty disparagingly about public transport in Northern Ireland and not without reason, it is utterly appalling and merely there to provide large salaries for the 13 senior executives (see the link below) which is about all I can find out about this disaster of an outfit.

No matter what bus I got from Tandragee to Portadown (scarce enough) I would have a 30 – 40 minute wait for a bus to Armagh. No joined up thinking at all. From Tandragee to Armagh is about 12 miles direct via Richill. It is six miles to central Portadown and then 13.6 miles to Armagh and so a total of over 18 miles. Tell me how that works. You are basically doing two sides of a triangle to suit the whims of whoever owns Translink and, try as I might, I cannot find out where the money actually goes. Obviously, that is the way they want it. The best I can manage is that it is a public corporation and a look here shows that it has 13 “fat cats” all licking the cream whilst steadfastly failing to provide an adequate transport infrastructure. I am seriously considering sending in a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request to see how much these leeches earn.

Every cloud, as they say, has a silver lining and I got a chance to go and take some more photos of memorials I had taken before and also one I had omitted and another that was not there last time I was in Portadown. They are all clustered round St. Mark’s Church at the top of the town and so it was about 200 yards walk from where the bus dropped me and literally the width of a street to get my connection. They are pictured above and are all fairly self-explanatory although I should say that the Church tower is included as the entire structur3 is a memorial to the war dead and the memorial I had previously omitted was the Somme memorial bench as it was not there last time I was taking images there.

The silver lining mentioned was Gaynor’s, a proper little back street cafe just behind St. Marks and it is a true gem. I moved to Portadown from Belfast in 1981 and I am sure it was there then, if not it opened fairly shortly thereafter as it is just part of my “folk memory” of the town. Having used up a few of my minutes photographing the memorials, I did not have time for one of my favourites which is their small fry-up. I said I cannot eat for a long while after I wake and Gaynor’s is tailored for “normal” people so they do huge fries in the morning but there is no way I could do that. I could face it about 1400 but they have moved on to the (excellent) lunch menu by then. If I get in about 1130 off the bus, I can manage the small fry and it is always gorgeous. I shall dig out some very old images here to give you an idea. Obviously they are not as good as my fry-ups but the are a very creditable second! I contented myself with a coffee, sat outside to have a smoke with it and ambled across the road to the bus stop. I noticed that there was very little traffic and I did not even have to go to the pedestrian crossing. Portadown is dying on it’s feet.

Just a word now, and another rant against Translink. Apart from the ridiculous routing, it cost me £2:60 from Tandragee to ortadown and another £3:60 onward to Armagh. If my appalling mathemstics does not desert me, that is £6:20 for a 12 mile “as the crow flies” journey. I’ll let you do the price per mile computations yourself.

I got into Armagh and was deposited in the new bus depot which was certainly not there when I was in the City and I am thinking it was waste ground although that is by no means sure. I took off out of the front gate and headed right. Unless you know the geography of Armagh and the history of the late 20th century in my homeland that will mean nothing to you but in 1981 I would have been heading left. I do not want to make a whole thing of this as far, far too much has been written about it, mostly complete rubbish by people who were not even there, but history is inescapable. Basically turning right took me into an area of the city I would not have been very welcome in back in 1981.


I took myself off up round the Shambles which, if you did not know was an old middle English word for a meat market. The butchers would throw the offal, ribs etc. into the street where the dogs would consume it or they would rot with an appalling stench and now, centuries later, a pre-packed half rack of ribs will set you back a fortune. Funny how things go. I honestly cannot remember if the Shambles Market was operating when I lived in Armagh. As I say, it was not a part of town I went to much in those days although I knew the layout of it enough not to get lost. Whatever my past remembrances of the market building were (I do remember that) I found signs all over the place pointing me towards it. Another urban re-generation stunt obviously as will be proven shortly, but despite hating shopping, I love a market and so in I went. What a disappointment.

The entrance was lovely and rigged out with old artefacts but after that it went to blazes. The majority of the premises to the right was sectioned off and the “working” part to the left consisted of less than a dozen stalls, most of the complete tat variety. Think six cigarette lighters for £1 or ten batteries for £2 and you have it. Rather disturbingly, on a stinking hot July day, one of the largest displays was of ski masks, much beloved of terrorists worldwide, and I was prompted to ask myself why. I have no gripe with the stallholder who is only trying to make a bob to keep a roof over his head but the concept did freak me out a bit in these days when it all supposed to be love and peace in my home country (believe me, it is not, it is just brushed under the carpet to perpetuate the myth).

As always there was a silver lining, good things happen to me although I hardly deserve them. For ages I had been looking for a cigarette rolling box. Yes, I know smoking is stupid not to mention bloody expensive and if anyone who may read this page, which is doubtful, is thinking of having a cigarette then the answer is simple – DON’T. Amongst the numerous ludicrous things I have done in my life, starting smoking (age 11 in 1971 if you must know) ranks way up there on the stupidity list. However, I had my box for a mere £3 and was well pleased with my purchase even if I was sorely disappointed with the market. The images will hopefully give an indication of how tawdry this place is despite the obviously good intentions and additions to the Council Tax of my family.

Onward, ever onward, and I was heading for the Cathedral which I had visited before but wanted another look at. When I say Cathedral in Armagh you may become a little confused as there are two. Just to further complicate the matter they are both called St. Patrick’s due to his alleged association with the city and the Bishops of Armagh (Church of Ireland / Anglican and Roman Catholic) are both regarded as the heads of their religious faiths on the island of Ireland. I believe at time of writing that relations are very good between the two men of the only very marginally differing faiths, and this pleases me. I have seen far too much horror and obscenity perpetrated in the name of religion (it wasn’t) but again we are back to the absurdity that is the place I did not choose to be born in.

So, I was heading for the Anglican Cathedral as I knew there were some military memorials there. Remember I told you about those? Naturally, nothing was going to be simple.

Wandering along in my usual disordered fashion I caught sight of a blue plaque on a totally unremarkable terraced house in Edward Street which I know was not there when I lived in the city. For non-UK readers I should explain the “blue plaque”. It was an idea which started in London as far back as 1866 whereby a building where a famous person had been born, lived or died was commemmorated by a round blue plaque. Notable events involving more than one person are also sometimescommemorated. Other cities, towns and countries have adopted the very worthy principle and this particular example is placed by the Ulster History Circle.

If you are not aware of him, Patrick Magee was a very fine actor who counted Samuel Becket and Harold Pinter amongst his very close personal friends never mind acting in such huge films as Stanley Kubrick’s “Clockwork Orange” (a favourite of mine), “Barry Lyndon”, “Zulu” (another favourite) and the multi-ward winning “Chariots of Fire”. Magee was yet nother flawed Northern Ireland genius (think George Best and Alex Higgins amongst others here) and was a heavy drinker if not a full-blown alcoholic as well as a compulsive gambler. Undoubtedly the former condition contributed to his ridiculously early death from a heart attack at the age of 60.

It was gone 10 in the morning by now and I had arranged to meet my brother and sister in law at about two in the afternoon so I did not have too much time to explore although it had already been a productive day for learning and writing here but there was so much more to come. I am not going to bore regular readers with my usual lecture about how much you can discover even in places you think you know if you just keep your eyes open as you know the story by now.

I kept walking up the hill of which there are seven in Armagh, just like Rome and I think I have walked all of them in both cities. Whilst they are hugely dissimilar in many ways they possibly have more in common than they have differences. They are both ancient sites and of huge importance to the Judeo – Christian faith. I have mentioned the religious significance of Armagh and both are major tourist centres with a wealth of history and although they are poles apart in terms of size they are not so far apart in other respects.

They really are making the effort to attract tourists.

I was musing on this as I made my almost automatic way to the Cathedral, pausing briefly to look at some of the many bright new signboards that seem to have sprung up describing the St. Patrick’s Trail (another innovation since my day) and various other more localised walking routes. There is obviously a bit of money being thrown about in terms of tourism here. It is strange to think that in my lifetime and the brief period I lived there, a “tourist” i.e. stranger would probably have either been beaten up or even  murdered as a potential British agent or just a person of the “wrong” religion.  If they were lucky they would have been politely escorted from the city and sent on their way to somewhere safer for them like Bangor. That is not hyperbole, it is fact. I know as I was there. Things are very much calmer now and I really would encourage anyone who reads this to visit the country of my birth and, if they do, then a visit to Armagh is a must.

There I was, contemplating fairly heavy things, reminiscing about less happy times now past, noting the upturn in the City and getting closer to the Cathedral which you cannot miss as it sits on one of the hilltops and is a fairly impressive building. Although I was not thinking in these terms at the time it was quite a perfect day for me. I was wandering around alone, discovering things I did not know about, revisiting places of my past with a new “hobby” to amuse me and at least the weather was not as evil as it had been and at was not delivering deluges upon my head even if it was not properly summery. I really was enjoying being back even if in nearly a month and with departure the next day I had done next to bugger all. With the Cathedral in sight a few yards away I stopped to take an image of the “old hospital” as it was referred to in my day here which is now a local Government office (planning department I believe) but is a magnificent structure as I hope my image shows.

