I stand and lean on the old river wall, North end of the bend on Clancy Strand, On a fine June evening when the westering sun Colours the scene, softly warming all. Here, spread before me is so much of all in this old city that I hold so dear – this area so rich in historical and ecclesiastical heritage, and where it’s strong blend of sky, water and age-darkened grey stone speak to me, as do the living and the dead. It is a scene that is both sublime and surreal, where the past blends with the present and one can dream hopefully of the future. Each sighting of river, bridge and battlement, tower, dome and spire; with the accompanying cadences of sounds of stirring life, of homely voices, of rushing waters, church bell chimes and scarcely noticed traffic noises. Upstream and the wonderful River Shannon, queen of Irish rivers, is spanned by the historic Thomond Bridge – one of the bands that betoken the consanguine bonds of Limerick and Clare. The bridge has the look of a giant easel supporting apanoramic landscape – a pastiche created by the original and greatest Master – of varying shades of green fields crowned near the crest with golden furze and purple heathers, in the near distant green upland of East Clare stretching from Ballycannon to Kilbane. This was the gateway to my youthful paradise, where the duchas of my mother’s birthplace, Killuran Beg, made its gentle, pervasive claim on my heart. Framed forever in memory I think of that so friendly warm farmhouse in the hills where the roadway runs parallel with the little river as it sings joyfully on its way to join the beautiful nearby Doon Lake. With just a low green grassy bank separating the road from the river, all comprised the first dual carriageway that I ever saw! And ‘twas here on that little river that my Uncle’s workman Hourigan, taught me the ignoble art of bag-netting the small tasty trout which travelled through its crystal clear waters. After my reverie I lower my gaze and two of the arches of Thomond Bridge frame cameos of a covey of swans as they supper beside the Island Bank, just a little way beyond the bridge. Sitting atop the stone parapet of Thomond Bridge, eager anglers – a few youths along with a few patient old-timers – fish the river with steeply slanted rods, as did their counterparts in Paris, up to two decades ago and perhaps they still do. On the Thomondgate flank of the bridge, the upper portion of St. Munchin’s Catholic Church and belfry stand out over the rooftops of dwellings on the Strand. This sight evokes memories of that truly holy man, the old Parish Priest William O’Dwyer, whose old black frieze overcoat had long since taken on the sheen and green patina of age and over-use. Alone in that church in the dark hours of night before dawn – the only light being the feeble, flickering flame of the sanctuary lamp – he often kept vigil and prayed for his parish and his flock. His prayers came from deep within the earnest loving and caring heart that beat in his rigid, pain-racked, limb-locked body with the grimace of pain etched unforgettably on his deeply furrowed face. There follows then a smile-inducing memory, which recalls the barrel-chested blacksmith Paddy Aherne, who has long since departed this life. At retreat or mission times his awesomely powerful voice, powered and amplified by lungs which could out-blast his forge bellows, thundered out rousing hymns in mega decibels. That voice went near to eclipsing the efforts of the rest of the congregation’s singing, until on the sustained higher notes nearing the end of each verse, a motley group of aspiring boy sopranos – having placed themselves strategically in his vicinity – unloosed their sustained penetrating trilling vibrato with great verve and seeming fervour and devotion. Alas, there can be no doubt about there being mischief aforethought in their motive – and in that sacred place too! The resulting cacophony could hardly compare with angelic antiphons or canticles in the air; but I would avow it gave the recital a certain lift, and for one thing surely it could be heard Up There – and hopefully raised benign smiles. Innocently, Paddy would strain and raise the decibels even further to the ultimate crescendo to meet this upstart challenge, thereby almost inducing apoplexy. Cheeky grins then from the boys, for we greatly enjoyed the skirmishes whatever the thoughts of the somewhat bemused congregation. Then Paddy would turn to resume his seat and with a majestic flourish of his large white handkerchief, would mop the beads of perspiration from that massive neck and high-balded forehead. Just imagine this was all happening in that Church of St. Munchin in the long ago – even before Luciano Pavarotti was born! And now, more than three score years later – whatever latent pangs of remorse may be felt – it can here be written by one of those boys, now deep into old age, that I take solace from the assuaging words of a couplet from the song ‘The Bard of Armagh’ which avers: “Still it gives sweet reflection as every young joy should that merry-hearted boys make the best of old men” According to tradition, the Bard was Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All-Ireland and perforce in those days of intense religious persecution he travelled incognito – and he surely would have known! Across the roadway from the church, atop its stone pedestal, rests the Treaty