One of the most egregious examples of the way in which the achievements of Cavan’s disabled have been rubbished came last March. The National Council for the Blind, the largest Irish charity working for the benefits of blind and partially sighted people in the country, wanted to hold a meeting in Cavan’s County Library, run by Cavan County Council. They were encouraged to organise a talk on “local history”. However, they didn’t turn to the partially-sighted holder of a PhD in history in their midst, someone who had years of experience as a writer and lecturer on the subject, (myself) but to the council’s dream-boy Dr Brendan Scott, son of Councillor John Scott of Belturbet. Unfortunately the NCBI’s organiser here in Cavan, Ms Helena McDonald, did not realise how she was being set up, and I didn’t realise what was happening until I received an invitation to the event, featuring the aforementioned Scott as “special guest”. Alas Dr Scott, though holding a doctorate in history, is such a craven example of humanity that he felt it was but one more occasion for him to humiliate me and to repay me for the “trouble” that had existed between me and the museum (though before his time), that he jumped at the occasion to give a talk on Cavan’s “Franciscan abbey” (wherever that was). He accepted this invitation so as to rub in my disability to me and at the same time to say that, even though I had a doctorate and considerable experience as a historian, he stood higher amongst the miserable scum of Cavan Co. Council’s establishment. Years of experience has shown that many of the greatest academics are not people you’d willingly associate with, but I wonder do Dr Scott’s colleagues realise what a craven piece of excrement he is? I’ve never met him but since his appointment to Cavan’s County Museum he has pursued a vendetta against me, something in which he has been aided by many in the county council’s executive, including its highest members.

 Now I had thought of Cavan County Library as a home-away-from-home and its ever-helpful staff as friends. I had enjoyed carrying out research there. Sadly, one of the other users of the library did not feel I belonged there, and complained of my whispering into my hand-held tape-recorder. I do not know the identity of my accuser, but I think I’d be able to pick him out in an identity parade. Libraries can be noisy places, yet I ensure that I do not add to the existing background noise level in any way. It was quite clear that I was a wheelchair user and that I needed to use a low-vision aid in order to read text, but a fellow human being responded to my plight not by seeing whether he could help me in any way, or even ignore me, but by making a complaint that I was causing a disturbance. I can assure my readers that my whispers were less loud than the noise made by him and his troupe of hangers-on, who seemed to think that they owned the library’s research area and to resent the presence of strangers there. This was disturbing, but more disturbing was the fact that the library authorities took these vexatious complaints on board. This was enough for me to be banished from the library to the eyrie of the Genealogical Office that has a rather disturbing view over the County Council car park, and it can only be reached by a rather narrow and awkward lift. I was rather embarrassed when I was told of my fate, for no matter how justified I personally felt it was as if I were a schoolboy who had been caught out picking my nose during Morning Assembly. My non-presence ion the public parts of the library frees the county library of the obviously too distressing visage of a partially sighted library user. How capricious is Father Time. I have in my possession a photograph from the Anglo-Celt from a number of years ago, showing me using a piece of magnification equipment in the main body of the old library. I am obviously an inappropriate fixture of the newer library.

 (Let me add that I do not blame the rank-and-file of the library’s staff for this sea change in my fortunes. I feel that this has come from higher up, and from those who do not like being called “Whacko Jacko”. Let me assure him that this epithet is mild compared to the one I feel he is more entitled to.)

