Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome!
Fremde, étranger, stranger.
Gluklich zu sehen, je suis enchanté,
Happy to see you, bleibe, reste, stay.
Cutting turf to heat homes has been a tradition for millennia, but the EU has ruled that it must stop.
RED Gardens Project, (Research Education and Development) consists of 6 family scale gardens each one 100m2 (1000sqf) and following a different methodology, or approach to growing vegetables. There is also a larger Black Plot, of about 1000m2 (1/4 acre) which is exploring issues and possibilities of an intermediate scale growing space.
- Lakes – Lough Allen and Lough Ree
- Great Towns – Boyle, Frenchpark, Roscommon, Castlerea, Strokestown, Athlone and Ballaghaderreen
- Historic houses
- Golf courses – if you like ruining a good walk that is…
- Nature – Rivers teaming with fish, woods and forests and don’t forget the bogs!
- Roscommon Lamb – pass the mint sauce please
- Roscommon Castle – looks lovely doesn’t it
- Good nightlife – okay so this might be over egging the pudding…
- Mining experience – visit the coal mining museum in Arigna
- Home to Chris O’Dowd
- Primrose and blue steel Roscommon football team
‘…An’ cranreuch cauld!’
Benbulben (Binn Ghulbain) in County Sligo
The story of Brian Boru, his life, his triumph and tragic death at Clontarf in 1014 has captured the imagination of generations of Irish people.
The 2014 national programme of events will centre on four key locations with links to Brian’s life; Killaloe in Co. Clare, Brian’s birthplace and seat of Brian Boru’s High Kingship , Cashel in Co.Tipperary where Brian was crowned High King of Ireland, Clontarf in Dublin where Brian died, and Armagh, where Brian Boru is buried.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
from “Digging”, Death of a Naturalist (1966)