The old hospital, Armagh.

The building was originally constructed in 1774 to the design of George Ensor but all is not exactly as it seems. In 2015, as part of a highway widening project (I swear I am not making this up), the entire old hospital building was demolished very carefully and then rebuilt, brick by numbered brick, a few feet back. This was part of the legacy project of the old Armach Council before it became subsumed into the new ABC (Armagh, Banbridge and Craigavon) Council and, whilst I rejoice in the saving of this beautiful building I cannot help but wonder if the money, which must have run to millions, might not have been better spent elsewhere. I had no idea of all this at the time and only discovered it whilst researching this piece. In truth, I did not even notice the resiting although, in my defence, it is getting on for 40 years since I lived in Armagh.

With the gates of the Cathedral within spitting distance I noticed another place on my right that I had not looked at properly before. Certainly I had seen the structure but I had no idea what it was. It turns out it is a library and we will come to it later in this increasingly lengthy entry. On into the Cathedral grounds, which I knew pretty well from previous visits but I was on a mission now to look closer and see if I could find any war memorials as defined above. I certainly did that and in the process found a wonderful example of a piece of funerary thinking that I only learned about a couple of years ago, also when I was in Northern Ireland. Take a look at the image above which is the one I originally was interested in as it provided a memorial to Capt. W.A.R. Daly of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers who was killed in the Second World War. It is an addition to the gravestone of his wife although he is buried in Tunisia and thus it qualifies as a war memorial. I added it that night to the War Memorial site so I had done my little bit to increase the knowledge base that I believe so much in.

Look closer now at the image and you will see that the adjacent grave is on a completely different alignment i.e. 180 degrees from that of the Daly plot. What is all that about? I’ll tell you. All the graves were on the same alignment as the Daly plot except this one. You will note that the second grave is that of one Herbert Cassidy who had been a Vicar Choral (i.e. a Minister of religion in charge of the music) in the Cathedral. The thinking runs thus. When you are buried (in that faith), you are buried so you are “looking at” the pulpit /altar and can see and hear the word of God. If you are a cleric, you are buried the other way round as if you were still at the holiest part of the place of worship, facing the congregation and still preaching from beyond the grave, as it were. I found this fascinating when I heard it and was unsure whether to believe it but experience seems to prove it to be true.


I also took more images of the memorial plaque to Brian Boru (Brian Boroimhe in the Gaelic) which again I already had. I went for a wander round the graveyard which did not yield anything more in the way of war memorial items and so I headed into the Cathedral itself. I knew that there was the memorial chapel of the Royal Irish Fusiliers there, which I had previously visited, but I was now looking for a different set of items and was sure I’d find them given the proud military tradition of the County. I wasn’t to be disappointed but I am getting ahead again.

I walked into a completely deserted building which surprised me slightly. This was late morning in what is meant to be the height of the “season” and I was expecting, if not a full coach party then at least a guided small group. Not a chance. The only other soul in the place was the volunteer lady on the desk and naturally, as is my wont, we got to chatting and I was telling her about my military interests. She told me most emphatically that when I was done in the Cathedral I should visit the Museum across the road and even named the particular volunteer who was on duty that day and who she told me had an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things Armagh. Great tip. She was equally insistent that I must visit the library just opposite the front gates which I mentioned above and I duly took all this on board which was to provide huge dividends as you will find out.

The lovely lady then rather apologetically informed me that if I just wanted to look around or pray then there was a charge of £2. I have no problem with that and consider that I had a complete bargain considering what I discovered even on a repeat visit but I am wondering if the reference to praying was merely a slip of the tongue. Even Westminster Cathedral which costs a fortune to visit does not charge genuine worshippers. These are places of worship after all and if you believe the mythology, did not the Jewish rabbi Jesus Christ throw the money lenders etc, out of the precincts of some temple or another? I am sure it was a genuine mistake and if it was not then the obscenely rich Anglican Church wants to sort it out asap.

Memorial to Capt. Turner Macan, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Armagh.

I could not buy a cup of coffee in one of the many coffeeshops that now infest (I use the word advisedly) Armagh, as they do the rest of Europe, inded the world, and my £2 spent here was rightly so as these old buildings take a fortune to maintain.  It was a complete bargain as I said. I had not gone five feet from the desk when I found my first wonder. I have visited many places of worship of all faiths over the years and am glad to have done so. I have seen thousands, if not tens of thousands, of Christian memorials but I cannot recall ever seeing Arabic script on a 19th century marble memorial in an Anglican cathedral. Regrettably I did not take a close up of it and my lamentably abused compact has not provided anything worth cropping but, believe me, it is there. It is on the memorial to Capt. Turner Macan of the Hussars who was “many years Persian interpreter to the Commanders in Chief in India”. I pointed out the Arabic to the lady on the desk who admitted she had ever even noticed it before and she works there! I do not know if the image here will stand up to it but of you want to have a try then the single Arabic word is on the support of the cross / sword (I am still unsure which it is due to the blunt end. I would love to know what it means.

Capt. Macan’s memorial was only the beginning and I took off again on my complete voyage of discovery. Not three feet further long the wall I found my second gem, a memorial to Lt. Kidd of the Royal Navy who died fighting ashore outside Sebastapol in 1855 during the Crimean War. Another stupid and bloody (again in the correct usage of the word) waste of young life. Lt. Kidd was 24. I remember once either reading or hearing a quote which I cannot repeat exactly but was along the lines of “war is a matter of old men sending young men to die for what they want”. Certainly war is a young man’s game and never was a truer word spoken.

This was turning into one fantastic day and I was only about ten feet inside the door of the Cathedral at this point. I was heading for the Fusiliers chapel but found a few other distractions on the way. Regrettably, due to the way the light was shining, my reluctance to use flash and the utterly battered condition of my poor old camera I have no images to assist me in telling you what I saw. My little Canon Ixus has served me well and been halfway round the world but it is about done now. I carry it with me constantly in my jeans pocket without a case and what happens is that the interior of the lens gets gunged up with condensation (in warmer climes) and dust and this one has just about had it. This is my third and I tend to think of them as quite disposable. I shall get another one in the next few days for less than £100 and will get about three years of use out of it which I think is a reasonable return. I tried running with a good DSLR some years ago and it gave great results but it is just so bulky and a pig to carry around.


Back to the Cathedral and I made the Fusiliers chapel, pausing to pay my respects at the Book of Remembrance, a page of which is turned every day. Tragically, it is a very big book. The men of Ulster have certainly paid a huge price in defence of freedom although it is probably true that today’s left-wing media who run the country (yes they do, politicians do not) would describe the brave young men who went to various conflicts as warmongers, babykillers etc. How I wish they would stop to think about how the freedom they enjoy to write their ill-informed drivel was obtained.

I had a look at the laid up colours noting the eagle on the Regimental colours (there are various types of standard) which is a reference to the Regiment taking a French eagle at the Battle of Barrosa during the Peninsular wars. The eagle was to the French what the Royal / Regimental standard was to the British and to lose yours in battle was an ignominy hard to live down. At Barrosa an Irish sergeant named Patrick Masterson captured an eagle belonging to the 8th Ligne. Actually a young ensign ( a very junior officer) named Keogh had seized it and been shot immediately through the heart for his troubles whereupon the good Sgt. Masterson retrieved it. I believe that in 1811 it was the first eagle ever captured by the British.  Rarely has the regimental battlecry of “Faugh a Ballach” (Clear the Way) been used more appropriately.

I have no basis for saying this but I suspect that Bernard Cornwell, who is one of my favourite authors, may have borrowed this story for his book “Sharpe’s Eagle” which is one of a large series and spawned a hugely successful TV series starring Sean Bean as the eponymous and totally fictional Richard Sharpe who rose from Private in India in the 1799 campaign at Serangipatam to Lt. Col. by the time of Waterloo in 1815. Ludicrous as it sounds, such things very occasionally happened. I do recommend the books and the TV series.

For his heroics, Masterson received a field commission and finished his army days in 1828 but regrettably only live another two years to enjoy his well-earned retirement.  It seems that reckless bravery was in the genes or DNA somewhere though as his grandson, Major James Ignatius Masterson received the Victoria Cross (the highest UK honour for bravery in the face of the enemy) during the Boer War at the Battle of Ladysmith. I have thought about this long and hard over many years and I still do not understand it. Why did so many Irishmen enlist to fight for an “English” Army when they mostly wanted self-determination, at least amongst the other ranks although the officer class were very much tied to Britain. I know that in the case of the enlisted men it was largely a matter of poverty, hunger and need. Too many children and not enough food, especially during the numerous potato blights / famines, and it was either join the Army, emigrate or die.  Not much of  choice really

Notwithstanding that, the roll of honour of Irishmen either in Irish regiments or elsewhere is phenomenal and continues to this day. I would refer you back to the previously mentioned “Irish Generals” book I read at home which lists no less than ten of the most influential senior officers in the Second World War, all of whom were Irishmen. It is a fairly famous saying that Ireland is a land of saints and scholars but I would dare here to add a third “s” as we are a land of saints, scholars and soldiers and seem to do each with equal aplomb. I could possibly add sinners as a fourth “s” but that will lead to another twenty chapters here so I shall refrain. Perhaps I shall discuss the Irish mentality in respect of reconciling piety, learning and sheer bloody violent slaughter on a slower day but there was still plenty more to be seen in the couple of hours I had left in Armagh.

