http://www.kennethohalloran.com/geo-magazine daily 0.75 2016-02-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173582314-GCJ54N7HX31TDYTELM1D/County+clare_Page_1.jpg Irish Traditional Music- GEO Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173582314-GCJ54N7HX31TDYTELM1D/County+clare_Page_1.jpg Irish Traditional Music- GEO Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173589685-FPWJPK7PXBF3Q0ERM8QU/County+clare_Page_2.jpg Irish Traditional Music- GEO Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173593364-5199EXXUERZ5970GOJHF/County+clare_Page_3.jpg Irish Traditional Music- GEO Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173632027-ZZ2TLS9ALQQB4G9T0L2M/County+clare_Page_6.jpg Irish Traditional Music- GEO Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173639497-1X11ZRLLVT71DF8OVMZ0/County+clare_Page_7.jpg Irish Traditional Music- GEO Magazine http://www.kennethohalloran.com/ny-times-magazine-3 daily 0.75 2016-01-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452174067178-FX7N2O3L463GI051OR88/06_17Mag_LR_Comb_Part55.jpg World Irish Dancing Championships - New York Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452174067178-FX7N2O3L463GI051OR88/06_17Mag_LR_Comb_Part55.jpg World Irish Dancing Championships - New York Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452174131704-K446J1LODUFIP0PS0FQF/06_17Mag_LR_Comb_Part56.jpg World Irish Dancing Championships - New York Times Magazine http://www.kennethohalloran.com/le-monde-magazine-1-1 daily 0.75 2016-01-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173738478-4B3G0LONG70MO177HFO9/gallagher_Page_2.jpg Gallagher Clan - Le Monde Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173738478-4B3G0LONG70MO177HFO9/gallagher_Page_2.jpg Gallagher Clan - Le Monde Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173743673-3WOBRHKB9BO6PSSY74M7/gallagher_Page_1.jpg Gallagher Clan - Le Monde Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173748559-8EZRRQCP0H9JT3PDM0D2/gallagher_Page_3.jpg Gallagher Clan - Le Monde Magazine http://www.kennethohalloran.com/ny-times-magazine-2 daily 0.75 2016-02-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452174005117-4ZTEDCNCE4DT0RRR5640/23+Well+-+JP+Donleavy+is+Still+Standing-2_Page_1.jpg J. P. Dunleavy, Novelist - T Magazine New York Times https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452174005117-4ZTEDCNCE4DT0RRR5640/23+Well+-+JP+Donleavy+is+Still+Standing-2_Page_1.jpg J. P. Dunleavy, Novelist - T Magazine New York Times https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452174005622-9S1YABBTSAD76M2QMAG9/23+Well+-+JP+Donleavy+is+Still+Standing-2_Page_2.jpg J. P. Dunleavy, Novelist - T Magazine New York Times https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454844581828-0HBI8PJDZLBU7AXJ9IEN/jp-web.jpg J. P. Dunleavy, Novelist - T Magazine New York Times http://www.kennethohalloran.com/ny-times-magazine-5 daily 0.75 2016-02-12 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454752337346-814NPCBSSN3YG92XKVNQ/image-asset.jpeg Pilgrimage - New York Times Magazine - Pilgrimage- New York Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454752337346-814NPCBSSN3YG92XKVNQ/image-asset.jpeg Pilgrimage - New York Times Magazine - Pilgrimage- New York Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454752501279-N153HYYO0CLQCNSZCL5T/image-asset.jpeg Pilgrimage - New York Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455300398813-83IURQ6II8GCUMIRLQ84/Croagh-Patrick41.jpg Pilgrimage - New York Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455300636362-UZBVSEF3UOTHWCBKH8FO/Croagh-Patrick27.jpg Pilgrimage - New York Times Magazine http://www.kennethohalloran.com/fair-trade daily 0.75 2016-02-17 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039071334-VZ85G5IUPP4OF2D3PP8P/ireland+horse+fair.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039071334-VZ85G5IUPP4OF2D3PP8P/ireland+horse+fair.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039053343-XPEW8SXWNEXONI1XHW53/ireland+horse+fair+%281%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039052517-3M83M8EYXLMMGD9TV4RL/ireland+horse+fair+%282%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039053459-9ENOUHESG06DZFZVLLUU/ireland+horse+fair+%283%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039053918-ZFQYZRSVN6A1G33KFZFY/ireland+horse+fair+%284%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039054443-OGP9L2RQI4S3YQCUP4DI/ireland+horse+fair+%285%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039054536-92HO9A6QEHMS888B9B4L/ireland+horse+fair+%286%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039055213-2IRLI5GN4D13T1EPUNIZ/ireland+horse+fair+%287%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039055056-NP8X1I7G9G1DE1NXU30Q/ireland+horse+fair+%288%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039055690-83DO3IMDU8QCRB0H4QRA/ireland+horse+fair+%289%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039056556-JUG9Y0VLXHY07XG7ZKXI/ireland+horse+fair+%2810%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039056329-OWZBNK0CIO8KRSJR0DT8/ireland+horse+fair+%2811%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039057721-XMN15A87UML65BPE8YUT/ireland+horse+fair+%2812%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039057961-55R8120YJ9DOZQN7QKM0/ireland+horse+fair+%2813%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039058782-G5BNMUYZEZ7SGZW4NXHT/ireland+horse+fair+%2814%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039058808-ZEO33KW4KCHSCI8HH35Y/ireland+horse+fair+%2815%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039060135-LCZ4RWUTR9XSWFTVQF7W/ireland+horse+fair+%2816%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039060122-NF8HF1XVLPHI54EU44AU/ireland+horse+fair+%2817%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039062023-2IIG1TPWNHAUTS6MN2FA/ireland+horse+fair+%2818%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039062393-3TA73OSF3L0XQ1VU7PXW/ireland+horse+fair+%2819%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039062432-188W9BTJ3YA4FYY806CX/ireland+horse+fair+%2820%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039062886-XJE5A01OCSWHIL0HWO01/ireland+horse+fair+%2821%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039068910-FHVIG6WTPSBFVUD3U2VV/ireland+horse+fair+%2823%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039064961-GRTBTRU2KKZC4UKQGHU0/ireland+horse+fair+%2824%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039066914-VEQZLDG9WZGWOW5NQBJQ/ireland+horse+fair+%2826%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039066088-QOSXOKVTMH5KCL38B4DK/ireland+horse+fair+%2825%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039068111-JLZTZAA36DRB95ZGLBE2/ireland+horse+fair+%2827%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039069426-MBRC2ET9J2ABFKBON5RM/ireland+horse+fair+%2828%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039070757-ZNEWIJNGHGSOB11A9J2H/ireland+horse+fair+%2830%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039069704-IOCC2IB15QBI8YBPPZ5R/ireland+horse+fair+%2829%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455039072156-UCO8T136F1FX9XJTQKS2/ireland+horse+fair+%2831%29.jpg Fair Trade Fairs are more than places of trade in Ireland. Women regard them as occasions worth dressing up for, often with great care, lending a kind of delicacy to the day, a femininity to counterweigh the spit-in-the-hand dealings of the men folk. There is a vibrancy of colour, red hair, freckles and a range of ensembles guaranteed, at the very least, to attract your notice. Many of these are travelling people, part of an ancient tribe of Gaelic nomads who have never remained in one spot for very long despite numerous integration attempts by settled society. Though they lead very simple and basic lives they have a reputation for ostentation and pomp in marking certain occasions. But there's business to be done. On days like these horses and ponies are their stocks and shares; the towns and squares of Ireland morph into their trading floors. In the aftermath of the Celtic Tiger, seen by many as a vacuous and immoral age, these old meeting grounds are flourishing arenas of openness and transparency. They barter. They laugh. They sing. They row. http://www.kennethohalloran.com/le-monde-magazine-2 daily 0.75 