De Banks

Oh all that on earth I wish for or crave

Is that my last crimson drop be for thee,

To moisten the grass of my forefathers' grave,

On the banks of my own lovely Lee.

I’m unable to state the precise date when my grandfather Patrick Henry Cusack, accompanied by his brothers Dan and Tom, left his home in Bandon, County Cork forever. What I do know is that if they had not chosen to follow the examples of millions of other poverty-stricken Irish the 19^th and 20^th centuries, by emigrating and leaving their own native soil for good, in the hope of a better future abroad, my life would have been very much different, had I existed at all.

Perhaps typically, they displayed that streak of wilful, contrary obstinacy that I have by the bucket load, in choosing not to seek their fortune across the Atlantic in Boston or New York, nor to join the huge numbers of Irish in London, Manchester or Liverpool. Instead, they came to live among the smaller in number, though fiercely proud and supportive Tyneside Irish community. Population statistics from the 1870s onwards show on both sides of the river, the percentage of immigrant Irish grew rapidly in Walker and Wallsend to the north and on the south bank in Jarrow and Felling, where the Cusacks came to call home and I entered the world on August 11^th 1964.

Almost 48 years later, on Friday 10^th August 2012, I made the return journey from Tyneside to the Banks of the Lee with my son and my ex-wife, flying Jet2 to the city of Christy Ring, Rory Gallagher, Jack Lynch and, in some far distant way, my ancestors. Of course it’s not true that I’d never been to Cork before; as a small child we once holidayed there, though I have no memory of that visit, back in the summer of 1971. However I have been informed that I apparently developed Chickenpox during my time there and the small scar above my right eyebrow is testament to the physical, as well as emotional and cultural, influence that the city on the Lee has had on me.

Other than ancestral longing and a fancy for a birthday weekend on the gargle, the main reason I’d booked this sojourn was a drunken conversation, very late on Sunday 3^rd June in the Newtown Inn, Maynooth, County Kildare, during my last visit to Ireland. Regular followers of this site and articles I’ve published over the years will know that my passion for League of Ireland football is undimmed by personal experience. Regular trips over the past few years, not to mention the monotonous regularity with which clubs have gone bust (including Monaghan United as recently as June), meant that, other than the Louth pairing of Drogheda and Dundalk, my assiduous attempts at visiting such sites of sporting excellence meant  I was only requiring Cork City to complete my Premier Division set. I’m not so fussed on completing Division 1 as yet, especially as question marks over the nature of senior football in the City of the Tribes and Mick Wallace’s VAT wranglings down in Wexford, may have some effect on the make-up of the 2013 League of Ireland.

Despite being a good 30 miles from Inchicore, The Newtown is a bit of a haven for St. Patrick’s Athletic fans and, having consulted a fixture list while in my cups,  one game stood out in particular; Cork City v St. Patrick’s Athletic on Friday 10^th August. Even better, the All Ireland hurling semi-final between Cork and Galway was taking place in Croke Park on Sunday 12^th. It was written in the stars; I had to be at both games, so immediately on my return I booked the flight out to Cork, then back from Dublin, having obviously checked the Under 21 international on the Tuesday was in Sligo (been there; done that) and the full international on the Wednesday was away to Serbia; news of my non-attendance at this being enough to make Shay Given retire from international football.

It seemed a fool proof plan; my good friend John McQuaid arranged to come down to see the game and the city with us, then booked the hotel rooms at the Park Radisson (well away from the kip the St. Pat’s lads would be using), sorted the tickets for Croker and we started to count the days. Unfortunately, we didn’t factor in the quality of St. Patrick’s Athletic as a Europa League team. Having disposed of Icelandic opponents IBV on away goals, it seemed unlikely they’d have the mettle to trouble Bosnian outfit Siroki Brijeg in the second qualifying round. However, fair play to the Pride of Inchicore; they drew 1-1 away and finished the job in extra time at Richmond Park with a 2-1 win. All of this was great for the Irish domestic game and, regardless of the fact they lost 5-0 on aggregate to Hannover 96 in the third qualifiers, it improved the Irish UEFA coefficient. Regrettably, it also meant that their game against Cork City would be postponed from Friday 10^th until Monday 13^th, by which time we’d be safely ensconced back up in Kildare.