Before I do move on I have only dealt here with the military aspect of the Cathedral and I feel I should give you a brief and more general overview of the Cathedral for which I shall refer back to a piece I wrote for Virtual Tourist a few years ago but which is still relevant.

“Armagh is largely built on the Christian faith, the post-pagan settlement here being ordered by St. Patrick in the mid 5th century. There are two fine cathedrals in the city with the Anglican being the one more associated with Ireland’s patron saint, and the history here is staggering albeit that the original church was a short distance from the present building in Scotch Street.

After the death of Patrick, there was a period of unrest where the place was sacked on various occasions by Danes / Vikings which unhappy position was only dealt with when King Brian Boru defeated them at the Battle of Clontarf in 1014. Boru’s victory, however, came at the price of his own life, and his remains are buried in the precincts of the present cathedral.

The turbulent history continued with a lightning strike in 995AD nearly destroying the Cathedral and subsequently having to be rebuilt. In 1566 the new building was again destroyed, this time by fire set by a rebellious local chieftan and again in 1641 it was burnt down (again) by Sir Phelim O Neill during a Catholic uprising. I told you it was a turbulent history!.

Numerous further restorations over the intervening centuries lead to the building you see today.

I have a tip for the visitor. If you approach the building from the city side, don’t go in! Rather, turn to the left and you will come to a series of wonderful gardens with various themes (herb garden, orchard garden etc.) and they are beautifully tended.

When you do get eventually get into the building you may feel, as I did, that it is not by any means the largest or grandest cathedral you have visited. There is, however, plenty to see and my favourite, being a fan of military history, the military chapel to the right of the altar is well worth a visit. There are numerous memorials and laid-up colours along with a Book of Remembrance.


Another quirky little thing, positioned by the wall about half way along the right hand side is the so-called “Tandragee Man” which resonates with me as that is my home village, and the artefact is so named because it was found in a garden there. It is actually a Bronze Age (c.1000 BC) stone carving of a mythical figure called Nuada of the Silver Arm. I won’t spoil the story for you but it is a typically Celtic beauty. You’ll just have to visit and see for yourselves”.


On the principle that local knowledge is priceless I headed across the road to the Museum as suggested by the lady in the Cathedral and wandered into a building as deserted as the Cathedral had been. It was tiny, the address of of 5 Vicar’s Hill giving a clue that it was once a private dwelling associated with the Cathedral. The museum itself effectively comprises the two downstairs rooms, which might have been moderately grand in their heyday and I set about a look round. At one point the chap that I had been told about appeared but was busy on his mobile (cell) ‘phone and just basically waved me to look around and enjoy myself. There were some interesting items there, mostly prehistoric which reflects the ancient origins of the city and surrounding region with nearby Navan Fort and which I had visited on a previous trip, being effectively the Royal court of Ulster. Again, a suitably edited version of old VT tip will explain about it.

“I had previously visited the Navan Fort Visitor Centre, which I found to be OK but not outstanding. The Centre is here because of three local archaeological sites locally, namely Haughey’s Fort, Loughnashade (Lake of Treasures) and the “main event” which is Navan Fort itself, or Emain Macha in the Gaelic if you prefer. Now this is outstanding. Let’s get the technical details out of the way first.

Admission is free and you do NOT have to visit the Visitor Centre to gain access here. It is open daylight hours. Unfortunately, due to the very nature of the place it is not suitable for wheelchair users.

Now for the history.

There has been habitation in this area since Neolithic times but the main period of importance, when Emain Macha was the centre of the Kingdom of Ulster (named for the Ulaid tribe) was during the Iron and Bronze ages. It was then that the Celtic legends of the Red Branch Knights and others took shape. The sprits of Conor Mac Nessa, Cu Chulainn, Deirdre of the Sorrows and Naoise and many others walk here. Actually, when you visit you can almost believe it but then again, us Ulstermen have always been known for a touch of mysticism.

Leaving aside the myth, the cold, hard science of archaeology reveals a fascinating site. Looking at the mound it would seem indicative of a defensible site for occupation and there are extensive views for miles in any direction. Navan Fort was never used for this purpose however. It is purely a ritual site as I shall explain. This is clearly evidenced by the fact that the ditch is inside the rampart not outside as it would have been for purposes of keeping an enemy at bay.

The mound was built on a site that had been abandoned in the late Iron Age. As I describe this, imagine that these are people building with only the most rudimentary tools. Firstly, they constructed a huge wooden building comprising five concentric rings of oak posts (280 in total) whch was over 120 feet in diameter. At the centre was a huge oak post that scientists have determined was felled in 95 B.C. which dates the place fairly well. It was so large it was rested in a hole six feet deep.

Having toiled so hard to build this building, they did not use it at all. Instead they filled the entire structure with limestone boulders to a height of almost nine feet. The story does not end there, however. After all the work, they then proceeded to burn the outer timber wall, leaving just the cairn of stones, which they immediately covered with turves to leave the structure we see today.

Can you imagine the immense amount of work involved in all this? So what was it all for? The truth is, scholars do not really know. There is a suggestion that the mound was a mesocosm which is a halfway house between man and the cosmos. The huge central oaken pillar may have been an “axis mund” (axis of the world) which connected the three elements of the underworld, the Earth and the sky (“Heaven” in an age before Chritianity). It is amazing what people’s belief systems will prompt them to do.

Today, if you are lucky enough to visit on a quiet, crisp autumnal day, as I was, it is truly awe-inspiring. Stand on the top of the mound, look roughly North across the spires of the Anglican cathedral of Armagh, symbol of the religion that ended all that these people stood for, to the heartland of ancient Ulster. Turn round and look South over the uninterrupted vista at where the marauding hordes of Queen Mebh of Connacht would appear. If you listen really closely, you might hear a druid”.

Many of the artefacts in the Museum are from the Navan Fort area which is why I included this piece but let’s get back to Vicars Hill.

Have a look out the back window of the rear room of the Museum for a view of the immaculate gardens and a wonderful vista over part of the city. As far as I know you cannot go into the gardens which is a shame but it is also in this rear room that my favourite artefact is to be found. It is an ancient stone inscribed with Ogham runes. OK, I can hear most of you understandably say, “Ogham runes, what are they”?  They are an ancient system of writing consisting of marks running off a central stave and predate Gaelic or indeed most European languages. It was only deciphered relatively recently and I would have dearly loved to run my fingers over it to feel the magic of the basis of written language in Europe but I didn’t as you don’t do things like that in museums.

I would suggest to the reader that if they are planning a trip to Northern Ireland and specifically Armagh (both of which I recommend strongly) that they include this little Museum but realistically allow no more than half an hour as it is not so big. Leaving the museum I made the 30 second walk to the Library. I have compared Armagh to Rome earlier on in this piece and it would take you an hour to walk from the Circus Maximus to St. Peter’s Square in the “Eternal City” whist you can get from any one place of interest to another in no more than about 15 minutes on foot in Armagh.

Initially the Library appears slightly daunting with a heavy door and an entryphone system but do not be put off. I pressed the buzzer and a lady asked if she could help. Not being sure if the place was actually open I somewhat hesitantly inquired would it be possible to come in for a look round. Of course it would and I was told to just come upstairs which I did up a rather grand staircase. I passed some wonderful portraits and noted a stairlift should accessibility be a concern to you. Even though I am no longer writing travel reviews per se I do like to note these things as, in the words of a dear friend of mine whose late wife (RIP) was wheelchair bound for many years, “We are all potential wheelchair users”. Definitely food for thought I feel.

I entered a large high-ceilinged room and it is no exaggeration to say that there was literally a sharp intake of breath as I have never seen anything like it. There are two levels (you cannot go to the upper one for “Health and Safety reasons, what nonsense) but the general effect is stunning as the entire place is crammed from floor to ceiling with books. OK, it is a library and you would not expect tropical fish but I have never seen so many beatifully bound and obviously very old volumes in one place. I am sure that places like the libraries of some of the great Universities or the Vatican are probably the same but I have never visited any of them.

I was standing somewhat on awe of my surroundings when a lady approached me from what I later discovered was the office and greeted me in that most cheery fashion common to people allover the island of Ireland before enquiring if I was looking for anything specific that she could help me with. I told her how I had been directed there by the churchwarden in the Cathedral, whose name she mentioned and it became apparent that all three venues are closely linked of which more in a moment, and said I would just like a look round if that was OK. Certainly it was and for reasons which became apparent during our very convivial conversation.

At one point she almost begged me to sign the visitors book before leaving because their local authority funding is dictated by the number of visitors who are divided into Northern Ireland residents and, despite their best efforts they still were not getting as many “casual” visitors as they would like. Certainly they get foreign visitors (as the book attested, many from the USA) and a number of people using the place for research but not so many random “drop ins” like myself from NI and so I took the hint and gave my address as Tandragee rather than London.