2016-02-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173793276-03ST8FWWCWCZH6CYWJIG/082+PF+Irlande_Page_1.jpg The Irish Property Bubble - Le Monde Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173793276-03ST8FWWCWCZH6CYWJIG/082+PF+Irlande_Page_1.jpg The Irish Property Bubble - Le Monde Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173790430-SBBJEVN1I9XMSPV7II6L/082+PF+Irlande_Page_2.jpg The Irish Property Bubble - Le Monde Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452173809716-H7TV9ETW0CMV4KE8SAU9/082+PF+Irlande_Page_3.jpg The Irish Property Bubble - Le Monde Magazine http://www.kennethohalloran.com/time-magazine daily 0.75 2016-02-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452174659685-1NAKKOGZMJOEHX885237/TIME_20141110_52_1026432_ARTICLE_Page_2.jpg Ann Rice, Author - Time Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452174659685-1NAKKOGZMJOEHX885237/TIME_20141110_52_1026432_ARTICLE_Page_2.jpg Ann Rice, Author - Time Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1452174677438-KB56BXNJK7IWABOORMGT/TIME_20141110_52_1026432_ARTICLE_Page_1.jpg Ann Rice, Author - Time Magazine http://www.kennethohalloran.com/tales-from-the-promised-land daily 0.75 2016-02-13 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544566072-7B9G48ZN0AI3I87Z6TY2/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%281%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach (Prime Minister), Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544566072-7B9G48ZN0AI3I87Z6TY2/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%281%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach (Prime Minister), Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544461778-CNSERK46ALL10KEQTGS2/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%282%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach (Prime Minister), Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544469192-EJOUD303ASGA134Z2MOJ/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%283%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach (Prime Minister), Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544475563-991GN2ML5SBKFOZU6UNY/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%284%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544553506-DDXWWQOGGA8O52CRJX2W/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%285%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454546425705-70H2W5MO29CLGD2HGGMF/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2814%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544559458-WKV4RN7ZNYHZ4ETP5X2W/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%286%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544664656-0ESH0M2Z9ZNN1WDZS4F3/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%288%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454546436419-CDDQXCIF55BFHI0TWJJ8/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2817%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544613495-ALMFPBEOADYWQXW3BSQH/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%287%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544617011-X8LQ48PBXAZ8T5Z9VH5C/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%289%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544624816-R3PG0WTRGGP4VLSSP1EQ/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2810%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544954838-86FI45LBRM88I6HRO9V6/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2823%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454546464079-FSZTEEN2WDU09OMBG015/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2822%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454546450650-DM9FJ0B6175Y3878ZMFK/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2818%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454546441098-FYKPJHROGD8G6TMYE1YC/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2815%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545037097-AR29255H5TW25ZDKO0IP/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2825%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454546457626-HIRNQGEOGC4QLI7P3EAO/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2820%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544712377-69Y1ZGQP4NZIXRP4N08V/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2813%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544713158-EPVI6C1A5AIZZF5ZTVUT/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2816%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544709000-0PHG0HB8A1YGF4UGOFFH/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2811%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454546790669-6ZHG1HPC4OVZPI8ICX6M/image-asset.jpeg Tales From The Promised Land https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545077008-K6X5IN5BEBK9DD8Z0O7V/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2826%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545109306-7VRWTADPZBA4RYGF1OX7/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2827%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545173735-F9SVQ3YHDUC2NWQYRJHU/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2828%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545219092-9SV78SE2N65ECR6CVAV1/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2829%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545319649-JUKAXATZ85IJDYLK9Y5D/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2830%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545309702-LMHA5M0XW7X6ISUNIG9Q/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2831%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454544760465-VUZBT782T4JVD4HWXURR/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2819%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545338668-6Q7SR68LRVN2747M2KII/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2833%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545426256-9EFPWYLGB3I8467FPF6O/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2834%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545518040-EKIFZA2VM4TLGUQRU5LD/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2836%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545539467-MY6IZMKBP7LJM1ODFHLI/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2837%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454545435213-QA6FHPQP76G6MGDUCIQC/ireland-property-crash%2C-ghost-estate-%2835%29.jpg Tales From The Promised Land For 10 years, Ireland’s boom just got “boomier”, in the words of former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern. From 1996, house prices rose without a break, pumped with the most potent drug of all : cheap credit and plenty of it. Flimsy financial regulation, tax incentives and soaring numbers of economic immigrants - many of them put to work on construction, thereby creating a vicious circle – ensured that property became the dinner party staple of the era.   An unholy alliance of builders, developers, estate agents and bankers became the new gentry, mad with hubris, prospering in a culture of greed masquerading as entrepreneurship. Their conspicuous lifestyles - trophy homes, multiple holiday villas, yachts, helicopters and the occasional private jet - were not only accepted, but admired as the well-earned fruits of their buccaneering labours.   At government and local level, politicians facilitated the developers, riding roughshod over planning principles and re-zoning parcels of agricultural land in areas unfit for development. Landowners became multimillionaires overnight, as the builders moved in to throw up insanely over-priced suburban-style houses in rural locations, all of it . financed by bankers driven by rivalry and minimal oversight.   Developers never had to worry about turning a profit, thanks to extraordinary house inflation, fast becoming a bubble. As desperate young couples were forced further from the city for affordable homes and overnight queues became a common feature of new home launches, agents and developers found new ways to milk the frenzy. Where before, phases one and two of a development might be a year apart, the greed fest reached a pitch where an apartment advertised at 270,000 on a Thursday morning could be hiked to 295,000 in a so-called “Phase 2” that same afternoon. Between 2000 and 2007, residential mortgage lending surged by more than 300 per cent - from 29 billion to 123 billion.   