 Now I had thought of Cavan County Library as a home-away-from-home and its ever-helpful staff as friends. I had enjoyed carrying out research there. Sadly, one of the other users of the library did not feel I belonged there, and complained of my whispering into my hand-held tape-recorder. I do not know the identity of my accuser, but I think I’d be able to pick him out in an identity parade. Libraries can be noisy places, yet I ensure that I do not add to the existing background noise level in any way. It was quite clear that I was a wheelchair user and that I needed to use a low-vision aid in order to read text, but a fellow human being responded to my plight not by seeing whether he could help me in any way, or even ignore me, but by making a complaint that I was causing a disturbance. I can assure my readers that my whispers were less loud than the noise made by him and his troupe of hangers-on, who seemed to think that they owned the library’s research area and to resent the presence of strangers there. This was disturbing, but more disturbing was the fact that the library authorities took these vexatious complaints on board. This was enough for me to be banished from the library to the eyrie of the Genealogical Office that has a rather disturbing view over the County Council car park, and it can only be reached by a rather narrow and awkward lift. I was rather embarrassed when I was told of my fate, for no matter how justified I personally felt it was as if I were a schoolboy who had been caught out picking my nose during Morning Assembly. My non-presence ion the public parts of the library frees the county library of the obviously too distressing visage of a partially sighted library user. How capricious is Father Time. I have in my possession a photograph from the Anglo-Celt from a number of years ago, showing me using a piece of magnification equipment in the main body of the old library. I am obviously an inappropriate fixture of the newer library.

 (Let me add that I do not blame the rank-and-file of the library’s staff for this sea change in my fortunes. I feel that this has come from higher up, and from those who do not like being called “Whacko Jacko”. Let me assure him that this epithet is mild compared to the one I feel he is more entitled to.)

 I don’t want to keep going back to the fleadh, but I consider that it was used by some to slap me in the face. I would have been more than able and w2illing to give guided talks about the history of my native town, but obviously the thought that these were being given by someone in a wheelchair was too much for some in Cavan County Council. The Fleadh attracted visitors from far and wide, including continental Europe and beyond, and I would have been able to give such talks in a variety of European languages.

I was due to give a “walking tour” of Cavan town in February 2009. Unfortunately this had to be cancelled at the last moment because of a freak snowstorm. (In fact the County Arts Officer, Ms Catriona O’Reilly was advised by the Gardai to cancel all other events on the day because of the inclement weather.) I was assured that the talk would be rescheduled for a later date. When I heard that the fleadh was going to take place in Cavan town I thought this  would have been a perfect opportunity, but alas the organisers saw differently and both native and visitor to the town were denied the chance to hear an entertaining presentation on the history of the town which I would have been only too happy to give. These people could not say that they didn’t know of me, or that they didn’t know whether I’d be able to give a talk, considering I spoke as part of the long overdue commemoration of the victims of the fire in Cavan’s convent in February 1943. Like many others associated with this commemoration I was anxious that it should not become a finger-pointing or blame-apportioning exercise, but should be used to remember the lives of the unfortunate victims. To be cynical the organisers of the fleadh and their backers in Cavan County Council obviously thought that I had no business talking about any aspect of my town’s history.

 For “the powers that be”, i.e. those with their paws on the lever of power and the sources of funding, it is important though, that Cavan’s disabled be presented as a group on the margins, existing purely by the goodwill of those in authority. They must be shown as having no skills and no ability – unless they are lucky enough to have a parent who is a local politician.

 The McCabes in Early 17^th century Cavan

 The Mccabes had arrived in Ireland from Scotland, and had acted as mercenaries for numerous septs throughout the north of the Island. However, by the end of the sixteenth century their long-term prospects were gloomy. The English crown was increasing its influence, and they had a low opinion of families like the McCabes who earned their living through fighting. What’s more, their military skills were becoming ever more redundant.

 The final denouement was the defeat of the Ulster rebellion, sealed by the Treaty of Mellifont f 1603. Many of the leaders of Gaelic Irish society, such as Aedfh O’Neill or Aedh O Domhnall chose exile rather than the uncertain future that awaited them. Among those leaving Ireland at the time was a captain Seamus McCaba who left Cavan for Spain, never to return.

 Their departure ushered in the Plantation of Ulster, where the lands of the Irish were given to planters from England and Scotland, and the original inhabitants were forced to live on restricted holding for which they had to pay high rents.

 The relationship between native and newcomer was not one of undeclared hostility though. While the Irish had lost much of their lands this did not cause universal resentment. They were still able to farm land, in return for paying higher rents, which many planters were only too happy to rent to them. The two groups lived beside one another and generally co-operated with one another. Marriages were rare if only because the two groups belonged to different religions, but they did occur, such as that between the Reverent Richard Parsons of Laragh, and a woman of the Ui Raghallaigh sept. There were also less formal unions. A prominent member of the Burrowes family of Stradone had a child by one McCabe, her serving man.