Despair did not take hold at this point; Cork City had arranged a friendly with Blackburn Rovers for Sunday 12^th. Surely, this would be moved back to the Friday or even Saturday, because of the hurling, not to mention the Pats game on the Monday and my personal groundhopping requirements. Well, the club did move it; it had an hour earlier kick-off than initially advertised, so as not to clash with the efforts of Jimmy Barry Murphy’s side up in Croker. In the end, Blackburn won 3-1, in front of 1,386; I’m unclear how many of these were Darwen End psychos who’d caused the cancellation of a friendly in Holland the week before. However, one thing worth seeing would have been Morton Gamst Pederson’s zimmer frame celebration after he scored, in reference to Blackburn’s “Global Advisor” Shebby Singh likening the midfielder to a pensioner in a meeting with fans the day before.

However, fixture rearrangements meant that what was now abundantly clear was the only one thing to do in Cork on Friday night was drink, which I suppose was good for Sara; not that she’s a drunkard you understand, just that she didn’t fancy a League of Ireland game. No wonder we divorced eh? Anyway, the trip over was incredibly smooth, with Jet2 treating us like humans and not cattle on the way to the slaughterhouse the way Ryan Air does. We touched down, transited quickly, observed the statue of Christy Ring (the greatest hurler ever, apparently), then checked in to the hotel. A quick coffee and we were on the bus to the city. Goodness I was excited and a little nervous; this certainly felt like a kind of homecoming and I was delighted to be here.

Perhaps the feeling was mutual; the first bar we took in was the Oliver Plunkett, where the singer in the corner regaled us with “The Lakes of Ponchartrain” and “Roddy McCorley,” almost as if he knew my mind and my repertoire. He was a better singer though, so I concentrated on the Beamish at a very reasonable £3.00 a pint. I preferred its plain character to the slightly sweeter Murphys, which cost more. After a couple of beers and a bite to eat, we looked for other bars. I entreat you to avoid the awful Ovens Bar, which was like an O’Neill’s transported to a place where there are plenty of great, authentic and eccentric pubs.

Two of them you must visit are Charlie’s, on Union Quay, a real spit and sawdust affair that’s the closest I can recall to the Atlantic Bar in Portrush of 30 years ago. Charlie’s has a shrine to Rory Gallagher and appears to be a hub for live music; I will go back there I hope. The music was off for the boxing on Friday night, when Michael Conlan lost his Olympic semi-final. In the other memorable bar The Hibernian (or Hi-B) on Oliver Plunkett Street, it was mobile phones that were off. This crazy one room pub, upstairs from Minihane’s chemist and downstairs from the Cork College of Hairdressing is as eccentric a place as I’ve ever been in; it’s honestly like drinking in a 1960s living room. Another spot I must go back to.

We made it back to the hotel for late ones; no music and no conversation in the bar, as mute businessmen watched the US PGA in silence, while Friday trickled in to Saturday and I became 48. Up in the morning for a full Munster fry, we took a look around Cork. While it doesn’t have the Georgian elegance of Glenamaddy, I mean Dublin, it is a charming place and I will return sooner rather than later. It’s a good job we weren’t looking for Turner’s Cross, the football ground, though, as we didn’t find it; instead we came across Sunday’s Well, the home of Munster rugby, then began our journey north through the Jack Lynch tunnel.

Our first stop, still in County Cork was Mitchelstown, the home town of a dear friend of mine and massive Teenage Fanclub fan, Tom O’Grady, who died in May 2010. Frankly, it’s a no-horse town that is dying on its arse; you can see why he exchanged it for the bucolic delights of Luton. We got out of it fairly quickly then moved on through County Limerick, where the roads were choked with Hiace vans full of Stanley knives. In County Tipperary, we passed through the beautiful town of Cashel, making sure to take a bad photo of The Rock of Cashel, before heading on to Thurles.