The lady, whose name I have shamefully forgotten, then took me on a guided tour of the place and I do not know where to start telling you about what I learned. I know this is going to further extend what is an already lengthy piece but I really do not care. Whilst I am obviously hugely grateful for any readers I do attract, I am writing this as much as a diary for myself as anything else. Because we happened to be standing beside it we started with what I suppose is the star attraction here and that is Jonathan Swift’s own first edition of his book Gulliver’s Travels. Other first editions exist but this one is obviously special not least because of a series of annotations made by the author which tell us much about freedom of expression in the first half of the 18th century.

Swift had entrusted his manuscript to a London publisher called Benjamin Motte, who in the interconnectedness of all things I often mention was born not half an hour’s brisk walk from where I am typing this. The book was to be published anonymously to avoid prosecutions which were common in those days and Motte even sub-contracted out the publishing work to a number of others to avoid piracy and to put the authorities off his trail. Swift was first and foremost a satirist and some of the things he had written Motte considered a bit near the knuckle so he amended them without consulting the author which naturally infuriated him. I mentioned to the lady that with a mind and a tongue as sharp as Swift possessed any conversation or correspondence between him and Motte would have been worth reading or hearing.

One small example will serve to show how touchy things were then. Swift had named a tavern in the book the “Crown and Horns” and there is not too much wrong with that you may think. However, the monarch at the time was George the First who was widely reputed to be having numerous adulterous affairs with married women and so the Crown became the King and the Horns the cuckold’s horns traditionally associated with a man whose wife is being unfaithful to him. It really was that bad and how some of today’s authors would have fared is beyond me – probaby “dancing the Tyburn jig”. Whilst you cannot obviously touch the original they have very helpfully provided a modern paperback facsimile with all the annotations in it.

We hadn’t even started yet and my new-found friend then explained to me the filing system or lack thereof in the Library. In all innocence I said, “No Dewey decimal system then” and she looked at me a little moment as I suppose not so many people maybe know about it but it is the modern system of classifying books in a library. I had to explain that my late Mother (RIP) had been a part-time librarian when I was young and it is undoubtedly from her that I inherited my almost obsessive love of reading. No such technical wizardry back then, books were stored by size as they had to make the shelves to order, no Ikea adjustable bookshelves then which is probably why they are still there!

I have a dear friend called Sarah, another VT refugee and a brilliant travel writer, who is by profession a librarian and I know this will amuse her. At time of writing she is either in, or has recently returned from, North Korea which shows you how adventurous she and her husband are. They are proper travellers and I do encourage you to have a look at her blog here where the photography and the writing are of a standard I can only dream of.

They obviously try to keep themselves current in the library as there was a temporary exhibition to mark the 50th anniversary of the first moon landing and also a display of old books about various sports to tie in with the Open golf tournament that had just finished at Royal Portrush in Northern Ireland a couple of days before. I found this fascinating as well when I had a good look later myself. I also noticed a small play area with soft toys and the like and the lady said that they were trying to encourage people with small children to visit and they could be left safely there (it is only one room) whilst Mum and Dad had a good look round. They do really seem to be making an effort here and this idea was reinforced by my next meeting.

From a side door there came a gentleman in clerical gear who I was introduced to as being either the Dean or the Deacon (I think it was the Dean but I really cannot remember) who also happens to be the Librarian as part of his duties and actually “lives above the shop” as he had just emerged from what I was informed was his own private residence, what a lucky man. It is only relatively recently that visitors were able to enter the Library without going though his home (well, his predecessor’s home anyway). He was a lovely chap and we spoke of this and that, predominantly the election to be leader of the Conservative Party and ergo Prime Minister with the result due in the next hour. I thought clerics were not supposed to get involved in politics but I was left in no doubt as to who he was supporting!

My charming guide excused herself as she had to go back to work but left me in no doubt that if I wished to look at any volume then just poke my head round the door of the office and she would take it down for me and give me a pair of gloves so I could enjoy it at my leisure. In truth, I could have spent months of my life doing nothing other than sitting there reading those tomes but I set about just having a nosey round.

My only other companion was a young lady with an obviously very old book in front of her and typing away on her laptop. The is obviously still a place of academic research and I am not at all surprised. I did my best to be quiet and not disturb her and actually felt like a bit of a fraud just wandering around rubbernecking but the lady had left me in no doubt that I was welcome, it really was so friendly there. I spent rather longer than I had intended reading a book (a modern one on the reading table) of old images of Armagh City and trying to marry them to the city I remembered. Much of it has not changed a lot. I had to be a bit mindful of time and so I very reluctantly bade the ladies in the office good day and headed back out into the city where I could not resist yet another image of the Cathedral on the way.

St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Armagh.

I think you have probably gathered by now what I thought of the Robinson Library but I should re-iterate it. I dislike the term “must see” but if I were to ever use it then it would be in reference to this place. I know my trip was very much family orientated this time and this day wa really my only sightseeing outing compared to my usual gallivanting about but it was worth it just to stand in that magnificent room.

Like other places in the world where there are, or were, “tribal tensions” literally turning the wrong corner in an urban environment can lead you into trouble, the demarcation of “turf” is so defined as I mentioned when leaving the bus station. For reasons I cannot explain even to myself I decided to take a wander round place that I would have been at best very uncomfortable walking in 1981 but it was fine, nobody gave me a second glance. Truth to tell, there were not that many people there to give me such a glance as the city seemed a lot quieter than it used to be or maybe that is just memory playing tricks after all these years.

I stopped off into one of the many charity shops that seem to have proliferated all over the UK now with the sad demise of the “High Street” as a shopping option and so many retail premises now unoccupied. I headed straight to the book section and amidst all the Mills and Boon and Catherine Cookson nonsense I was delighted to find a copy of “A short walk in the Hindu Kush” by Eric Newby which I had had a copy of years before but which had got lost in one of my many moves. I was so happy I gave the lady a couple of quid instead of the marked 50p and it was still a bargain.

If you do not know of Eric Newby you simply must check him out. He was Michael Palin before Michael Palin was but he did it without the benefit of numerous fixers, a large camera crew, Governmental and military assistance and the might of the BBC’s coffers. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Mr. Palin in all his many guises and have all his travel books but I cannot help whilst watching being affable and natural on camera that it has all been set up for him.

On the other hand Eric Newby did it all by himself. He sailed on one of the last clipper ships and then joined the Indian Army at the start of WW2 before being posted to North Africa where he served in the Black Watch and the SBS (Royal Marine seaborne Special Forces), earning the Military Cross in an action where he was captured and taken POW. He escaped and hid out in the Apennine mountains being sheltered by a woman called Wanda who he was to marry after the war.

After some time in the fashion industry which was his family trade, he upped sticks in 1956 at the age of 36 and took himself off to wander with his diplomat friend round a remote part of Afghanistan which is the subject of my recent acquisition. The idea was to climb Mir Samir despite having only the most rudimentary climbing training in North Wales. Utterly nuts and I do beg you to find at least one of his books as they are hilarious as well as tremendously interesting and a glimpse at a bygone age. Think P’G Wodehouse meets Alan Whicker and you will be getting close.

I was heading back in generally the direction I had to meet my family when I was rather saddened to see the Wagon Wheel pub (latterly the Spider’s) still unoccupied and apparently falling to bits so I went to take a quick image of it for this piece but, horror of horrors, I got the message on the camera to change my battery. I know it was fully charged that morning and I hadn’t taken that many images but that was the end of the day’s photography. I reckon the poor old thing is about knackered and I have since laid hands on a new compact so hopefully the images will improve a few entries from now as the current model really is all singing and all dancing.

No chance of some up to date images of the several war memorials I wanted to visit in the area of the Mall and so it was into the Victoria Bar for a quick livener – well every cloud has a silver lining and all that as I mentioned above and which I do rather believe. There was only myself and the very chatty barmaid in the place and so a conversation inevitably ensued. I told her it was probably getting on for 40 years since I had been there although not much has changed. She was able to supply the information that the Wagon Wheel had been purchased by an evangelical Church and was going to be renovated as such because their current premises were now too small. I reckon they will have to exorcise the ghosts of myself and a lot like me before they can ever consecrate the place, it really was a madhouse in it’s heyday. I even did a few shifts as a DJ in a roller disco there when such things were all the rage!

Whilst her information about the pub was most welcome she was unable to enlighten me about the old jail building almost directly across the road which seems to have been lying empty for even longer than the boozer. A quick check shows it stopped functioning in 1986 so it must be a right mess inside by now by now although the facade looks as it always did i.e. grim and with a patina of vehicle pollution. The talk is that they are going to make it into an hotel but I have been hearing that for many years now and nobody seems to know anything definite. As it was built in the 1780s it is undoubtedly a listed building and the cynic in me suspects it is probably the old developers trick of leaving it untended until it becomes so unsafe it has to be torn down thereby leaving them with clear land to develop as they wish and that they will never get planning permission for otherwise. I have to say it would be absolutely the prime site in the city with views right along the length of the Mall.