 The McCabes seemed to have accepted this situation.  Henry or Harry McCabe, a youth moved to Cavan town where he was brought up as the son of an inn keeper. There were still avenues for even greater advancement, as shown by James McCabe who became a highly respected lawyer and barrister. 

  In geographical terms the McCabes lived in central Cavan, in a belt of territory ranging from Ballintemple and Crosserlough in the south, to Drumgoon in the north, and extending to Drumlane in the west. The centre of their landholding was at Ogghill, later renamed Moynehall in honour of the planter Thomas Moigne.

 The balance between native and newcomer was upset by fears at the growth of the puritan party inn England, and that their victory might lead to further acts of discrimination against Catholics in Ireland. A plot was hatched by, amongst others, Lord Conor Maguire, baron of Enniskillen. This involved the seizure of Dublin Castle on October 23^rd. The plan miscarried because its details were leaked, and its leaders arrested. Amongst those detained with Conor Maguire was a Culde Boy McCabe.

 The rebellion was initially successful in Cavan, its leaders were Philip McHugh O Reilly and sheriff Myles O’Reilly. The McCabes do not figure prominently amongst the voluminous depositions which have survived, and which often tell a story of barbarity and former friends becoming enemies. They didn’t take part in any of the excesses of the rebellion in Cavan, such as the drownings at Belturbet or the murders of planters at Lear near Bailieborough. However, some were implicated in attacks on the planters. The aforementioned Harry McCabe, turned on his benefactor at the start of the rebellion. He seized his goods and drove him and his family out of Cavan.  When the man re-entered the county in the autumn of 1643 as part of a band of soldiers, Harry ambushed and killed them near Virginia. James McCabe the barrister became a judge when the rebel authorities tried to reinstate court proceedings in Cavan in 1642.

 The leaders of the rebellion lost their lands, though it is unclear just how far the McCabes suffered this fate. James McCabe died in 1642 while Harry seems to have made a full confession of his crimes once English rule was re-established in the county.

 © Ciaran Parker 2010

YOUL’LL BURN IN HELL FOR THIS SHIT

“Is everything ok?” asks the dwarf.

“No problems. I’m sorry but I just can’t help remarking on the size of your cock. As a man you’re on the small side but it’s enormous.”

“Ah let me explain. You see I’m a leprechaun and all leprechauns have massive cocks in spite of their size.”

“I wouldn’t mind having one that size”. comments the first man.

“That can be arranged. After all I’m a leprechaun so I can grant anything you wish for,  but you have to do something for me.”

“Name it!”

“You’ll have to let me give you one up the butt.”

“Well I don’t know about that…” stutters the first guy.

“Now it’s your decision and I’m putting absolutely no pressure on you” counsels the dwarf soothingly.

“I suppose no one need know”, answers the first guy and quickly looking around to ascertain there’s no one else in the can he gestures to the dwarf to join him in one of the cubicles.

After several moments of excruciating pain for the man the dwarf asks him:

“How old are you?”

The man turns his head and answers, though writhing with agony: “I’m … ugh … I’m thirty-six… arghhh!…why?”

“You’re thirty-six are you? And you still believe in leprechauns?”

 Jonathan Cherry is a very good friend of mine. We have much in common. We both attended Cavan’s Royal School where the teachers, not least Douglas Anderson and Ivan Bolton, imparted that spirit of civility, combined with a thirst for knowledge, which has served us both so well. We have both been “doctored” in history. We are both scholars,  motivated by a deep and sincere respect for each other’s work.  What is more we both come from well-respected families in our respective communities.

 Dr Cherry’s book is a history of a small, vibrant and tenacious rural community. He traces its history, using written sources, maps and folklore, as well as less traditional sources. But this is more than just another history book, as Dr Cherry brings the unique perspective of an historical geographer to his task. He tells the story of the locality, but never forgets that its story unfolds in a far wider context.