The disease was contagious. In the 10 years from 1996, as the Dublin region saw a 366% rise in property values – from an average of €82,400 to €384,247 - many with modest homes in the most non-descript suburb came to believe they were sitting on a goldmine and borrowed gleefully on the strength of it. Some came to fancy themselves as property “experts”. An age of insanity was distilled in one court case in early 2009, where it emerged that a Dublin father of three on an Air Corps pilot’s salary of 53,000 (euro), had managed to build up a twelve-house property portfolio, with loans of 8million euro from nine separate financial institutions.   The common belief, it seemed, was that cheap credit and immigration would last forever. We were invincible. Only a few Cassandras saw the turning in the road. The giddy rise in house prices skidded to a halt when the European Central Bank raised interest rates in 2006 and 2007. Construction sites closed abruptly and tens of thousands of workers were thrown out of work, many of them the immigrants on whom much of the future housing demand relied. Banks and developers on a giddy round of musical chairs were caught when the music stopped. Our crash was even “crashier” – to borrow Bertie’s unique word treatment – than any other country in Europe   The true value of half-completed housing developments on stunningly obscure sites in the so-called commuter counties lies savagely exposed. Agricultural land bought for astronomical sums at the height of the boom are reduced to wasteland. “Zombie” hotels, “ghost” estates and mothballed apartment blocks mock the hubris of another era, like the desert kingdom of Ozymandias : “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and dispair!”. http://www.kennethohalloran.com/bertie-my-ass daily 0.75 2016-02-22 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541318665-HS50SJWE2VMVGQZSDKB4/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-First-Image-.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541318665-HS50SJWE2VMVGQZSDKB4/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-First-Image-.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541050678-KOKUM1QESOPRPFRGO84S/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%282%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541054688-REK56NQICOE09VPLYVIX/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%283%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541064161-7A58I3G1OQAS4SJRZ7S7/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%284%29.jpg Bertie My Ass https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541065241-7JQDDVUOE07801IISE0W/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%285%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541073548-PC8A3LWQ73T1442IG6JN/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%286%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541084215-J9DWJE7VI64JDQME19WT/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%288%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541096139-NOPH0RLTRTS2H3S68Q7I/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%289%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541094166-7R6EDEM4HIUJ3ADJQU4Y/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2810%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541102297-K9KNPGLX9JUUZV771S3T/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2811%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541109153-W0NZ8YDWB3R6MO6B311O/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2812%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541113593-TKKSESZ3G43DG96UFND2/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2813%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541130886-LGR4RG1ICE3YEXGDQWT4/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2814%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541125292-0MYVNCLDU0O0EGOY7CGW/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2815%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541136855-RVLWFRJ6KVHSQ5914M97/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2816%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541074512-MHX34QNGDAZ9WA5Y2QXJ/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%287%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541141884-F318V6GWI7YQPZOSVZK6/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2817%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541148363-308Q30HEGG042NXC4Z3X/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2818%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541153036-M7F6CM5VBF8BZ8PJYOMC/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2819%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541168535-QCCKFH5H1R6Q4O8KI4T2/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2820%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541170754-TIVKW9DBUADX2PEWCCV6/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2821%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541174156-RG3HZF1BUAEMGB0LEBYW/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2822%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541192042-O8UWR9AN5MJ1DUGV391P/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2823%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541181927-OYXBJ7MYSHUQ56OHC40Z/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2824%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541195152-WJBOQ9HHCYSZP74U1TZB/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2825%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541206468-NJGYZOSMC9DSCL1VRV5A/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2826%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541204625-OYTQUR103STN3D02R3VQ/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2827%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541216653-4HGNNBET6GWZTXJZ3L1W/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2828%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541224770-9RHC6ZLNQVAPP0Q52KK9/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2829%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541226522-KW0GDHYJP5169LA4D3S3/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2830%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541237083-25HKUCRZ87IC2G0CN8WI/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2831%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541234653-JUT8FREODW4OXFVBB00V/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2832%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541251821-0FRJ2XZH4STWIMDUOZXX/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2833%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541254523-3B8SG2MNKUOVVGNSJG4X/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2834%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541263382-QQUR3BL4F8RFNP7MTXFD/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2835%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541268321-47GI59CSLC1QITEXWYIG/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2836%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541273100-457RRXE9DL23511P52KR/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2837%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541289660-BD1STONQ93LZD1YPITXA/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2838%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541288039-GJZ4KXUMJW0GQDTKVPRU/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2839%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541316022-7DT7721P7IR6KPY775UA/bertie-ahern%2C-irish-general-election-%2842%29.jpg Bertie My Ass During the boom years of the Irish economy Fianna Fail surfed the wave of prosperity and popular appeal, emerging over successive elections as the country’s leading political party. Each ballot is preceded by an exhaustive nationwide campaign to capture voters, the party leader burning up the miles to engage with his followers and rally support. Babies are kissed, hands shook, promises made. In these moments Bertie Ahern, the Fianna Fail leader, was in his element. He had a natural rapport with what was often referred to as the plain people of Ireland, a connection that for a time translated into a winning streak at the polls. But beyond his hardened party faithful, the love wasn’t unconditional. This would prove the last of the good times before an economic crash transformed the political landscape and saw Ahern’s standing, and that of his party, plummet. Having been the premier force for generations, Ahern’s Fianna Fail were now in the pillory for poor governance, loose bank regulations and an unhealthy obsession with making a quick buck, their once-respected reputation in tatters. http://www.kennethohalloran.com/living-with-alzheimers daily 0.75 2016-02-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547236360-Y1864VA83V1Y5296F8D2/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0001.