En route to my rendezvous (get me with all the French in the one sentence!) I passed the Boer War memorial although obviously there were no images possible so again I shall rely on my old VT tip and some previous images to explain it here, suitably edited as always. I assure you that it has not changed one iota.

“I have mentioned elsewhere the large number of war memorials there are in Northern Ireland, primarily to the fallen of the two World Wars as you might expect. In the centre of Armagh, however, there is a memorial commemorating the fallen of an earlier conflict namely the South African campaign of 1899 – 1902. The Regiment commemorated principally is the Princess Victoria’s Royal Irish Fusiliers whose Museum is nearby at the far end of the Mall. A staggering 165 men from the Regiment perished in the campaign and their names are duly recorded here.

The memorial itself, which I find aesthetically pleasing, is of a bugler of the Regiment sounding the Last Post. The statue, which is bronze stands an impressive seven feet high atop a 12 foot granite plinth. The round plaque pictured shows the hard-won battle honours of the Regiment, many, like Talavera, earned during the Peninsular Wars. Irish troops have a long and proud history in the British Army”.

I met my brother and sister in law at the appointed spot and we drove the short distance to the nursing home to see Father which is where life settled down into it’s accustomed pattern. We spent some time with Father who was in good form despite the upheaval of having had to move rooms due to a technical malfunction in his usual one and then it was off for a quick run round the excellent little supermarket on the way home where they always have some great bargains and then back to Tandragee. I got the kid brother to drop me at the top of the town as always and went to the “Monty” to say my farewells as this was my last night for this trip. Whilst everyone was very friendly and wanting me to stay later I took myself off pretty early as I know the next day would be a long one.

Well, I think that is it and it has indeed turned into another rather lengthy piece but I did not want to leave any of this out, indeed there is much more I could have put in but reluctantly decided not to.

A final quick explanatory note. Due to other distractions and the length of this piece I am actually posting it on the afternoon of the 2nd of August. Certainly there have been other distractions but I dread to think how many manhours I have spent proof-reading this over and over, researching, appending new and old images, inserting hyperlinks and all the rest, it really is time- consuming and I do hope you think it is worth it. I know I love doing it.

In the next entry I manage to get home by way of not one but two “adventures” so stay tuned and spread the word.

I may have achieved Nirvana.

Again a brief apology for the lack of images as explained in the last entry. They shall be appended asap.

Monday the 2nd July and another lovely day although a bit breezy and not quite as warm as is had been recently. Still very good for Northern Ireland though.

Again I am writing this in the present tense as I am bang up to date with my journal entries. All I have to do now is get them posted which will hopefully happen today but I have said that before.

If I do ever manage this remarkable feat I shall have to turn my mind to what to do next here. Obviously I shall prioritise these entries as they are “live” and I only have a couple of entries to go to complete my Lundy Island and the West Country piece so I shall finish that off. It was the first project I embarked on here and I would like to get it finished. Completion should only take a day or two but it is then a question of what to do next.

I am currently debating between my three Canadian trips, a similar number to Sri Lanka, my three months in SE Asia in 2009, the London Loop Capital Ring or Lea Valley walks (all in and around London) or my European jaunt last Spring / Summer. At the minute I am tending towards the latter option as I have much of it already written up and saved from previous websites. Other possibilities include one of three canal trips, a weekend in Bristol, previous trips to Northern Ireland and Scotland or one of the Virtual Tourist Euromeets. Perhaps I shall decide on something completely different, who knows? Who indeed? At the moment not even I do but I promise that you, dear readers, shall be the first as and when I ever make my mind up.

Despite the lack of maple syrup I went for the Canadian breakfast today, mainly because I need to go to the shop to resupply on the makings of a fry-up and I substituted honey for maple syrup. No doubt such perceived heresy would earn me a slap from my dear Canadian friend Lynne and it was certainly not ideal although tasty enough but “needs must” as they say.

Breakfast over, I prepared lunch for Father, read a few chapters of the Tony Ward book and then settled down for the first football of the day which was Brazil vs. Mexico which promised to be a cracking game between two very good sides. It is proving to be so as I am again writing this in real-time with the first half extremely lively and Brazil having by far the better of it in terms of chances.

I cannot believe I am so current here so I can report that at half-time it is scoreless and it is time for me to have a quick smoke and check the laundry!

The game is being played in a punishing 35 degree heat in Samara which is hotter than either Brazil or Mexico today and it will be interesting to see if this becomes a factor later in the match.

Brazil have started briskly in the second half and been rewarded after five minutes with a Neymar tap in, 1 – 0 Brazil. Let’s see what Mexico have got now. The truth of the matter is not very much and indeed they look tired. Brazil have all the play and Mexico really do not look like scoring.

88 minutes and it is all over now. The substitute Roberto Firmino has just tapped in a Neymar cross / shot (I am never quite sure with him) for 2 – 0 and it looks like adios Mexico. They really have been second best today and on this performance Brazil are certainly justifying their pre-tournament favourites status. They will be hard to beat. It is all over now, 2 – 0 Brazil and they will play the winners of Belgium vs. Japan which is the evening game.

I went to the bar for the second game which kicked off in almost 30 degrees and 40% humidity. There really have been some very testing climatic conditions in the tournament so far and only likely to get tougher as the summer wears on.

Haraguchi breakaway 48. Belgium almost equalised immediately through Hazard but it cannoned off the post with the ‘keeper well beaten. Things then just became totally crazy with another goal, a beautiful shot following some superb approach play. 3 – 0 to Japan and not five minutes of the second half played. Again, I am writing this in real-time so let’s see what the Belgians are made of now.

Well, they appear to be made of something as they have just equalised on 69 minutes with a freakish header that I cannot believe was intended. 2 – 1, twenty minutes to go and it really is hotting up now. Four minutes later Feillani (sp?), who has been brought on from the bench scored with a brilliant header to make it 2 – 2.

What drama now. There have been four minutes of extra time and with less than 15 seconds left Belgium have scored an excellent goal that was so late there was not even time for the restart. Very hard on the Japanese who played superbly and have proved that they are more than a force to be reckoned with. Belgium go on to meet Brazil in the next round and I really cannot wait for that one.

Time is running now and it is like the climax of some idiotic film. Does our hero i.e. me get this published before Daniel the barman throws him out? Tick tock, tick tock. OK, a bit melodramatic but I need to inject some life into this but if I do it I can get back to my other stories here. 2349 now, time is running but I think I’ll do it. Imagine hugely dramatic music here.

If you are reading this on 02/07/2018 you’ll know I got there. If not, I haven’t.

Either way, stay tuned and spread the word.


I almost got there.

Just a quick technical note here.  I have not loaded my latest images on my computer and have rather stupidly and unusually left my camera at home so there are no images for this entry but I do rather want to get up to date and I shall add them asap.  Here is one of Tandragee skyscape just to take the bad look off the page.  I love skyscapes and there may well be a feature about them here if I ever catch up with myself.

Tandragee skyscape.

Saturday 30th came and I woke up ludicrously early again possibly due to the sun which was bright even at 0800 although when I went outside for my early morning smoke I noticed that there was a refreshing light breeze.

I prepared breakfast for Father and then took into a bit more writing which brings me to a matter I mentioned in the last entry. I really hope I do not jinx it but I am writing this on the 30th in the afternoon and I hope to get to the pub this evening which is where I can access wi-fi to post the last few days. That is my excuse for going to the pub and I am sticking to it. If this does happen I shall be in a state of grace that I do not remember ever having been in before in my various blogging guises and that is being up to date. If this does happen I shall feel very pleased with myself and not a little surprised. I’ll let you know how it goes.

My Father likes a cheese and Branston pickle sandwich for his lunch (must be Branston and I agree) and I am fond of one myself but it was the first meal of the day and problem was that I could hear my poor little frying pans sobbing quietly on the stove. Problem, what problem? Have you never heard of a fried cheese and pickle sandwich? I will fry just about anything which is such a feature of the cuisine of Ulster. I am still not sure what prompted the potato salad as a side but it was all very tasty. I did tell you I had odd tastes.

After the football cold turkey of the previous day, normal service was resumed and the tournament moved into the knockout stages so hopefully no more of these awful tactical games where effectively reserve teams were content to have a kickaround because the result didn’t matter or else a draw suited both teams. First up in the afternoon match was France vs. Argentina which looked like a good game on paper.

France made a lively start with Mbappe running the ageing Argentinian defence ragged. His pace is amazing and when he was clumsily fouled in the box on 11 minutes, Griezman duly converted the penalty. The teenager posed a serious threat every time he was in possession. Argentina were playing a system that obviously did not suit them and had offered little or nothing for 40 minutes and then di Maria scored an absolute gem from a long way out giving Lloris the French keeper no chance. They really did not deserve it but it woke the huge Argentine support up and they went in at half time on level terms.

Two minutes into the second period a Messi shot took a serious deflection off the Argentinian defender Mercado who had come forward and put the South Americans into a 2 – 1 lead. It was turning a bit naughty and there were some fairly robust challenges flying in.