Stone on which tradition says the Treaty of Limerick was signed more than three hundred years ago. This souvenir-diminished and weather-riven block of stone became a symbol of a happening, which had raised yearning hopes in the hearts of a long-time downtrodden people. Its promises proved hollow and in vain, for immediately thereafter its pledges given on behalf of the English were revoked – all cherished hopes snuffed out – with even worse penal, grinding troubles to follow. This shameful betrayal left a long-lasting taste of bitterness on the Irish side and its legacy was a burning hope to exact revenge on the English. This feeling is exemplified in the last verse of a ballad written by Bartholomew Dowling of Limerick who emigrated to America in 1851. It was written to celebrate the tremendous victory of the Irish Brigade over the English who were fighting along with the Austrian army against the French army at Fontenoy on May 11th 1745: “As we lay beside our camp fires when the sun has passed away, and thought about our brethren who had perished in the fray – we prayed to God to grant us, and then we’d die with joy, one day upon our own dear land like this of Fontenoy”. Then on to the present century when another treaty was signed under duress in London, again leaving this country with an uncauterised wound, which became the sorely painful ulcer of Ulster and which keeps breaking down with horrific results. It has now become a malignant cancer, deadly enough to pose the question – when will the politicians of these two neighbouring islands return here to sign a redeeming, just and final treaty in Limerick? This would hopefully put an end to eight hundred years of intermittent strife and bloodshed – the final benediction to bring an enduring peace and unity to all of the peoples on our small island; such a peace as was known here only in King Brian’s time! Then, all of the peoples of the two countries could surely become genuine good neighbours and friends in a united Europe. My father had longed with a passionate longing for such a happening in his day. I am now left with the yearning hope that it may come to pass – in his grandsons’ day. Near this historic old Treaty Stone a group of people are chatting – figures too vague to positively identify from the place where I stand. But I would wager that it includes John Joe Cleary, Sean ‘Maxie’ O’Brien and Paddy Galvin; for at what better place could they meet to swap yarns on a fine evening in June but here by the beautiful riverside – and how often before have I see them there together. This is not a trio of yuppie alickadoos – now they are not of that genre at all – but genuine Limerick sports aficionados. One could respect their knowledge too from the experience they had gained on the fields of play and in later years as spectators of more games than they have hairs on their grey well-thatched heads. In youthful days they had handled and kicked footballs – both the ovoid and the round. They had also sampled the pleasure of doubling on a sliotar lofted high or the sweet thrill, of connecting in a flash with a quick lash of the ash on a fast-hopping ground ball. And they took their knocks too in their sporting way! In telling their yarns they may sometimes ‘draw the long bow’ – well, maybe, though only just a smidgeon – and only sometimes! Theirs, the inherent love, even passion for sports of all codes, as befits true-born native sons of this old sports’ mad city; and fair play in all codes is embedded deeply in Limerick sports peoples psyche! Beneath the bridge the rushing waters are swift and powerful, careening along until they dash against, around and over the crustaceous rock-shelf ford at Curragower, there since God the Father’s time – all white and spuming foam showing white folds like a shawled décolletage draped across the river’s broad bosom. It now takes on the embellishment of sparkling marcasite sprays in the evening sunshine, as it plunges to submersion in the broad basin’s pool. Then, without further commotion, the noble river swells out again, hastening on its journey towards Loop Head and its assignation with the warm embracing waters of the Gulf Stream which has journeyed across the Atlantic from the Gulf of Mexico. Then, before crossing Thomond Bridge, there stands an old licensed premises formerly called the Treaty Bar. In my younger days the Colbert family lived there and kept a first class bar. It was later taken over by Paddy Toomey with whom I was very well acquainted and he was a scion of the Toomey family who operated Toomey’s Mineral Water factory in Upper William Street, unfortunately now, only of happy memory. In recent times it has been renamed Thomond Bridge Bar. At the other end of the bridge – the long-time redundant castellated, limestone built old gothic style Toll House stands. It has been converted for some time back to a private dwelling house. Nearby the square tower with slender minarets, of St. Munchin’s Church of Ireland shows up. Tradition says that it was on that same site that Saint Munchin, patron Saint of Limerick, built his first church. Set among the centuries old graves of long-dead parishioners, many of the tombs and gravestones bear the names of well-known and very prominent local families and some others carry names of families that are no longer extant in Limerick. There then, squatting on its prime site