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547236360-Y1864VA83V1Y5296F8D2/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0001.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547246835-UM8RLA487YLUZLT90FYY/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0002.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547265151-4ITZXO699XDFZZWBNG7M/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0003.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547276054-TGPRBXKQSV4LS9ALJG2Z/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0004.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547290807-SZZILVAPXSTHS7CJMF1L/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0005.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547288050-JIGVNYA0JGVFKL17VUZQ/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0006.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547309844-1DH3GNGPNEFBM2UBZT8W/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0007.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547314210-19IWFS0BB5MXUJLWBV6N/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0008.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547330039-M3IY416Q4NSIS8WUGWFR/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0009.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547343275-M4CB6QRG5F9O7B3PNWUD/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0010.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547356679-6XRZO6VKMWALWP1Z9K0X/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0011.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547367066-M92NNCMMW11UKT5Q3OI6/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0012.jpg Living with Alzheimer's https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547378038-9VCK8IWFDHJ7VVIT61VD/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0013.jpg Living with Alzheimer's https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547393838-631AGPUJ0INT8OAR9JY5/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0014.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547396760-KAN927R5C8AS1PMUID2H/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0015.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547412647-N407BI257TEXQWFCZUMH/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0016.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547430252-LS765WFYBMQ17002A76N/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0017.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547435589-NSJFGG16M98955L5BSD5/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0018.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547452574-ESICKBR3HGIB477CV3W9/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0019.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547453362-D5BWYZKL4ZOQ33CQVBJY/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0020.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547480868-HNFVH7ODQOTRD5ADUPZ2/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0021.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547473710-3J2RX6SL6GUSE180W78I/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0022.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547493903-7UT86NRK03OGCKTCMV4A/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0023.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547509290-TB4JB6XDJOFLICSM452V/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0024.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547517775-6777387VA20UMMFJ337J/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0025.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547537693-PJMGBPN41ML9XYVFPNNE/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0026.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454547546386-Q3LPBO1X1NOFBZ4M7FM3/Living-with-Alzheimers-angel0027.jpg Living with Alzheimer's It is often said that Alzheimer’s, for which there is no known cause and no cure, has a much more grave impact on the families of the victims than on the victims themselves. Angel Serrano lived in the town of Talavera de la Reina, an hour's drive from Madrid, with his wife Dioni youngest son Carlos and daughter Cristina, who devoted virtually all of their time to caring for Angel in the final few years of his life. When they noticed his memory failing several years ago, the family immediately recognised this as a classic early symptom of Alzheimer's – Angel's sister had suffered the same illness and died a year and a half before. She was just 48 when she died; he was 56 - the same age as his father was when killed by the disease. These are uncommonly young ages to die from Alzheimer's, which is usually diagnosed in patients over 60. However, a form of the disease is inherited and can manifest itself sooner in life. For DioniCarlos and Cristina, looking after Angel became increasingly onerous and all-consuming. In the final two years of his life, the most basic of daily routines were beyond him and he needed their full-time care and attention. Angel lost the power to speak, walk, and wash and clothe himself – and finally, a week before he died, the power to eat. http://www.kennethohalloran.com/the-handball-alley daily 0.75 2016-02-18 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539226423-AKEZS1W6HJVPTLK0RSWQ/Handball_017-FINAL-1.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539226423-AKEZS1W6HJVPTLK0RSWQ/Handball_017-FINAL-1.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539250058-ON5U3JKJO3W1AYWL85E6/Handball_060b-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539233915-SQ9IENN6XSSAUEKDF6WU/Handball_033-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539234012-MKHSCJAIC5VU8JVJF2FK/Handball_035-FINAL_1.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539232002-B2OPJ4AHRS5CY2C6K0XK/Handball_030-FINAL_1.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539252373-5UXDA9E83JIP3M6ESIQ1/Handball_063-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539261875-2IWTG53H38MXD9F3YKV7/Handball_081-FINAL_1.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539259580-JGFW3C1CF58RBXF2YK4V/Handball_070-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539258583-5DRSVJV90JKJQTWDQUY9/Handball_066-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539218770-EGQTA0SXV15FH2VR4VA5/Handball_006-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539229170-W7Z74Z3VAIQDGAEAQO1U/Handball_029b-FINAL-1.jpg The Handball Alley https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539246592-WXOKACE1YRT8MZYKMP9A/Handball_059-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539224100-VRJY6H5VWJNO5D7OLSA0/Handball_015-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539223858-8LBS63YIOBWAY6BCAESQ/Handball_014-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539227898-LZRAQORQ2TM5WXAX2DPB/Handball_019-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455109317842-C9H9V6F75D7BQIA1UO9R/Irish-Handball-Alley-1-.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455109526120-BAK2RER4KPX9TB5HRJKK/Irish-Handball-Alley-2.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455109751768-CS0U4G8L7OM2TBXAPHU7/Irish-Handball-Alley-3.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539268719-HMMUVXHZ4I9EMOVQLCAO/Handball_088-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455110034319-ZFBHD4L4JDQ3PXG91WVH/Irish-Handball-Alley-4.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539236477-CIYTK6RUTPD90IJRWVSD/Handball_036....jpg The Handball Alley https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455110242893-R9UR6LV0XEACWGX5RXWB/Irish-Handball-Alley-5.