Here the photo opportunities were of the spiritual home of hurling, Semple Stadium, which was of course closed and Hayes Commercial Hotel (including the Cusack Bar), where Michael Cusack formed the Gaelic Athletic Association on 1^st November 1884. From there we headed northwards through Kilkenny, Laois, Kildare and Dublin, depositing Sara at the Red Cow Hotel with Declan, Mel and the kids, who’d come inland from Dalkey to collect her. John, Ben and I then headed out to Maynooth, where I celebrated my birthday by staying in, as it has become a tradition of mine not to go out on my birthday. One interesting thing was the appearance of Paul Brady on Saturday Night Live; I may have missed him at the Sage in May, but he’s with me every step of the way when I’m back in Ireland.

Sunday was hurling day and we took the 12.15 from Maynooth to Drumcondra, along with most of the population of the county of the Tribes, or so it seemed. The actual attendance at Croke Park was only 41,582 in the end, which is about 50% full, presumably because many Cork fans hadn’t bothered to travel as they felt sure they’d lose. I’d guess that the crowd were probably 60:40 Galway to Cork, but as we made our way to the Cusack Stand, it looked more 99:1 Tribesmen to Rebels.  Declan, being a proper Galway bandwagoneer, ignored the highly entertaining Clare v Dublin Minor semi-final on the undercard, in favour of taking in Hibs v Hearts. I have to say I was delighted that the Hibees grabbed a deserved point, but it was important for Ben and I to take in the Minor game, as this was our first ever sight of hurling and we needed to try and get our eyes in. I supported Clare, on the basis that they weren’t the Dubs, but they fell agonizingly short, losing 4-14 to 2-17 after being in front most of the game.

I’m very pleased we saw the Minor game as it almost prepared us for the fastest and most furious sporting encounter I’ve ever seen; a game that saw aggression and confrontation incessantly on the pitch, but not a scrap of bother nor any taunting off it. To Declan’s delight and my disappointment, it was the Joe Canning Show as the Galway man grabbed a dozen points in a 0-22 to 0-17 win for his county, after the two teams had been locked at 0-11 each at the break. It was a privilege to see such action and skill at close quarters.

Rather bizarrely though, the half time entertainment was an exhibition game of Rounders, which is a constituent sport of the GAA. Both Ben and I had played exactly this sport in Primary School, without any knowledge or indication it was in any way Irish. If I’d known, I’d have been better at it, though I did play for Green house at Falla Park in the inter house competition, if that counts. Certainly the Rounders was more entertaining than the awful on-pitch entertainment, a Limerick band that may or may not have been the Hairy Bowsies singing “I’ve got a Hiace full of Stanley knives.”

At full time, we wended our way back down through the truly blighted part of north inner city Dublin that is erroneously called Summerhill. I mused as we came on down through Parnell Square and the top of O’Connell Street and in to the safe haven of The Confessional Box for a pair of pints of Porter, that this is the part of Dublin the Irish government are keen the tourists don’t get to see. Smackheads, whores and all manner of poverty blighted marginals begging for loose change dogged our step as we went thence to the train from Connolly to Maynooth. A hungry feeling came over us stealing, so we took a spot of dinner in Brady’s, followed by the bizarre sight of the Olympics Closing Ceremony on RTE, in the Newtown Inn, surrounded by the same Pats fans as back in June, who were are still going to Cork for the game, despite it being on Monday. Luckily, Shamrock Rovers v Sligo had also been moved to the Monday so we had a game to go to in any event.