is King John’s Castle built in 1210 A.D. and which, because of its massive walls and towers, after well nigh eight centuries, still dominates the entire scene. It was built as a five-sided fortress citadel after the Norman conquest, in the reign of England’s King John. Its front side faces north towards Clare and was fortified only on that side whence most native opposition might be expected from the O’Briens, O’Hickeys, MacMahons, O’Goonas, O’Hallorans, MacNamaras and many other Gaelic septs – nor did those Dal gCais disappoint! The formidable towers, built so solidly and so strongly have their bold geometry softened by their outward circular shapes. They, along with the stout walls, enclose the castle yard. Within these stone walls the occupying garrison was housed for centuries until modern days during my own lifetime when, now under native rule, dwelling houses were built there, wherein two generations of civilians were born and raised as free-born citizens. These occupants have now been relocated, the houses demolished and both castle and yard are happily in course of reconstruction and archaeological excavation. It is a grand thing to see the present holding such fine visual elements of our mediaeval past. To cherish old buildings as we should it behoves us to learn as much as is possible to know about them, so that they will not be destroyed or even diminished in any way – for they are a very significant part of this old city’s heritage, and of our country’s heritage too! And so much must be lying buried hereabouts, awaiting discovery in the layered rubble of the past! Fortunately, in these days it has been possible to enjoy the triple input of money, expertise and opportunity, of which King John’s Castle has been the beneficiary. It is a strong challenge to our present generation and the happy results will provide a further challenge to the coming generations to intensify and extend the excavations to cover the whole Limerick region. In the main castle building and yard – now incorporating a functional but oversized glass, steel and concrete modernity (a not very welcome intrusion, I may add!) – archaeologists work diligently, patiently and sensitively. Their professional antennae keenly alerted – digging, chipping, sifting, reassembling and studying for the future – for relics and artefacts which give insight into the ways and cultures of much earlier and later inhabitants. Historians of the time have written that in the last crucial hours of that late September day in the year 1691 – the day of the last battle of the Williamite sieges of oft-besieged Limerick – a French officer wearing a general’s epaulettes, in a right manic Gallic panic, ordered the raising of the castle’s drawbridge. One hundred and fifty Irish defenders were hurled to a watery end in the rushing waters below, whilst over six hundred more were left stranded on Thomond Bridge without hope of escape, to face the advancing heavily armed grenadiers backed by the full force of the enemy army. Thus sacrificed, with no escape route left, they fought desperately in blind fury, to the certain bitter death, as did so many others of the old Celtic race at the Battle of Thermopylae. Eight hundred Irish perished on that day at that end of the city, whist the French officer presumably lived on. The waters breaking over Curragower that evening had more than a tincture of red, as one can imagine some battered bodies lay snagged on its rocks, to await release on the next rising tide. The bloodbath on Thomond Bridge brought about the end of the siege and the war between King William and the Catholic King James, who was supported by the Irish army. The Irish, who had lost faith in the said James after the Boyne and Aughrim debacles, had lost all faith also in his foreign allies after Athlone, Aughrim and lastly at Limerick. But Limerick has outlived its vicissitudes, and it has been said, that its place in its peoples’ consciousness then, has been as a battleground on which the wrong side was victorious. Yet, on this same ground, it can also be said that Normans and English in turn gave their all in pursuit of … Irishness. Yes! They spent themselves in conquest and eventually instead of transforming the conquered they, over the centuries in the Celtic melting pot, became Irish themselves. And the same can be said of the Vikings, relatively few of whom after Brian Boru’s famous victory at Clontarf in 1014, remained on hereabouts and I can say that I have been for many years on quite friendly terms with two of their present day descendants. It surely must be hereabouts that the immortal phrase was coined: “If you can’t beat them – join them”. King John’s Castle stands today as a monument to the failure of all of the invaders to accomplish their aim of conquering the Irish spirit of freedom. Today it is the Irish flag that proudly floats aloft over the castle – a reminder to the world of their indomitable spirit all through history. And as I look across at the waters lapping that stout bastion’s walls this evening, another flotilla of the river’s swan colony seem to be at anchor nearby, their white plumage lending a lambent air which enhances the golden tranquillity and serenity of the scene in the sun’s afterglow. I am reminded also of my old friend Kitty Bredin who introduced culture to the stark surroundings of the Castletower. There she brought her