Something in the Water. There must be something in the water that nourishes writers on this Great Island of ours, as it has such an abundance of them. Perhaps, as the Lee flows along, it gathers stories from its many tributaries and courses, tumbling them in its stream as it flows ever onward on its journey to the Atlantic. Or maybe it’s the nature of living on the harbour, where for centuries ships have sailed and sheltered as the flow of commerce from across the nation has funnelled goods and people to its quaysides; then onward to new horizons waiting out past Roches point. Something draws them to come to rest, like so many grains of sand, onto the shores of Cobh. This never-resting, ever-changing harbour has borne witness to the heartache of the emigrant and the excitement of unknown adventures for those drawn to a life on the ocean. Cobh’s every corner is etched with history and the endless search for fresh possibilities seems to stimulate the creativity of the local writers. They wait like Heaney at his desk, ‘Between my finger and my thumb, The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.’, and what a range of stories our local writers unearth in their digging.
Mother Jones. She was 93 years old,grandmother of all agitators,immigrant teacher's words stirred men to action,she wrote her story down,passing labours flame from Pennsylvania,from coal mining heartlands built on the bones of union,tales of the silk children's knight crusader,charging the power of the mill. The call of the woman of the north side,fell into the ear of the ragged trousered wretch,growing straight in the regimented pines,arrayed through the ruins of famine homesteads,hemmed in by the meandering dry stone walls,built from their shells,pray for the dead,fight like hell for the living,in mines and bogs or dockyard slips,the boot seeks a neck,the company scales the pocket picked,join a union
The Island. Angels voices soaring to roll off the ceilings curves,numb hands pressed against grieving ones,roaring winds pulling at the aged stones,no threat to peace or pain inside the vault,sharing the seeping warmth of love departed. The lintels still carry chisel strikes,left by rough hands that toiled,a hundred years of rain have yet,to find their way inside,each stone as tight together as the families,who sit in hushed mourning rows beneath,
Towering Giants. The rusty frames have faded into the background,beyond the comprehension of the busy lives bustling underneath,the silent gaze of the towering giants,steadfast vigil beside the dark river,strangers eyes see the flaking struts,derelict complaints can’t reach the pigeons nesting over Verolme,
Muscle and Blood LÉ SAMUEL BECKETT is a fine ship. She represents the first of her class and already in her four short years of service she has travelled far and wide, and she has been involved in several substantial and difficult operations. Yet despite all her exceptional engineering, her advanced technology and her substantial firepower; she is but an inanimate collection of steel plates, electronic cables, and marine fuel oils; rendered redundant in all her marvellous sophistication without a crew.A crew of sailors is needed to provide the ship with its muscle and blood; without them, this wondrous craft won’t ever weigh anchor or slip from a quayside. The metaphorical ink is still wet on this page, as the first responses to the swell rolling into Cork Harbour are felt onboard LÉ SAMUEL BECKETT as she proceeds past the twin forts of Meagher and Davis, towards Roches Point and the Atlantic beyond. This is home for her crew of forty-six, during this next Maritime Defence and Security Operations (MDSO) patrol. She will provide everything they need to sustain themselves during operations off the Irish coast and they in their turn will tend to their ship, while carrying out the duties assigned by Naval Operations Command (NOC).
Cobh -The Gateway to Munster. Cobh is the most beautiful seaside town in Ireland, looking out over the vast Cork harbour where the mighty River Lee runs down to meet the ocean. A place of rich history, which has stunning natural beauty and it is where the world’s largest liners come alongside the Deep Water Quay. The huge floating palaces carrying thousands of tourists each year are vast in scale and they tower over the brightly painted fishing boats which set out from the small little piers and coves with their pots & nets seeking to bring home the bounty of the waters outside the harbour.
Technical Training School, Irish Naval ServiceH aulbowline Island, located in the second largest natural harbour in the world, where the Lee flows down to meet the sea, is a place of rich history. Tucked away in an unassuming corner of a disused building, a historical gem had been awaiting rediscovery…In 2012 while passing the Seamanship Bay on the Naval Base during some renovation works PO/ERA Alan Duggan chanced to come across a collection of old machinery. He spotted what he thought might be a type of ‘Hot Blub’ stationary engine and he began to seek out information as to how it came to be there.
Happy Birthday. On the 1st of September 2016, the Naval Service slipped into its seventieth year and went about its duties with the same quiet professionalism that it has always had and hopefully always will. The crews of the modern navy who have acquitted themselves so well off the coast of Libya are following in the footsteps of those who laid the foundations of the Service in September 1946.The Naval Service is the principal sea going agency of the State and performs a whole host of duties for the government and other stakeholders. Fisheries protection in Irelands Exclusive Economic Zone, narcotics & arms interdiction, search & rescue; these are only some of the tasks which they can be called upon to perform at any time during Maritime Defence and Security Patrols.In projecting the law of the State beyond the horizon, they defend Irelands interests with their presence and as self-contained mobile units they are capable of undertaking tasks which no other state agency can perform.