Lots of broken links thanks to imageshack and photo bucket pulling the plug on free hosting.
Fixing them one at a time.
Don’t hold your breath.
Lots of broken links thanks to imageshack and photo bucket pulling the plug on free hosting.
Fixing them one at a time.
Don’t hold your breath.
Every time I think I’m gonna wake up back in the jungle.
Plenty to look at in my archives
I also have a Flickr page: http://www.flickr.com/photos/nolligan_nino/
Luzon, Philippines
and in the 17th century…
take a closer look…
Dougal:
Do you remember that bit when St. Tibulus, he tried to take that banana off the other lad?
Father Ted:
That wasn’t a banana, Dougal.
Taken at the Liverpool Maritime Museum
…visit a generic shop
Tonight the wind gnaws
With teeth of glass,
The jackdaw shivers
In caged branches of iron,
The stars have talons.
There is hunger in the mouth
Of vole and badger,
Silver agonies of breath
In the nostril of the fox,
Ice on the rabbit’s paw.
Tonight has no moon,
No food for the pilgrim;
The fruit tree is bare,
The rose bush a thorn
And the ground is bitter with stones.
But the mole sleeps, and the hedgehog
Lies curled in a womb of leaves,
The bean and the wheat-seed
Hug their germs in the earth
And the stream moves under the ice.
Tonight there is no moon,
But a new star opens
Like a silver trumpet over the dead.
Tonight in a nest of ruins
The blessed babe is laid.
And the fir tree warms to a bloom of candles,
And the child lights his lantern,
Stares at his tinselled toy;
And our hearts and hearths
Smoulder with live ashes.
In the blood of our grief
The cold earth is suckled,
In our agony the womb
Convulses its seed;
In the first cry of anguish
The child’s first breath is born.
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.
See also:
View the Ultimate Interactive Map of Great British Grub in a larger format and suggest additional locations
WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
William Butler Yeats
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)