poetry circle several decades ago and declaimed the words as they were written and intended to be spoken by another old friend and erstwhile companion since our very first day at school together. Paddy Madden it was, and he was later to become that poet and playwright the late Padraig Ó Maidín, former Cork County Librarian. The Byrnes, Darina and Claude, along with Kitty also read poems of the Bard of Thomond in the Tara Room there. Old friends pass away however as both Kitty and Paddy sadly have done, but they have left behind them none but the very best of memories. Now, next in view away in the distance, the verdigris-greened copper dome of Saint Mary’s Catholic Church shows up. It was built, in my youthful days, mostly of the blue-grey limestone, which I saw being quarried a little over a mile away at Mullin’s quarry just a hundred yards up the road from the Mayor’s stone at Hassett’s Cross. This church replaced an older one on the same site, which proved inadequate for the needs of the fast growing parish of St. Mary’s, generally known as The Parish. Then, outside the south wall of the Castle, I see the yellow ochre coloured gables of the very old Alm’s Houses, wherein for very many years, people were housed and maintained. They are now long out of use and I understand there has been a proposal that Limerick Corporation would take over the buildings for restoration to help meet the housing needs of the present day. On flows the river skirting the grounds and new buildings of the City Hall, which has arisen on the site of the old Geary family’s biscuit and confectionery factory. Thinking on the old factory brings a reminder of boyhood gorging on the Geary’s renowned cart-wheel, currant-topped biscuits washed down by a bottle or two of lemonade from any of the three local mineral water manufacturers now defunct, Bradshaws, Toomeys and O’Byrnes. What a blissful treat for the young in the lean times of the twenties and early thirties, before cokes and burgers made their appearance! These really fine bright modern buildings of the Civic Centre face towards the river, and in the interior they are spacious, airy and comfortable in design, in furnishings and appurtenances. Externally, from this side of the river, whilst being beautifully sited, still I can hardly say that they delight the eyes, but if not then they do challenge the mind. They are rather disappointing in aesthetic essence and imposing grandeur – nor are they enhanced by the pink coloured gazebos. These seem intended to strike an attitude, but their exact purpose somehow eludes me! On the higher ground behind the old courthouse a particularly sense-satisfying and beautiful sight greets the eye. With its square tower rising splendourously over the surrounding green trees, one of Limerick’s most prized treasures stands – the Church of Ireland Cathedral of Saint Mary. On that hallowed ground stood the palace of King Donal Mór O’Brien over eight hundred years ago, whence he ruled over the Kingdom of Thomond. A mediaeval palace somehow conjures up thoughts of festive boards set in a great hall, with merrymaking, singing and recitals of minstrels and bards. However such pleasant goings on must have been counter-balanced with the more pragmatic and mundane activities such as food provisioning, politicising and the planning and necessary preparations for adventures and battles. In the year of his death King Donal, probably the greatest king of his race after Brian Boru, donated his palace to the Church for reconstruction as the Cathedral of Saint Mary. In later times, after the Battle of Benburb, the Papal Nuncio, Cardinal Rinucini sang a Te Deum there. Could the likes ever happen there again? Most certainly it could! And why not? But it must wait a long while yet. However, there has been a certain and most welcome rapprochement between our churches in recent years. Ecumenism is the commencement of an overdue bonding and healing of the cleaved wound on the body of Christianity. It was on this hallowed ground that part of the earliest settlement of Limerick began. Long before Viking, Norman or English invaders arrived here on the island of Inis Sibhton, the enlightened Celts took over from the earlier inhabitants and put down roots here. It seems most likely that on this high ground overlooking the Shannon River, at the most fordable point so far up from the sea, that their druids raised their altars and offered up sacrifices to their gods. It is known that with the advent of Christianity, many of those druids, filled with enlightenment, quickly embraced the new faith and became strong disciples of the One True God. Within the Cathedral walls are housed the treasured relics of its past history; and here too this magnificent house of prayer is under welcome reconstruction and refurbishment. Memories of the chiming of the bells of St. Mary’s remind me of my one-time neighbour and old friend Brian Brislane, who for very many years, maintained a family tradition as bell ringer and custodian of the Cathedral. How often in a lifetime have we listened to those mellow tones ringing in sweet harmony with all of the city’s church bells as they heralded so many New Years. People in all parts of the city came out of doors at midnight on New Year’s Eve to listen to the city’s church bells and other sounds of revelry and to wish their neighbours a happy New Year. At this