If the di Maria goal in the first half had been glorious then it was at least matched in the 57th minute by a sublime long-range strike from the unlikely source of the French fullback Pavard, it was brilliant. To think that a year previously he had been playing in the second tier of German football makes it all the more remarkable.

We were now into the stages of extra time and the hated penalties so were they beckoning? Not if young Monsieur Mbappe had anything to do with it. Six minutes after the Pavard gem he scored a good goal to make it France 3 – Argentina 2. He wasn’t finished yet. Less than five minutes later in a move that had started with the French ‘keeper he slotted another very confidently past the Argentinian stopper who didn’t manage to stop it. France were really in the ascendency and Giroud was unlucky when he hit the side netting with an absolutely blistering effort. By then the Argentinian resistance was all but finished but never rule out that man Messi, for my money the best player on the planet, who headed a goal two minutes into injury time but it was merely a consolation and 4 – 3 probably flattered Argentina.

Don’t cry for me Argentina but rather cry for a team that was well past it’s best and clearly second best here.

I awoke after my “old man dozette” in time for the evening game which was billed by the media as Luis Suarez vs. Cristiano Ronaldo but was officially Uruguay vs. Portugal. It was going to have to go some to match the first fixture but the first goal wasn’t long coming, seven minutes to be precise, when a wicked cross hit Cavani in the face and went in. I am not sure how much he knew about it but they all count. It remained 1 – 0 until the break but it was looking like it was going to take something special to unlock a Uruguayan defence that was fairly uncompromising.

Portugal came out in the second half looking up for it as they had to be and on 54 minutes an excellent Pepe header form a set piece levelled the scores. Game on and the European side certainly looked in the mood after the goal but Uruguay were not to be denied and a great counterattack ended with a superb goal by Cavani. In the space of less than two full games in the knockout stages we had been treated to three goals that may well be in contention for goal of the tournament. It was certainly going to be some final half hour.

Despite some fairly frenzied Portuguese attacks in the dying minutes, including their ‘keeper making a nuisance of himself in the box, Uruguay held on for the win.

Apart from the fact that a couple of fancied sides were going home it also meant that arguably the two best players in the world viz. Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo would take no further part. I wonder who will emerge as the star striker now.

After these two excellent games it was time for a quick shower and off for Saturday night in the “Monty” as there is always music of some sort on and it is usually a great laugh. As I told you above I was going to use the internet and it would have been feasible as the place was not terribly full but I had indeed jinxed myself and am actually writing this the next morning.

The problem was the musician and I stress that he was a thoroughly charming guy called Kieron. He was doing a troubadour set (one man and a guitar plus backing tracks in this case) and I had been chatting to him as he was setting up as musicians do. Being on his own he asked if I would soundcheck him which I happily did and after that I thought it would just look damned rude to be sitting there bashing a laptop keyboard when he was playing.

As always it was a great night and I thoroughly enjoyed myself before heading home pretty late and straight to bed. My “state of grace” would have to wait for another day.

Again I would feel I have short-changed you with this entry so I shall pass swiftly on to the next one. Yes, I know I need to do something interesting soon so I may attempt spontaneous combustion tomorrow although that would probably put paid to the website fairly comprehensively so maybe I’ll not bother.  Honestly, when I get this series of entries up to date, I shall move on to some trips that may actually be of interest to you.

It was a late awakening on Sunday 1st of July after a pretty late night in “the Monty” although I did not have a lot to drink. If you have read the previous entry you will know that I had intended to use the bar wi-fi to get myself into the unheard of position of being up to date with a blog but I jinxed it by writing about it beforehand so I shall not make that mistake again here.

I was so late in rising that my poor Father had to prepare his own breakfast but he has no problem doing that and I had a lazy Sunday morning watching TV and reading a bit until my appetite woke up which it normally does two or three hours after my body. The usual fry-up was accompanied by the equally usual image of same and I am beginning to worry about myself not to mention the poor reader who has probably been put off fried breakfasts for life.

The afternoon game in the World Cup was Spain vs. Russia and Spain were definitely favourites. Russia had amazed most people by how well they had performed in the group stage as even their most diehard fans had expected little from them before the competition started. I think I am right in saying that they were the second lowest ranked team in the competition.

Things did not start well with an own goal in the 11th minute putting Spain ahead. It was a bit of a case of the defender jetting his just desserts as the ball ricocheted off his heel when he was busily engaged dragging Sergio Ramos to the ground and not even looking at the ball. After that, Spain got into their rhythm and looked comfortable for a while but Russia played their way back into it towards the end of the half and were rewarded with a penalty for handball in the 39th minute which was emphatically slotted by Dzyuba past David de Gea.

It remained 1 – 1 until half-time and I am actually typing this up in real-time during the break. I am really on top of this blogging business now! The second half should be interesting so time for a quick smoke and make a cup of coffee.

The first 35 minutes of the second period were fairly cagey with little in the way of chances and it took until the 66th minute for David Silva to be replaced by Iniesta who had surprisingly been dropped to the subs bench. I say surprisingly as he is really a class act with so much experience of major finals. OK, he is getting on a bit but I would have started him. He almost justified his substitution on 84 minutes when he came very close in what was about the first real chance of the half.

The prospect of extra time was looming ever larger as the minutes ticked down and four minutes injury time were indicated but even that could not break the deadlock and so another half hour was called for. I did feel a bit sorry for the 38-year-old Russian player who was obviously feeling the pace. All the substitutions had been made so it would be the same 22 men who would continue.

The additional period was played in a torrential thunderstorm and at times it was hard to work out if the thunder or the vociferous Russian crowd were making more noise. In the second half the Spaniards threw everything bar the kitchen sink at the home side but just could not find a way through and so the dreaded penalties were called for. Cometh the hour, cometh the man as they say and in this case the man was the Russian ‘keeper who saved not one but two Spanish attempts to send his team through 4 – 3 on penalties and trigger the most exuberant celebrations amongst their supporters. Heaven help anyone trying to sleep in Moscow in the aftermath of that result.

This is really turning into a fascinating competition with Germany, Argentina, Portugal and now Spain all out. I wonder what odds you would have got on that happening before the tournament started.

After a lazy Sunday afternoon (I did that on purpose!) tea of re-heated pasties, beans and champ it was time to settle down for the evening game of Croatia vs. Denmark and wondering if it was going to be as exciting as the previous three. Well, what can I tell you?

The Danes were ahead in under a minute with a fairly scrappy goal theat went in off the ‘keepers glove and the commentators were discussing how Croatia might respond. They did not have to wait long as Croatia had equalised following some poor Danish defending. Two goals and there were not even five minutes on the clock. What a start.

After that slightly freakish start, the Croatians had more of the play and the better of what chances there were but it had settled down into a fairly tame affair and it remained 1 – 1 at the break.

The Danes started the livelier in the second period but again it petered out into a pretty boring affair and at full-time they were still even so we were due for the second extra time game of the day.

The extra time only produced a few half chances until midway through the second half when Croatia were awarded a clear penalty so step up the Croatian talisman Luka Modric knowing that if he scores they are almost certainly through but his fairly average penalty was well saved by Kaspar Schmeichel in the Danish goal. After that it was clearly going to go to penalties and it duly did.

Denmark went first and Christian Eriksen had his effort saved but Schmeichel kept them in it by saving the first Croatian effort. Modric converted his effort this time round and after three each it was 2 – 2 but then Subasic in the Croatian goal made a great save which Schmeichel immediately matched. It really was ‘keepers on top at this point and it continued with yet another save by Subasic. Croatia scored their final pen to move through to the quarter-final but they really don’t look good enough to go much further on this performance. They can play much better and will need to when they face Russia in the next round.

This day marked the start of the second half of the year and it set me thinking about my lifestyle. So far this year I have been away from my home for three and a half months of the six and will probably be here for a while longer. I was pondering the concept of home as I talk about “going home” to Northern Ireland and yet when I am here I speak of being “back at home” meaning London. I have now lived longer on the mainland than I did in Northern Ireland at 30 and 28 years respectively and I am not sure where I consider home any more. Factor in the amount of travelling and I think it now boils down to “wherever I lay my hat”.

As this entry has been a lot of food and footie, I’ll finish it up with another bit of Tandrageee information and this relates to the Church I walk past every time I walk into the town and again it is a salvage job from my Virtual Tourist days. It concerns the Parish Church of St. Mark’s, Ballymore which, due to its prominent position on top of the hill, you can see for miles around.

“Although I am not a Christian myself, this is my family’s Parish Church and my late Mother is buried in the churchyard here.

The history of the Church and it’s predecessor buildings is interesting and I am indebted to Kelson Kilpatrick, a family friend and local historian, who is an expert on all matters Tandrageee. I was fortunate enough to attend an illustrated talk by him about the village in the Church Hall last week, and fascinating it was.

Ballymore actually means “Big Town” which is a misnomer if ever there was and this is the townland where the village stands. For those not familiar with the concept, a townland is a geographical sub-division of a County which I believe is unique to Ireland.

I am not sure of the very early ecclesiastical history of the site but a Church was consecrated here in 1622 and was described as “a handsome Church 60 foot in length and 24 in breadth well furnished with seates, Communion Table, Capp, font and a good Bell”. Sounds lovely.