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539243057-TK9953X210PQKC9C91SV/Handball_042-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539252010-14RA70YCA3HHN49A4U0J/Handball_062-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455110541798-14W5E55743ADNBL6ZNMT/Irish-Handball-Alley-7.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539260959-0SH0EHDF82RQJ55H5HET/Handball_072-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455111172549-9ZTEJYF72GZZRXO0CZ3R/Irish-Hansball-Alley-8.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455111172874-0I7Q4ON7VH8HFGC20SBM/Irish-Handball-Alley-9.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539255974-T7TLCQU2BAPIO6V1FE17/Handball_064-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455111417770-SEMM9IALDEFAJF9ENXN9/Irish-Handball-Alley-10.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539265858-TOA7DG17XCIKBS8IAVEC/Handball_086-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455111769240-QGDKRUL321011N26Q07D/Irish-Handball-Alley-12.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455111769282-VZ1HVAC3KFDASJ1ION0H/Irish-Handball-Alley-11.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539221728-Q5F3Y33S0NUJ9LG9PH5X/Handball_009-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539271316-8IC8SG2QS4SVEO4MSYFI/Handball_092-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539275470-7H2NKXR1G4XUF2MVFIWI/Handball_093-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539222043-SD6RDOH501X5NQTIC115/Handball_008-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539245500-U0GUTIDM958JBIRSACQC/Handball_043-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539274329-45F21GVQX1VDPUC2ZKS2/Handball_096-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539276525-NJK606F55KWTKU3F6VJY/Handball_098-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539278361-4CBK60W2OJR36C4MTFB4/Handball_099-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454539256674-G7V0DEG0C0CVMTYJ45BN/Handball_065-FINAL.jpg The Handball Alley These are relics of a once vibrant chapter of Irish life. Like the dolmens John Montague crafted as a metaphor for the old people of his childhood, the ruins of these abandoned alleys bear silent testimony to a feature of Ireland that has perished through time and modernization. These plain walls were once the thriving open-air theatre's of their day. They were familiar meeting points, where people played games long into long summer evenings, and others gathered for simple companionship and discourse. The alleys came alive at a time in Ireland when human interaction needed little in the way of sophisticated props or accompaniments. In rural Ireland in particular handball captured the public imagination and societies grew around the games and the alleys which staged them. They became prized places of refuge, offering an escape from ordinary, hard-working lives.   At the ball alleys, some strategically placed at crossroads in the open countryside, generations happily fraternized. Some were drawn by the magic and noise of a game which has deep Irish roots. But the alley was more than a sporting venue; it became a vital anchor for the community and an invaluable leisure outlet. It also served as an unofficial meeting point for lovers and revolutionaries. Even as a location for executions. It had an open charter - multiple, indiscriminate possibilities. Like Montague's dolmens, some alleys survive - a portion of them intact and a minority enjoying new leases of life. But the majority are disappearing slowly from the landscape to the point where they will eventually become extinct. Many have been merged and camouflaged into other structures, like farmyard sheds or car parks, so that they are barely recognizable or identifiable. Many others are simply abandoned and overgrown. Old handball players and the game's scattered aficionados will recall their last hurrah 50 odd years ago or more, after they had thrived across the country for over a century, before television and better transport began to signal their decline and offer alternative means of entertainment and social collusion - leaving each one in turn to become a tomb for a lost civilization. http://www.kennethohalloran.com/bodies-in-motion-1 daily 0.75 2016-02-15 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542599910-T1A5KE9OJ56Q4QZE12O9/62.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542599910-T1A5KE9OJ56Q4QZE12O9/62.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541941283-EMRKHPLM265XEHZY4MTE/01.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541929059-V15YZN9UUGD646YY9S2I/02.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541945937-AI3SBLOM6B25RBHW8VDR/03.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541957803-F40L3BNUHBXMMIJA97S3/04.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541956268-VDVSIUJDZYPSMRQU57RW/05.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541977852-HCW872PG5JSVILNNB1FH/06.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541981551-QVP27EC4COD26ZLMH9ES/07.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541997093-O8Y6AYC0N9NQ5E5B2HV3/08.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541997889-M4BUEY1VYKIGZSAHBY38/09.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542008466-Y5NUPLJ04VCYJUNZRELX/10.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542012000-X8DF1I6GEOM3Q3YTZNZV/11.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542026811-OW7K3LB7OGFVPZ6JTOVW/12.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542032378-UEEPMFKN624C3N5VSXZC/14.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542040314-PEHQP55RN70961CN4ZK5/16.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542046585-6RMYW5CVNY89GAK1WP20/17.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542052492-7QIKG97IJZ0UYZJ7LVUM/18.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542060005-8F0IVN8A6Z4F04T1VQEC/19.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542070779-OI3BPKQK2V5F1YILK6JO/21.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542072950-52DQHOJ50BSFTLGBLE9E/22.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542089445-UXL7P5P73IP548B2T286/23.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542080945-9MEUMA881LAMK6OV5312/24.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542100896-CRQRULNZPCWGQ8GJCAMS/25.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542106571-DRBNHWEQMXA6ETE7J595/28.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542119456-KD7FEEQYPTUEMSN66LCY/29.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542119165-F81PQ6IWULCTWAO09KYE/30.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542133569-G3QVDSCKWEKK36ZRPUIR/31.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542132975-QE0CYZ6GBR9JCM0FA0SV/32.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542160773-Y6KLMP9UZCNFSBH7EP7G/33.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542152624-Y8S3U0LPD3MJJJM0ICTQ/34.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542170351-CQ48EWL5IV1MJUB09KTB/35.jpg Bodies in Motion https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542179565-EDITU0LTOMK8BV3QH6ZI/36.jpg Bodies in Motion https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542181250-GAI9KWPWF39IPRTI3QT0/37.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542196448-D17FVXFF2K5BCY1NU8CI/38.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542193306-DF78R4PTI4BYWBL947XL/39.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542205796-RUEKH0YTIYZM2HXI8LFQ/40.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542215751-QBH04ITRUACH5G2UWT5U/42.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542224467-SYOVHALEXAR0MBN05DO1/43.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542235083-4W79Z2CBK9L68VLLJOCN/45.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542249409-WKK6X4XEDUMKC7IFCDNL/46.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542253365-UZNLCXKYELE7HDYGY147/48.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542272098-F4EU0S1CI2FS9L4H9L60/49.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542271417-7ATW9JOTA4Z48RGHAMPT/50.jpg Bodies in Motion https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542288473-L8P5ZXLLXB66TA3L838Y/51.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542295949-15LWOP20EQ43ILVZIKKC/52.