same hour, a joyful, happy gathering of young people congregated on the roadway outside Saint Mary’s Cathedral singing Auld Lang Syne and dancing merrily on the street. On at least one New Year’s Eve I happened to be amongst those happy people too. The eye then picks up that break in the river wall through which the wayward Abbey River happily returns to rejoin the Shannon, having meandered on its short circuitous journey from its mother river and creating thereby the island of Inis Sibhton which, as has been earlier mentioned, became the site of the old city. The single high-arched bridge spanning the Abbey River recently built by Limerick City Trust to commemorate the work of that great and famous Limerick man Dr. Sylvester O’Halloran and after whom it is named, catches the eye. Up this river the Abbey fishermen paddled their boats under O’Dwyer Bridge, past Athlunkard Boat Club. Then out on to the Shannon just near the old Shannon Bridge, better known locally as the Metal Bridge, which carries the Limerick/Ennis railway line. For many centuries the Clancy, McNamara and Liddy families and several others too for whom fishing was their livelihood and a way of life, lived nearby in St. Mary’s parish. Then the splendid view of that fine building, the Customs House, shows its handsome face to the Shannon with its green parkland stretching down to the riverfront. Sight of it brings back memories of days long past and echoes of many voices long since stilled. Here in that building, over many years of my life in business, I came to know many of the fine band of Customs and Excise Officers who conducted business there on the State’s behalf. Shortly before my introduction to its precincts, my Mother’s cousin, Michael McMahon had retired from his position as Collector there. I came to know many well known people, some of whom apart from serving their country, also gave some colour to the city’s social life. There was that inimitable trio Sean Mallon, Darby Kevans and Peadar Mac Eoin along with that small, sturdy, bearded and seemingly always happy Donegal man Mickey Gallagher, and the equally happy Mick Sheerin. Then, that great rugby player of our schooldays and after, Johnny Moloney, who was to become also one of the foremost of that intrepid and indefatigable band who strove tirelessly and incessantly for very many years before eventually succeeding in bringing about the foundation of the University of Limerick of which all our citizens are now justifiably proud. Then I recall another quartette of Officers, namely Stephen Aherne who was Collector there and a neighbour of mine for many years, Pat Franklin, Liam Garrihy and Sean Prendergast. The latter named came from a prominent local musical family. His mother must surely have been the first Limerick lady to sing on the then newly born Radio 2RN - which later became Radio Eireann – in the late twenties and early thirties. Sean also helped continue the family musical tradition in his younger days singing with Limerick Operatic Society and later the McCormack Singers. Then Liam Garrihy is, I would say, a typical Clareman in the best sense, endowed with all the best attributes of his race, which of course includes an unfailing and wholesome sense of humour. He worked mainly in their offices in the Harbour Commissioners building in Limerick Docks. Sadly all of those here mentioned have passed away apart from the said Mick Sheerin and Liam Garrihy. I salute the memory of the deceased members and am very pleased to wish the two surviving members well and I thank them all for providing me with so many pleasant memories. The Customs House is no longer in use as such, but the good news is that the building has been reconstructed and is now to become the Hunt Museum. The work to be carried out there will transform it into an incandescent beacon of light, housing a marvellous collection of ancient and modern art treasures. This unique collection represents a lifetime assembling by the Hunt family formerly of Lough Gur, County Limerick. John Hunt was an art expert who chose his treasures wisely and exceedingly expertly assisted by his wife Gertrude, who aided him with enthusiasm and knowledge. Now, after their deaths, the family has bequeathed this priceless collection to Ireland with a recommendation to have it sited in Limerick. Such a noble and generous deed puts the Hunt family in the forefront of Limerick’s modern benefactors almost on a scale remindful of the Medicis of Florence. It is indeed something to enthuse about and, along with our existing City Museum, will make Limerick a place much more worth the living in and eventually raise our city up among the leading European art centres. Next, beside the Customs House stands a modern building, Sarsfield House, bearing an ancient, historical and honoured name. It was named Sarsfield House after the famed defender of Limerick in the Williamite wars, General Patrick Sarsfield. It was built on the ground on which the old Croom Mills Bakery, owned by the Maguire family, once stood. Sarsfield House seems to rise magnificently from the Shannon waters, and when lit up in the hours of darkness with its lights reflected across the river, it looks like a super six-decker ocean liner. There then, directly opposite my viewing point is Arthur’s Quay. On the landspace a new bright shopping development has replaced the old decayed high