 Cloverhill was, for over two centuries, synonymous with the local landholding family of the Sandersons. Dr Cherry sympathetically describes their relationship with the community, and what emerges is a picture, not of exploitation, but of co-operation. The Sanderson demesne lands at the centre of the parish were a considerable employer, while the rents collected didn’t feed the gaming habits of some far-off and ambivalent absentee proprietor. Instead they were used by a series of landlords, including the indomitable Mary Ann Sanderson, who was deeply committed to Cloverhill.

 The central aspect of this community is without doubt St John’s parish church. It was built by the aforementioned Mary Ann Sanderson. Like many people I had been misled into thinking that the church had been consecrated in December 1856 by a centenary service reported in the Anglo-Celt in December 1956. The formal consecration took place in 1860. This may help in identifying the architect. Dr Cherry repeats Jeremy Williams’ assertion that one of the Wellands may have been responsible. Why I felt that it was NOT the work of William Hague Jar (1836-99) was that, in 1856 Hague was only twenty years of age and not a qualified architect. If the building work only began say in 1857 or 1858 it Hague might have had a hand in drawing up the plans for his father who built the church, although he was as yet still too young and inexperienced to be credited with the work.

 In an introductory chapter Dr Cherry outlines the various sources he used. He outlines one which is probably the most important, and which is all too easily overlooked: an intimate knowledge of the location.  He writes:

 An often understated but hugely important source in understanding the sense of a place or the place as lived is personal experience. As a native of the area … I have been immersed in the history of the place since an early age. My own personal interest in the evolution of the village and district, coupled with strong familial ties to the area, have been of significant value in charting the history and understanding Cloverhill past and present. Speaking with local people and simply observing change has given me a greater understanding of what Cloverhill means to those who live there.

 This is a local study par excellence. It is of value on many different, though parallel levels, first as a local history, and then as a volume that gives keen and erudite insights into rural and religious history, as well as the history of landscape. All these elements are deftly brought together by Dr Cherry through his engaging and pellucid style.

 Our involvement in this project has been a pleasure. It is amazing how a group of people can make a difference when they set their minds to it, and how they can move mountains by harnessing the skills they have amongst themselves. I already knew Sean Galligan, who is the spring-board of the group. I have een able to meet again my old friend (though not in age) Ita Madden, whose knowledge and commitment has always ensured that the group always does he right thing. But I have made so many new friends, like Eamon and Lorraine, not to mention Fr Ultan McGoohan., a true gentleman. Some may have heard Karin Charles’ wonderful documentary about the tragedy and the commemoration on Northern Sound radio.

 The ceremony is for all the people of Cavan. It is an opportunity to remember those who perished, but without rancour.

 Alas our success has attracted  the attention of some elements of Cavan town’s publicity-hungry political pond-life. They couldn’t be persuaded to come to our meetings, (even though I saw one of them in the bar of the Farnham on a night we were having a meeting, until they sensed that, by not getting involved they  might lose a photo opportunity. I do hope none of them come along wearing their chains, though it might be difficult to tell them to get lost. They’ve been of no help to his so far, but that does not mean that they couldn’t be a hindrance to us in the future.. But let us not think of such people, but instead of the thirty-five girls and their cook who died that night. Had they lived they would have been able to spin that web of magic which each of us spins, which is called our lives.

 The arsonist(s) are probably on the run now, fearing apprehension, but I want to give them some words of consolation for the future. You should really get out of the grime of the big city and move to a border county. There your involvement with arson will be initially forgotten, especially if you join Fianna Fail and the Knights of St Columbanus. You will then be able to look back upon your past with pride and speak candidly and unashamedly about it. And what’s more you will even get a job with the local authority.

 Instead of having to keep a low profile to escape the Bill, you will be able to have your mugs emblazoned on a weekly basis in the local paper. When you attend social events camera bulbs will flash as if you were Brittney Spears. If you still have criminal tendencies you will be able to steal with impunity, and because of your newfound friends you will be able to slander decent people, and what’s more be believed.