You will never guess.......

Now I'm unsure where to start or how to continue.

Beneath the photograph is a book which documents the history of the original settlements of Dublin. Talpa knows me and would, I'm sure, tell anybody that my accent is that of the Home Counties; yet I was born in the Rotunda hospital Dublin, barely 2 miles from where this picture of the two chaps was taken at the entrance to Dublin Harbour. The wall they are leaning against is the original southern seawall of the Pigeon House Road, where the fishing boats and packet boats from the mainland came to deposit their catches and passengers; the wall opposite with the crane is where the boats from Stranraer and Liverpool moor. The area of Irishtown and Ringsend is tiny it is the original area of habitation of what became Dublin. We lived in a tiny one bedroom fisherman's cottage, identical in style and size to those found in most Scottish fishing towns or villages.
There are several connundrums associated with the picture I have put up today. See if you can follow the story. The book is a gift from a lady who should, but for the stupidity of my father, have been my mother. She, along with my Gran, looked after me as her own during my early years. The adult in the photograph is my mother's eldest brother. He should have been my father. He had a stubborn, never give in, attitude to life, yet loved those near and dear to him with more emotion than anybody without similar traits could recognise; he remains an inspiration to me. Uncle John ran away to sea at 14 on a fishing boat working out of Dun Laoghaire (pron. Dun Leery) or Kingstown as it translates. When the boat returned my maternal grandfather, a bottle blower by trade, dragged John kicking and yelling back home to his education. At 16 he left home and went into the Merchant Navy. Three ships slipped beneath the waves with him onboard during WW2, the first sinking was due to a collision in fog, he lost everything he owned and was dressed in cast offs when returned to shore. The next two occasions were the result of those nasty chaps in sleek gray hulled Unterseeboots. He did survive.
The young chap is a cousin, I never knew existed until two years ago, or more correctly he had existed. Let me tell you a story.......
Put yourself in the centre of the area of Ringsend and Irishtown, everybody aspired to Sandymount. Ringsend and Irishtown could put the fear of the unholy in anybody who didn't know the place. Yet it was home to the people who made Dublin tick, from dockers, labourers, fishermen to bankers and office workers; my paternal Grandfather had started in the O'Connell St post office, scene of the Easter Rising, as a Telegram boy, he eventually became a senior member of staff, former school friend of the then Taoiseach, a neighbour, they would greet each other in the street and chat; imagine how present day politicians would be if they had to catch the number 18 bus to O'Connell Street, getting off at Trinity College to go to work? My summers were spent there as a youngster and teenager, I feel at home there, yet I stand out as an obvious outsider. My friends who still live there remain as open and friendly as we were all those years ago; I knocked on a door in Ringsend one day and the lady who opened it eyed me with suspicion, I said, "Hello Angela, I'm Nancy Parry's grandson, Rob." At which point I was grabbed by the lapels, dragged through the doorway and smothered in affection, her opening words were, "Come here you!" I hadn't seen her in 40 years, yet we knew each other immediately. Her father had been one of those characters who everybody knew but never crossed. He trained his greyhounds, but nobody knew what else he got up to. Joe and Ma Tierney were an institution.
Now to my cousin, as with any area there were groups of kids who went everywhere together, not necessarily as gangs but there was a degree of territorial possessiveness. As I was a regular visitor I played with my mates, all Catholics, while we were the only Protestants in the street, as was the case with my mother's family. The boy was fortunate to live in a loving family, their only child. His parents were artistically minded, their surname was D'Arcy, quite a chuckle for the rest of the kids. However imagine the lad's anguish when as he grew he became aware that his first name was going to ruin his life, they named him Hyacinth. He was always, but always known as Hycie (High Sea) to save him from ragging. He was, apparently, a gentle soul who did his National Service in the RAF, then shortly afterwards he took his life.
It has taken me nearly 59 years to discover I had a cousin who was braver than most, I wish I had known him and been able to stand alongside him. It seems he never complained, just accepted his lot in life and got on with it. My uncle died 20 years ago, having moved to Cardiff just after WW2 to marry his darling Welsh lass. He became a builder and after several years formed a group of 8 men with various trades, they then bought a plot of land on St Fagan's Road, Cardiff and built their own houses from scratch. At his funeral there were three male voice choirs, get the picture?

So, various connundrums; you cannot choose your parents, or the names they give you, it used to be that you could not even choose the trade or profession that would be your life, your bride or husband was often selected for you and became your intended. How life has changed.