red-bricked buildings which I recall. Those one-time residences of the merchant classes had in my younger days degenerated into run-down tenements and eventually became uninhabitable and later again were demolished. Across the roadway extending the full length of the Quay part, the riverside was reclaimed and filled in to make a municipal carpark. Now, after some years it has been converted to a very pretty green riverside park which fills the space where formerly the river flowed and where for many centuries tall-masted sailing ships were berthed by the quayside. Here goods for export and import to and from many parts of Europe and the wider world were loaded and unloaded. Here also turf boats laden with the native fuel were unloaded and reloaded with supplies for the shopkeepers in Carrigaholt and Kilrush in West Clare. The last such freight boat I can recall coming up the river to Limerick was owned by a Captain Davis and he ferried supplies of teas, provisions, wines and spirits from Limerick wholesale suppliers to shops and bars down the estuary, on his boat the Alzina. This would have ended sometime in the mid-sixties. From Arthur’s Quay also, for over two centuries after the Cromwellian confiscations, the emigrant “Wild Geese” set sail for the Continent to join the armies of Europe. They went mainly to France, but also to Austria, Sweden and Russia. Then, in the past two centuries emigrants left from here on their way from this then oppressed and famine stricken land to take their chances of success or failure in making a new beginning in America. A specially sculpted symbolical monument is sited in this new park. It is the gift of descendants of some of those emigrants who left these shores from Arthur’s Quay. These descendants live today in Philadelphia, U.S.A. Numbered amongst another group of exiles who left from Arthur’s Quay, were two people who were to become the co-founders of Methodism in America. They introduced that new reformed religion to America in 1766, having heard the original founder John Wesley preach on many occasions when he visited the Ballingrane area of County Limerick to address the Palatine colony, whose roots went back long before then to the Rhenish Palatinate of Germany. The Palatines were Lutherans who had found refuge here and who had been settled in County Limerick following the French invasion of their own land. So it was that Philip Embury and his cousin Barbara Heck (nee Ruttle) took their new religion with them when they emigrated in 1760. In 1766 Philip preached the first Methodist sermon ever preached in America. He dedicated the first Methodist church in John Street, New York in 1768. As part of their bi-centenary celebrations in 1968, a large group of American Methodists arrived here at Arthur’s Quay and placed floral wreaths on the Shannon waters to commemorate the leaving of Limerick by the co-founders of their faith. They also visited the Embury and Heck Memorial Church in Ballingrane, County Limerick. From the smallest beginnings Methodism became one of the fastest growing religions in America and now has very many millions of followers in that country. Introibo ad altare Dei, A Deum qui laetificat Juventutum meam … The translation from the Latin goes thus: I will go unto the altar of God Unto God, who giveth joy To my youth … Over and above the fine modern shops and stores on Arthur’s Quay, I can easily see, away in the distance, the striking lofty steeple and spire of St. John’s Catholic Cathedral. That splendid church spire, Ireland’s highest, seems this evening to pierce the tail-end of a red-tinted cloud. I cannot recall my first visit to that noble Cathedral, for it occurred on a day in mid-summer long ago when I was brought there as an infant to be baptised in the Old Faith of our Fathers. I never did think of thanking my parents for having done me this great favour, so I am glad to do so now posthumously. Later, I received my First Holy Communion there and subsequently I insisted on returning to the Cathedral for my Confirmation, even though our family had some years before moved from Saint John’s parish to Saint Munchin’s parish which was later subdivided to form the Holy Rosary parish of which I am still a parishioner. The immediate environs of the Cathedral covers the Garryowen area which is steeped in history. Hereabout some of the fiercest fighting took place in the Cromwellian Siege; and during the two Williamite sieges of Limerick here the bravest, raw courage and most desperate resistance was shown by Limerick’s defenders, and not least by its womenfolk. Whenever I happen to be returning home, by whichever approach road leading to the city, it is that spire that first comes into view and it is then that I know I am home. That same spire, Ireland’s highest, seems to cast its shadow a long way around the world to reach the hearts of many Limerick exiles. One day I met such a person as he had just arrived in Shannon Airport from New York. I just chanced to see him and I remembered him immediately. He was one Denis MacNamara who came from Cathedral Place and he is still carrying on a very successful business as a New York travel agent. We had both been at school together in our young days. He was, as he put it, born “in the shadow of the tower” and as a boy he had played hurling on the roadway at Cathedral Place between the markets and Denny’s bacon