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542571438-YJXT012XKTPKD5DTS23F/53.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542565499-BME3MGGV2MCUVNQCTVKK/56.jpg Bodies in Motion https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542575896-APWOJSK25ZK4ISP3UKEV/57.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542584955-L54ABIPS4VXTFNREGXPN/59.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542591876-X50I1YD1NUPDUSZTOVO0/60.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542592380-2YQEO09VJYMSNRIHH9ST/61.jpg Bodies in Motion https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542604569-OQKF7HJ7BLHGWFCEH7ZH/63.jpg Bodies in Motion Though now a more secular society, Ireland still has remnants and relics of the old religious faith, even if many of its devoted followers are typically advanced in age – part of what might be termed a dying generation. The Catholic Church had been one of the country’s mainstays. Falling Mass attendances, declining priest numbers and various damaging scandals have shaken the institution and weakened its grip. Despite this my father is a daily Mass-goer; his faith doesn’t appear to have flinched. The house where I grew up in the west of Ireland is where my father now resides with his wife and their daughter Susan; all the rest of the family have flown the nest, some starting families of their own, one in New York where she has become part of the Irish Diaspora. The religious paraphernalia located throughout this house gives God a central presence and status not uncommon in Ireland at the time. We prayed as a family, like when the Angelus bells struck at noon and six in the evening. We knelt at night to say the Holy Rosary. Many of our rites of passage as children were rooted in Catholicism – our first communion, our confirmation, and so on. My father, who is 85, would not have seen anything remarkable in this. He was merely carrying on the tradition of his own father’s generation. Having spent half his life working, he recently retired, closing his drapery store. His undertaker’s business continues. For me and others in the family it meant that death was never far away or overtly mysterious. We became accustomed to the dead of our parish being prepared for the final ceremonies before burial. We would often come home from school to see who had died that day. If we truly wanted to make our father proud, we would have mastered the game he followed all his life: hurling. This ancient Irish sport, requiring great dexterity, courage and speed, can still weave a spell on him. Born in a rural community he has seen his own life change and now that of his children too. In recent years he lost a brother to whom he was close. Now I see him deriving great joy from his grandchildren. In their company he seems tranquil. At peace. His work done. http://www.kennethohalloran.com/between-the-jigs-and-the-reels daily 0.75 2016-02-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541647562-4ZQ30MIZF4BXFWLIWKEO/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%281%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541647562-4ZQ30MIZF4BXFWLIWKEO/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%281%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541649823-GLWIQLB4QBMP2KA6W74M/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%282%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541654081-J5TYNQC6GKIK1QSJO0YV/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%283%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541669788-U2K8FBL0GHLRRV9NDUMZ/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%284%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541663599-FGC26WWRW1DHM4ECB50I/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%285%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541680102-8G7W6RS2R5HRENCR4ZYN/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%286%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541682640-M2JJUM431SD36MAMYREU/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%287%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541694947-U7IJ8VQAA9O8LWDVGHE1/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%288%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541690399-HSY54AS7XVNXBRQXDL5K/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%289%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541709946-F4FMRQJZH74CK9DGVGH8/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2810%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541701965-IAVWJ4XSW6EKC9OOS8YQ/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2811%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541711512-41U5J7UC273EJT1P5U0G/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2812%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541717066-EF28Q52HGESMNFK5RWSH/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2813%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541722925-Z6J5AHOLJ9HYRJ9679GL/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2814%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541731422-T7O3X58AQZ483QM4ZJNN/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2815%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541729802-33C3UB7XYNFYMQ1T31NM/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2816%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541736820-3SXKDX5YARXO4G3R1KK7/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2817%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541742884-DM67FSROTO3EWJZOAQ9F/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2818%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541747325-HMA43RHDP006BO6DKK4P/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2819%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541752797-ICF3OFDXDY4ECMOLUR4J/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2820%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541754926-SOKVLLRGGXDYZ74CQDN8/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2821%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541764416-QUWIRNUHG1KNHCT0N5V6/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2822%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541767804-0EEBOIH3RGTAZ75G2GOG/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2823%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541794802-VZROJ9VVZ5XQLBYHN8B3/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2824%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541778315-7520SPRWZ0MPS4PBC0R1/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2825%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541787406-3HCXXRAZJ9CM1MG48E7C/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2826%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541801317-MCFBGES7I5ZR3OON3Z4E/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2827%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541822598-TJ2ISTII8RVXPS0AUHC9/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2828%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541819274-AP0L3AM1VFGPQSLD9IW4/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2829%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541833869-PR6G0TPCE0IVS2PMBBM7/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships-%2830%29.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454541840754-SQ0XDT1U0P57W8D89CAK/World-Irish-Dancing-Championships.jpg Between The Jigs and The Reels In 1994 during a seven-minute interval at the Eurovision Song Contest in Dublin a group of dancers took to the stage and proceeded to blow the audience away, including millions on television. Fronted by Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, soon to be household names, and accompanied by vibrant and relentless traditionalIrish music, this was the first public performance of the global phenomenon that would become known as Riverdance.   Now fast forward to Belfast in April, 2012. Up to 4,500 competitors took part in the Irish World Dance Championships, an event that began in more humble circumstances in Dublin in 1970 – its aim being to promote Gaelic dance culture. Since then its popularity has gone through the roof with contestants travelling from all over the world to compete.   