The Church, like so many others, was destroyed in the 1641 Rebellion and rebuilt after by Lord Grandison (who had built the original). There is a fairly gruesome story associated with the old Church, as reported in a journal of 1889, and I reproduce it here.

“The following is a copy of a Paper, sealed in a bottle, which was enclosed in a box in an old vault in the Parish Church, Tandragee:- “This box contains the bones of Henry St. John Esq., Lord of the manor of Ballymore, and of his daughter. He rebuilt the church of Tandragee and built this vault. He was murdered by a party of banditti, called Tories, at Drumlin Hill, near Knockbridge, on Tuesday the 9th day of September 1679, by being shot through the forehead, and was buried in this vault on Tuesday the 16th of the same month. By tradition of the old inhabitants of this parish, it appears that upon opening this vault for his interment, the body of his daughter who had died some time before, was found lying near the entrance and out of her coffin, having, it is supposed revived after being locked up here”. What an awful end, although not uncommon for the time.

By 1812, the Church was far too small to accommodate the needs of the parishioners and so it was torn down to be replaced by the basis of the fine building you see today. At the time it cost the princely sum of £2,200, and was extended in 1846 and 1889.

The most recent improvement to the Church is the installation of a magnificent new digital organ which was dedicated in September 2010.

The Church is presently flourishing under the Rectorship of the Rev. T.S. Forster, or Shane as he likes to be called. He is a delightful man and a great source of knowledge about the Church, should you ever meet him.

I am getting a little drowsy after my large tea and the warm day, even though it was not quite as warm as of late and with a pleasant breeze, so I shall sign off and head to bed for a read. Bed at 2217, what madness is this? There is probably more to come so stay tuned and spread the word.


More of the same.

Sunday 24th of June was another scorching day and I woke before nine after not getting to sleep until about 0300 as I was reading.


I was not too hungry so just had a jumbo sausage roll for brekkie. I know you good people like to keep up with my breakfasting habits (I said with my tongue firmly in my cheek).

After midday it was time to settle down for the second England game of the campaign against Panama. Everyone expected England to win comfortably against a tiny nation of four million inhabitants who had amazed everyone by even qualifying but I think that only the most optimistic of England supporters would have seen the manner of the 6 – 1 win.

If you are a UK resident you will have read or heard about it as the media have spoken of little else since. If you are not a brief precis is that England were 5 – 0 up at half-time, Harry Kane scored a hat-trick, John Stones the central defender was unlucky not to convert his two goals into a hat-trick and Jesse Lingard scored a superb goal. All sorts of records were broken but let’s not get carried away just yet.

Whilst watching the second game which finished Japan 2 – Senegal 2 I made my Father his tea as pictured. OK, it is all shop bought and I can do better but it would mean completely re-stocking a fairly bare larder so shop bought ribs, beans and oven baked chips (fries) provided us with a tasty evening meal. It was a decent enough game to watch but I don’t think either side has enough to progress too far.

Spare rib dinner.
Shop bought but tasty.

The final game of the day ended Poland 0- Colombia 3. Poland were rubbish, there is no other word for it. Colombia were clinical in their finishing and are potential opponents for England in the next round.

After that it was my evening pilgrimage to the Monty for a few journal entries here, a couple of pints and the usual “craic” with my mates.

Again, I shall run straight on to the next entry as this one has been so brief.

Monday the 25th was a scorching day and with the forecast suggesting tht it is here to stay for up to two weeks. UK is apparently currently hotter than Athens and Miami. Unbelievable but I am not complaining.


The first event of note was the noise of a motorcycle pulling up outside and it was my kid brother although I really should stop calling him that as he is a retired man now. He is a member of the  and he had been away for a few days with a few of his friends from the CNX Riders Club (UK), most of whom had come from the mainland. They had been “treated” to quite appalling weather most of the way over but fortunately it had been glorious for their trip with over-heating (the riders, not the bikes) being the major problem.


Father and son talk bikes as always.

The magnificent beast you can see in the images is exactly 40 years old but it still looks pristine and sounds wonderful, it really has a beautiful note. Unlike some of his friends machines it is completely original and has never been resprayed or rechromed. For those of you not of the biker fraternity, a large part of the CBX attraction is the instantly recognisable logo (pictured).


As you can see, my brother even has a suitable keyring.


I really have to get him to take me for a run on it before I go, especially in this weather. If we don’t get the CBX out, we could go on his Honda VFR or huge BMW tourer, he really does like his bikes. I suspect that at my age the Beemer might be the most comfortable bet especially with my back!

It’s not burnt, I like it that way!

After the “breakfast” snack pictured the first football match of the day was Uruguay vs. Russia. Russia are in the finals by virtue of being hosts and it is probably just as well as the general consensus is that they were very average coming into the tournament and probably would not have qualified on merit. Uruguay were 2 – 0 up in the first half courtesy of two set pieces, the first a superb Luis Suarez free-kick, and then Russia had further problems by having a man sent off after about half an hour. The game was being played in punishing 33 degree heat in Amara and it was always going to be difficult for the Russians after the dismissal and so it proved. With ten men they had a hard time and the Uruguayans put the final nail in the coffin right on the stroke of normal time with a third to inflict the largest ever Russian defeat in World Cup finals. Yes, they go through but they will need to get back to the form of the first two games if they want to go much further. Uruguay look a good side.

Due to the way the games are scheduled now this match was on simultaneously with the Egypt – Saudi Arabia game which the Saudis won 2 – 1. Perhaps the highlight of the game was a superb save by the Egyptian ‘keeper who is the oldest ever player to appear in the finals at 45 years and 106 days. Well played that man.

I really don’t know why they changed the scheduling half way through the group stages as previously I could (and often did) watch all three games one after the other but that isn’t possible now. Two games are played simultaneously at 1500 BST and another two at 1900.

Tea for two.

After I had made and eaten dinner with my Dad it was time for a little lie down. It is undoubtedly a lot to do with my advancing years and a little to do with the heat but I need a little dozette most days. I woke up in time for about the last ten minutes of the first half of Portugal vs. Iran with the former leading 1 – 0. During the break I learnt that in the other game in this group, which was being played simultaneously as explained above, that Spain were 1 – 1 with Morocco and remarkably the North Africans had scored first.

In the second half, Ronaldo did what he does best and dived for a penalty but justice was served when the keeper saved from the same player. After that it just became niggly and Queresma behaved disgracefully with a most appalling piece of play-acting followed shortly afterwards by a vicious bodycheck that he was lucky only to earn a booking for. Another dubious VAR enabled penalty late in the game gave Iran an equaliser to earn a 1 – 1 draw.

News came through at 83 minutes that Morocco were leading Spain 2 – 1. Remarkable. The Spaniards did manage a late qualiser to finish 2 – 2 and top the group. Spain and Portugal both go through from that group.

I rounded off the day with a wander to the Monty and a couple of pints with some mates before home, a read and off to sleepybyes.

Stay tuned and spread the word.

The day I became a herpetologist.

Friday the 22nd was better weatherwise and I didn’t feel like having breakfast so you will be spared that particular report for this day.


With all the rest of the family away it was time to knuckle down to some housework as you can see and laundry and ironing was very much the order of the day. I am becoming quite domesticated here although I hate ironing with a passion. The afternoon was spent in the bar so I could use the internet and my mate Ritchie turned up with yet another beautiful guitar, this one a Fender semi-acoustic, so that was another bit of a play although nothing that could be classed as a jam. Even the barman got involved and proved to be a decent player himself. Things like that just happen in the Monty and are seen as quite normal. It is a great bar.

Ritchie being unusually shy for the camera.

Here is the football report for the day.

Brazil beat a spirited Costa Rica side 2 – 0 although they left it late for their goals and then the battling minnows of Iceland took on Nigeria but could not repeat their earlier heroics with the Africans running out 2 – 0 winners. In the final game Serbia took on Switzerland. The Serbs had a dream start when they scored after five minutes and then the Swiss equalised. It was heading for a point apiece until the Swiss managed a winner in the last-minute of normal time.

I didn’t see much of the middle game as I had to go home and prepare dinner for my Father who likes to keep to a set routine and has his evening meal at 1700 every day. No problem, I can manage that. On my way home I stopped at the great little village butchers I mentioned in an earlier entry and which I always refer to as Anderson’s as it had been in that family for years. It has now been sold and I suppose I should get used to calling it Wilkinson’s but old habits die hard. I am glad to see they die hard in this shop, whoever now owns it, as the service is still ever so friendly and the locally reared meat is still excellent. I bought a couple of pork chops and did them with a honey and mustard glaze which turned out OK. If you are wondering about my lack of variety in the vegetable department it is due to my Fathers dietary requirements as he is very limited in what he can eat.


With dinner over for Father there was still one more feeding assignment I had to undertake and so I walked down to my brother’s house to feed the lizard as I mentioned before I had agreed to do. The main meal was easily prepared as that consists of putting some rocket and spinach on a plastic container lid and leaving it in the tank so hardly Michel Roux cuisine but he seems to like it.