factory, now long gone. Well Denis, or Denny as he was more widely known, told me that he visits Limerick frequently, sometimes on travel business but also just on impulse following an urge inspired by the memory of Saint John’s spire. He rather surprised me when he said that all through his lifetime his heart had been impaled on that spire. That expression, couched in such language was indeed an unexpected nugget from a necessarily hard-headed New York businessman! He went on to say that on the drive in to Limerick from Shannon Airport he is on edge until he reaches a point near Cratloe Castle. Then he slows down to get his first glimpse of that beautiful slender spire when he fills with emotion because he knows he is back home again. I said to him “that makes two of us, Denny!” I can remember about the year 1926 when as a very young boy in Saint John’s Primary Schoolyard at playtime we craned our necks looking up at three steeplejacks carrying out masonry repairs near the tip of the spire and at lower levels almost directly above us. It was spellbinding to watch their performances at so great a height. They looked so much smaller up there than menfolk on terra firma that some one of the boys who was watching said “they must be angels!” The rest of us gathered there thought it was a funny remark to make and we laughed at the idea because they did not have wings. However, who can say but maybe they have since achieved angelic status. I also remember the kindly Administrator of Saint John’s Parish, the late Canon Connolly. As manager of the schools he made many visits to the classrooms and often spoke with the young pupils just as he did with the nuns and lay teachers Misses Killackey, MacNamara and O’Brien. He had a great love for hurling and football, and on one special feastday he produced for our delight two footballs which we all chased after and kicked according to our skills or good luck, in the grounds behind the Cathedral. After these exertions he produced several one-gallon cans of boiled sweets manufactured at Merritts of the Irishtown, who incidentally also made clay pipes which we used for blowing bubbles. The sweets were real “long lasters” and absolutely nobody went without. He then endeared himself further to us by giving us the rest of the day off school. He was a really fine man about 6’ 3” tall, of powerful athletic build and his face often beamed a warm smile which exuded friendliness and kindness. He was missed very much by all of his parishioners and especially by the boys and girls of Saint John’s Schools when he left the parish to take over as Parish Priest of Croom. I also remember the succeeding Administrator who was not quite the same as Canon Connolly in so far as his approach to children went. He was the powerfully built Canon MacNamara. He was somewhat more aloof and did not seem as friendly, but that may have been just a childish impression of mine. I was very surprised to see him one day on Mulgrave Street mounted on a black hunter. He looked quite impressive I must say and he met up with Captain Shaw of Shaw’s Bacon Factory, also mounted on a fine bay hunter. They both proceeded together in a leisurely fashion, on their way to the Four Elms for a meet of the County Limerick Hunt. He was brought up on a farm near Patrickswell, and a love of horses was part of his family tradition. The Catholic Church was ever catholic in outlook and that also applied to its clergy! My gaze slowly drops and comes back over the waters to a spot below me where the shingled riverbed rises just a little to the right of me, below Curragower. Here was the old mooring place where the Strand fishermen tied up their gandalows. All along the river wall on Clancy Strand they spread their nets to dry them out, to inspect them and carry out repairs where necessary. Sitting up on the lowest point of the river wall near the slipway one of them would sometimes whittle wooden thole pins to fit the rowlocks on their very sturdy boats. I recall often seeing McInerneys, Kings, Farrells, John Christ, Tobin and his brother Timmy, along with others unknown to me, rowing their boats beneath Sarsfield Bridge towards the fishing waters of the Upper Estuary around Greene’s Island. Some of them had spent years as seamen far away from Limerick to return again to their most beloved Shannon River. They are all gone now and in changed times their families found there were other opportunities readily available to earn a living which were less arduous and which provided them with better lifestyles. I remember, in the long ago, seeing Mary Greene of the Island mentioned above sitting like a queen in the stern of a gandalow rowed by two trusty stalwarts. She then rose up and stepped ashore at the slipway at Howley’s Quay having come up to town to do some shopping. I salute the memory of the intrepid, hardy breed of men who espoused the hard fishing life of the Strand, Abbey and Coonagh fishermen. And here is where I end my story about this oldest and very special part of Limerick City – an ancient city the spectacular and wonderful scene of historical and archaeological importance as part of a modern, confident, thriving city pulsing with life, warm, hospitable and proud. And, proud am I to have been born here and to have spent my life in that city which has been the whetstone on which my youthful awareness and wit were sharpened.