The show is more than a dance discipline in the strict sense; the ‘look’ is also deemed important and almost an industry it itself. Contestants spray on fake-tan, carefully apply make up, attach wigs and tiaras and sport dresses that in some cases cost up to 4,000 Euro. It is an expensive environment as well as being a highly charged and extremely competitive one.   Why do they spend so much time and money on costume? To catch the judges’ attention is the common explanation. Critics claim it is over-indulgent and garish and has little to do with the reason they are there – to dance, to promote culture. Advocates insist the dance is the most important facet on which contestants are scored and that irrespective of how ornate one’s embroidered dress, these choices are entirely discretionary.   There are no hard rules governing dress sense. But it is widely accepted by those who compete and their families that unless you stand out visually then there is a danger you may be ignored. http://www.kennethohalloran.com/jockeys daily 0.75 2016-02-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542693556-792RJE9KPWH0SXMV0H9A/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%281%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542693556-792RJE9KPWH0SXMV0H9A/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%281%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542691961-Q6FXX024OYUFEWY8QSFY/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%282%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542704068-IS27R3TT53WGPFQ2JYZN/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%283%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542710420-V5NUO89ZMXYNYYBBEHWG/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%284%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542718310-VNJPSZ1XM6GVA1F731BA/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%285%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542731738-M0CV4ZGIDTK0ZZK3GCB6/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%286%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542734505-LJOZP1TD81VCIMUL8FYK/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%287%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542753687-VWZPSOACX32BLA1LVOO3/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%288%29.jpg Jockeys https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542746309-NTIYKSBINP22XNHGS040/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%289%29.jpg Jockeys https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542758789-6Y1VSEG7K3QO0G4L06DF/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%2810%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542773772-M23MDWP6AGA5S55U5YB4/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%2811%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542773723-M5J9K5P2MDYXZAQMAE2V/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%2812%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542792508-QVWG8M7ZS49NHQP0MSQT/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C-%2813%29.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454542793368-OAD29B2L2AJRDFRELJWA/Jockey%2C-Punchestown-Irish-National-Hunt-Festival%2C.jpg Jockeys Every spring, the Punchestown Racecourse, located some 20 miles southwest of Dublin, hosts the Irish National Hunt Festival. 2012’s festival was the wettest on record, after about three inches of rain fell in 48 hours. http://www.kennethohalloran.com/ireland-voyages-new-york-times-magazine daily 0.75 2016-02-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454756891611-I7YSS4Y8KE059VOTRXOK/Aran-Islands-Ireland-1.jpg Ireland- New York Times Magazine (Voyages) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454756891611-I7YSS4Y8KE059VOTRXOK/Aran-Islands-Ireland-1.jpg Ireland- New York Times Magazine (Voyages) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454756891786-4OU4NM4FZNW723LFTRCW/Aran-Islands-Ireland-2.jpg Ireland- New York Times Magazine (Voyages) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454756893488-LRJC17JEQXKCSM0T176M/Aran-Islands-Ireland-3.jpg Ireland- New York Times Magazine (Voyages) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454844389196-ZGP91BLDHMCQG9QQE7NH/aran-islands-web.jpg Ireland- New York Times Magazine (Voyages) https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454756892513-P4N4YMOVR7Q6J6CZZSG0/Aran-Islands-Ireland-4.jpg Ireland- New York Times Magazine (Voyages) http://www.kennethohalloran.com/boxer daily 0.75 2016-02-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454755004676-QC40SH8DI7FBI9YVW5JO/046-048_FTMAG_0402_FINAL_Page_1.jpg John Joe Nevin, Boxer - Financial Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454755004676-QC40SH8DI7FBI9YVW5JO/046-048_FTMAG_0402_FINAL_Page_1.jpg John Joe Nevin, Boxer - Financial Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454755050834-BZHUIQ8TF6PQR61FQ1XR/financial+times+magazine_Page_1.jpg John Joe Nevin, Boxer - Financial Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454755073791-I6WU638WE7PVTO66Y5RH/financial+times+magazine_Page_2.jpg John Joe Nevin, Boxer - Financial Times Magazine 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Magazine - Ballinasloe Horse Fair https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454753452882-KFXJP8MAXRANYGPJO00Y/Ballinasloe-Horse-Fair-2.jpg Ballinasloe Horse Fair - New York Times Magazine http://www.kennethohalloran.com/john-rocca-financial-times-magazine daily 0.75 2016-02-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454754556494-OIUJODK3PCAI6LBG4HQO/image-asset.jpeg John Rocca, Fashion Designer - Financial Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454754556494-OIUJODK3PCAI6LBG4HQO/image-asset.jpeg John Rocca, Fashion Designer - Financial Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454754577930-CPOM9X4YJ6MNSQBJR6LM/046-048_FTMAG_0402_FINAL_Page_2.jpg John Rocca, Fashion Designer - Financial Times Magazine http://www.kennethohalloran.com/new-gallery-1 daily 0.75 2016-02-06 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Times https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454754040727-2J0TYX4ZYHT6W2D4BLNC/image-asset.jpeg Gottfried Helnwein, Artist - T Magazine New York Times https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455395471155-XCCUDEKJFPTT00VRMG0Y/Artist-Gottfried-Helnwein37.jpg Gottfried Helnwein, Artist - T Magazine New York Times https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454754060772-84B8R58M31XJV5WBETV9/21+Arena+-+Arts+and+Letters+-+The+Helnweins+Will+See+You+Now_Page_2.jpg Gottfried Helnwein, Artist - T Magazine New York Times https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455395472501-CN3ROB7ACRG94R5JNJGG/Artist-Gottfried-Helnwein55.jpg Gottfried Helnwein, Artist - T Magazine New York Times https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454754076208-JXGWPPXFM43PX6HDIMNV/21+Arena+-+Arts+and+Letters+-+The+Helnweins+Will+See+You+Now_Page_3.jpg Gottfried Helnwein, Artist - T Magazine New York Times https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455395427250-9EAO3UBRI8LMS4S31WDM/Artist-Gottfried-Helnwein02.jpg Gottfried Helnwein, Artist - T Magazine New York Times http://www.kennethohalloran.com/paul-kingsnorth-new-york-times-magazine daily 0.75 2016-02-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454755931064-CUXTKERO12PSD8K8H5SN/image-asset.jpeg Paul Kingsnorth, Writer - New York Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454755931064-CUXTKERO12PSD8K8H5SN/image-asset.jpeg Paul Kingsnorth, Writer - New York Times Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454755958932-79EPE81BFTGIKRWBM5RO/Paul+Kingsnorth.jpg Paul Kingsnorth, Writer - New York Times Magazine http://www.kennethohalloran.com/antje-joel-sddeutsche-zeitung-magazin daily 0.75 2016-02-06 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daily 0.75 2016-02-15 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455553072710-MUHZDBKV7LOJLMJCWKCM/Goat+Maciej+.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455553072710-MUHZDBKV7LOJLMJCWKCM/Goat+Maciej+.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798531859-SDOOYZO4ZX5UPXCVSXIL/_24O0205.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798579733-AS8OLA5B84DSCSC0YO98/_24O8172.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798537346-FE0BWDKWDTDNBEXKEAC0/_24O0231.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798551382-SNAFOOBW9HY1MQJW3SLC/_24O1464.