The second course was much more interesting. Whilst predominantly herbivorous, my scaly friend is partial to a little dessert of something small and preferably still wriggling and so I fed him a few live maggots held in a long pair of tweezers and he fairly wolfed them down, he really does like one or three. It was difficult to do as I was running out of hands but I did manage to take a video of the event which I think turned out pretty well under the circumstances. If I can ever work out how to do it I will post it here.

I also availed myself of my brothers wi-fi to do a bit of internet work and after that it back up the hill to drop my kit of at home, check on Father and off to the Monty for a couple of pints before home for another good sleep. It must be the country air!

Again I am going to carry straight on as it is another couple of fairly short entries here.

I awoke at about 1100 on Saturday 23rd June which is fairly late for me here and a quick look out the bedroom window showed me that it was already a very good day. Looks like the forecasters might have got it right for once.

I shall start with the usual breakfast image and you may be wondering where the customary Ulster Fry has gone. I opted for a bacon sarnie instead as I was thinking ahead which is unusual for me. All shall become apparent shortly.

I watched the first game of the World Cup day which was Belgium v. Tunisia and ended 5 – 2 in favour of the Europeans with a very late second for Tunisia adding a touch of respectability to the scoreline of a very one-sided affair. Belgium were great with Lukaku, Hazard et al firing on all cylinders. Some friends of mine who know about the game had them as a good bet to go far in the tournament and it certainly looked like it here. It will be interesting to see how England fare against them in their last group game.

S.Korea 1 – Mexico 2.  Mexico were the better side and deserved the win but the late consolation goal by Son was a peach and the highlight of the game.

I was only half watching the game as it was approaching 1700 which is dinner time around here. I mentioned a bit of forward planning and I did not have my fry-up earlier as I was planning one for Father for the evening meal. For purely logistical reasons I knew he had not had had one for a while and I remembered that he was certainly partial to this particular Northern Ireland delicacy. I am not sure I have ever met someone from the Province who didn’t and even the veggies merely substitute Quorn sausages and skip the bacon etc. I’m not sure how the vegans manage.

Like Father…………..

I got to work on the pans and knocked up a couple of plates in a few minutes which we put a serious hole in as the image shows. I promise you that was not staged, we really did clear the plates. Father confirmed that it was indeed a long time since he had eaten a fry and that he was very pleased with it.

………… son.
We didn’t leave much!

With the washing up done it was time to settle down for the third game of the day and one that I was really looking forward to, Sweden vs. Germany.

It was a German must win game after the Mexican defeat and another defeat here would have sent the defending champions home. Sweden scored first courtesy of a terrible ‘keeper error and Sweden pressed with lots of chances late in the first half. Germany had not been impressive but the manager must have given them a rocket at the break and equalised after three minutes in the second half. A German player was sent off late in the half and they looked all but dead and buried, a notion that was confirmed by a great save by the Swedish keeper on 87 minutes. Never write off the Germans, my pick to win the Cup before the start. They finished strong and Kroos scored with 20 secs of the five minutes injury time left to give them a victory they probably didn’t deserve.

Paddy sorting out the next “golden oldie”.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh Macarena.

As usual I went to the Monty in the evening where my mate Paddy was on the decks doing his DJ bit. Even though there were a good number of young people there, he played lots of old stuff which they seemed to love. Musical tastes in Northern Ireland have always tended to look back rather than forward. It suited me nicely as I lost all interest in chart music about 1990 although he did play some newer tracks towards the end. It was a bit mad and I felt right at home, it literally was like I had never been away. Tandragee really is a timeslip and naturally I was late back.

Everybody had a great time.

I promise I’ll get round to writing something of interest soon as this is very much really for my own benefit so stay tuned and spread the word.

It is not like it used to be.

Nothing much happened on the 10th and 11th of June and I settled into a quiet routine at home which I found quite relaxing. Apart from reading everything I could lay my hands on and spending time with my Father I was keeping up this journal which is proving to be time-consuming. Time is not a problem at present but I do wonder how practicable it will be when I go travelling again. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

It is one thing writing all these entries but it is another to actually publish them. As I believe I explained before I have no internet at my Father’s home and due to its physical position I cannot access wi-fi. I don’t even have a mobile ‘phone signal there. I had briefly toyed with the idea of getting myself a few carrier pigeons to keep in touch with the world but then settled on an alternative solution. I had discovered that my local, the excellent Montagu Arms aka The Monty has got wi-fi so that is where I go to get online. Not that I need one but it is as good an excuse as any to go to the pub!

On my way to the Monty on the afternoon of Tuesday 12th June I decided to have a wander down the town to see what was what and was pretty depressed by the sight I was greeted with although not at all surprised. It has not got a lot worse since last time I was here but it certainly has not got any better. I keep hearing and reading about the massive international investment in Northern Ireland but as I have mentioned before it never seems to get too far outside greater Belfast.

What’s left of the Huntsman.
What’s left of the Castle.

I walked past the Monty where the restaurant has been closed for some time. It used to be a good place for a meal and served for a few years as a decent Chinese restaurant but it has not been open for a while. A few yards further on I passed what used to be the video shop – closed and shuttered. Turning the corner I came to the Ballymore pub which is the only other pub left open in a village where I remember six.


The Paddock and the Huntsman (Francie Cullen’s) are long gone and more recently the Castle (Ivan’s) which I remember drinking in just a few years ago. It was good for live music at the weekend too. When I was a younger, fitter man I even did a few shifts as a dooprman in the Huntsman.  Since the last time I was home Jokey’s (Joe Cullen’s) has closed.

What’s left of Joe Cullens (Jokeys).

As far as I know, all four premises are still on the market with apparently no interest being shown.

Pubs all over the UK are closing at a terrifying rate and it is a subject I have an interest in and not just because I like going to pubs. In many smaller rural communities the pub was the social hub and as such performed a useful function. Couple this with the mass closure of smaller bank branches (the bank in Tandragee closed a few years ago), Post Offices and small local shops that cannot compete with huge shopping centres and the heart is just being ripped out of so many country communities. Urban areas are not faring much better.

There are many reasons for the pub closures which I won’t go into here but I have it on good authority from a friend who is well-placed in the drinks industry that at one point a few years ago there were 36 pubs closing per week in England and Wales alone. Add Scotland and Northern Ireland in and the UK figures are as staggering as they are depressing. The rate has slowed considerably now, presumably because there are not many left to close. The problem is very well documented on the excellent Lost Pubs website to which I have contributed.

Before Virtual Tourist was so needlessly and callously culled I had a small “travelogue” there concerning closed pubs near where I live in the East End of London. The criteria for inclusion in this piece were they should be in the E1 postal district which is about a mile and a half square at most (I think that is equivalent to a zipcode in the USA) and that I had had a drink in it. By the time VT was killed off I had 28 entries and a few more pending that I had not got round to posting. It really did make for depressing reading.

When I eventually get back to London I may well go for a walk round again and revisit the sites for an entry here or even construct a separate “chapter” or whatever it may be called. Again, this is the joy of having my own website now as I can publish anything that interests me without the constraints of having to stick to a particular subject. I do hope I don’t drive my small but undoubtedly select readership mad with this scattergun approach so let’s get back to Tandragee on a pretty overcast Tuesday afternoon. I told you the heatwave wouldn’t last.

It doesn’t really hide the dereliction.

Another few yards, and I mean no more than about 30, I came upon the hoarding in the image above which is there to cover an unsightly patch of wasteland that has lain unused forever it seems. I cannot even remember what used to be here. An indication of how long it has been derelict is the foliage of the flora clearly visible at least seven feet high. It must be a complete jungle in there. In the background of this image you can see a street running off the Main Street and things do not get any better there.

What’s left of the Municipal offices.

The street mentioned is Cornmarket Street although it is hard to believe there was ever a corn market here, now there is nothing but further dereliction. The image above is fairly self-explanatory and is the former premises of the Municipal Offices, again long closed, boarded up and with nobody around the village knowing what is planned for the building. This facility was part of the local Government apparatus of Armagh District Council and even that has gone since I was last home. In yet another round of cost-cutting and centralisation it is now part of “ABC” which stands for Armagh, Banbridge and Craigavon and covers a huge area geographically and is administered from Armagh City which is nowhere near being central.  In terms of population it is the second largest Council area in the country after Belfast.

What’s left of the public conveniences.

It is a sign of the somewhat depressing times that even the public conveniences adjacent to the offices have long been closed and decaying.

From what I would call the start of the village proper at the Armagh Road roundabout I had walked no more than three or four hundred yards at most and I have described to you the scene. I was slightly heartened by a glance across the street which showed that  the excellent local butchers is still going strong but I was not even half way down the Main Street and I had seen enough. I turned around and headed back to the Monty by way of the charity shop, which continues to flourish and where I almost inevitably bought a book, an Ian Rankin that I don’t think I have read which is unusual.

A few pints with some mates and then a quick stop in my little local supermarket where what had been a slightly depressing day in some respects took a massive upward turn right at the end. I am going to be a bit of a tease now and not tell you what happened as I have a little piece planned for the next entry to introduce you to a Northern Ireland institution so stay tuned and spread the word.