The next morning feeling rough, I persuaded Ben to join me on a tour of Dublin. It was a glorious day and would have made for a fabulous welcome home party for the Irish Olympic team, if that idea hadn’t been knocked on the head. Katie Taylor returned to a welcome in Bray, John Joe went on a pub crawl in Mullingar and the two Belfast lads had a low-key reception in the Titanic Centre. Presumably Cian O’Connor’s horse was somewhere around Parnell Square at a methadone clinic.

From Connolly, I took Ben up the Monto, down Talbot Street to the GPO, where we met Sara and Declan. Lunch in the hideously overpriced and poor quality Grand Central was followed by a wander over the river, past Trinity, up Grafton Street and on to St Stephen’s Green, to the fabulous Dublin City Museum. Everything on show has been donated and the elegant Georgian terrace is crammed full of touching, personal, nostalgic mementos of Dublin from the last 100 years. I implore you to go, as it pulls no punches about this enduringly fascinating, beautiful place that is, in all honesty, still actually two cities. Rather like Berlin in the 70s, there is a tremendous and jarring contrast between the two sides. In Dublin, it isn’t a wall that separates the two sides, but the River Liffey.

The poverty and drug abuse on the north side, compared to the ostentatious affluence on the south, should not be explained by 100 yards of water, but by centuries of the failures of capitalism.  The appalling legacy of heroin and unemployment in Dublin is most strikingly depicted by the hundreds of shuffling junkies on Da Nort Soide, many of whom have reached middle age, meaning they’ve been addicted for most of their lives, and who beg and plead from Talbot Street to Heuston Station; frankly it is appalling. I’ve always been aware of such shameful social conditions, but it was a real eye opener for Ben as we walked back through Temple Bar, along the Quay, over the Ha’Penny Bridge, past the Four Courts, through Smithfield, to Collins Barracks and the National Museum, before we caught the Luas to Tallaght for the game.

It was a beautiful sunny evening as we arrived at the end of the line. Of course I’m no stranger to Shamrock Rovers home games, having taken in the 1-1 with Cork back in June, as well as a 1-1 at Tolka Park v Derry in August 2007. My previous Tallaght experience told me the Maldron Hotel was the only place in the area for sustenance. As we took coffee in its luxurious lobby, I mused on how bizarre it would be for visitors to the Hilton in Newcastle to see the place rammed with football fans, never mind how bizarre it must be for football fans to enjoy pre match drinks in an upmarket chain hotel.

Reigning champions Shamrock Rovers started the game 10 points behind leaders Sligo Rovers and needed to win this one. Both sides were out of Europe, though Shams had reached the EA Sports League Cup Final and were in the FAI Cup that holders Sligo had been knocked out of by the now defunct Monaghan United.

With the game being on television, I hadn’t expected much of a crowd, so I was pleasantly surprised to see almost 5,000 in the 6k capacity stadium. As a point of contrast, 2,059 were at Turner’s Cross to see St. Pat’s steal a 1-0 win that kept them alive in the title hunt as they’ve two games in hand because of their European adventures.

Sligo, now managed by former Scunthorpe boss Ian Barraclough, looked really good; Jospeh Ndo in midfield is the best player in Ireland and didn’t waste a ball all night. Ndo was ably supported by Romauld Boco and Pascal Millien, while Ventre and Quigley, who scored a blinding goal to put Sligo ahead, were superb as well. Considering Danny North is out for the season and Rafael Cretaro was only on the bench, Sligo really do have a strong squad. They could have been out of sight by the break, but a fingertip save by Jansson from Boco right on the whistle kept Shamrock Rovers in it.

After the break, it all changed around once Ronan Finn curled in a beautiful equaliser after 50 minutes and Shamrock Rovers found themselves in the ascendancy. Sligo are cute though and Ndo took all the sting out the game as it headed to a tame draw that gave the visitors more pleasure than the hosts.

So, another trip to Ireland was over; I’d not been to any new grounds, but I had seen two great games, a pair of wonderful cities and a brace of deeply important museums. However, don’t be surprised if it is Cork that I head to next time I fly back to my spiritual home.