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798546984-KX3FMHHT8OW37JGOYMKS/_24O0825.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454882705921-BQY2UFVNHWSO7TBBIRCU/_24O7211.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798543471-D2A2HABKBRXXNOL64I8Z/_24O0558.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798564205-OBIKELCU9WBWME46JSY6/_24O3828.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798548257-137IK8FFUJE98VE1DFBI/_24O1261.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798546078-P3HL4T54FF6MRBO4CIJ2/_24O1036.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798558051-Y7K9UR8XLAQ5NQ38ZUCZ/_24O2238.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798561148-MCG2M4T1R5OIL5WMK428/_24O4114.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798564396-3DYZ3L2SR36D1D224UIQ/_24O4296.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798568893-0HI8U7YHO6Z2Q5FC30MW/_24O6517.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798573264-K4KN45K394KFXTWFB5YM/_24O6492.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798525574-QORLP5KYYUX5RW2R3SPD/_24O0081.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798573812-HPHI7CLXULEABUF42KKW/_24O7892.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798579509-WIDHMUVZ4600QYGHEP7P/_24O8490.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1454798542230-L9XJ1WH4OXCH78KFC2SC/_24O0341.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455034836859-9RHYD1Q4FDIWU0VHKKW6/image-asset.jpeg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455034856457-9A5TWO0G1WGBQ4MFUZSJ/3_24O0569.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455034856494-ND5W35C70AODLU8SHTPS/3_24O5958.jpg Farmers - Gorta-Self Help Africa Development Charity 250 million people in Africa, farmers and their families, suffer hunger and malnutrition, struggling in extreme rural poverty without enough food; left behind by rising economic growth. Gorta-Self Help Africa is a leading international development charity with an expertise in small-scale farming and growing family-farm businesses. They are motivated by injustice, by their expertise in small-scale agriculture and family-farm business, and the opportunity they have to help small farmers change the lives of their families. http://www.kennethohalloran.com/obamatown daily 0.75 2016-02-13 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455027548647-YC89YZMP0S218EX38JLI/image-asset.jpeg Obamatown https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455027548647-YC89YZMP0S218EX38JLI/image-asset.jpeg Obamatown https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025904529-MVB38928VGKGGANOIPRU/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%281%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025904191-OYMCMKAWPQ9KOEAWDHWH/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%283%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025905279-8O8K3C1CHRXX3O6IOQ18/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%284%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455027305425-D4ZBNIKL7Q3TKJTCJ037/image-asset.jpeg Obamatown https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025905264-JB32BRTINBPECZKV133S/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%285%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455396021432-0BMKQPGFKHBTD53VIKFH/Barack-Obama-Ancestral-Home-Ireland-%2812%29.jpg Obamatown https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025906039-QMSATRR3BKCZCX6MVO92/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%287%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455396085543-798GZRSLRE1GCP3S4Y8K/Barack-Obama-Ancestral-Home-Ireland-%2835%29.jpg Obamatown https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025906535-KS511Z2IENGGWST7IXZO/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%289%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025919423-2GRWQEUHMGDS1PR4GD1U/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025906997-HXJCF7JG1VLXPNQEN9ZW/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2810%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025903111-V25SSK8VU0J8411GXCY6/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%282%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455396148846-EEI4XNCNOKDK1PXKZ5JM/Barack-Obama-Ancestral-Home-Ireland-%2825%29.jpg Obamatown https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025908304-C9BN4ST0Q3VYQFI5EHEY/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2813%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025909491-OXF80XQ31SYEF8M5SY8U/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2815%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025910287-NT9QAT945LL4IPB9EUAX/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2816%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025907861-3252KD82FN04WPPVG7VR/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2811%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025910376-KJCESPCDKJWD6DX3HWN8/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2817%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025911495-QAMAHST6ZIMT4B1U4ZE1/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2818%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025910880-F5DV99G18RDA42XG4KOW/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2819%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025911276-K58EV0MHM1K3CV01HB0B/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2820%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025913018-0AYWKS3OIWH7IBHTUJYZ/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2821%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025912703-VB3EA1LR3L579EO480BF/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2822%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455396202500-J7AV580MZS3C3TEYU5YO/Barack-Obama-Ancestral-Home-Ireland-%2823%29.jpg Obamatown https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025914585-FUL6Q09XLQIHGDOE8C3B/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2824%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025916667-KH90OEQ4GGQKDSVMH53T/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2825%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025915083-90VHBOKQN0E8DNWJA3HC/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2826%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025917552-1L0ETO1YVHKVXESE8U27/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2828%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025917451-MHO3BE63WOJMLOBL0ATD/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2829%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455025918422-HWY58H20CDZ1YCWQF8VB/barak+obama+moneygall+ireland+%2830%29.jpg Obamatown “My name is Barack Obama, of the Moneygall O’Bamas and I’ve come home to find the apostrophe we lost somewhere along the way.” On 23 May 2011, President Barak Obama and his First Lady, Michelle Obama, visited the small village of Moneygall, the president’s ancestral home, as part of a visit to Ireland. During the 2008 presidential campaign, an Irish-American genealogist found that then-Sen. Obama had a great-great-great-grandfather named Falmouth Kearney, a Moneygall resident who left for the US at 19. Although its population of roughly 320 people is smaller than the typical entourage of an American president on a foreign state visit, Moneygall has wholeheartedly embraced its most famous great-great-great-grandson. American flags and Irish tricolors line the village’s main street, which is crammed with as much Obamiana as the place can take. There’s the Obama Cafe and Gift Shop, which sells T-shirts reading “Is Feidir Linn” (Gaelic for “Yes We Can”), hurling sticks with the president’s face and reproductions of Shepard Fairey’s famous Obama portrait superimposed over pictures of Moneygall. http://www.kennethohalloran.com/new-gallery daily 0.75 2016-02-13 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455326719037-BT4DJOY2MG3LKATUADCR/le-monde-Afghanistan.jpg Afghanistan - Paris Match Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455326719037-BT4DJOY2MG3LKATUADCR/le-monde-Afghanistan.jpg Afghanistan - Paris Match Magazine https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1455326718585-JQ5C7IL9HS5KAXGPAXUD/Le-Monde-Afghanistan-2.jpg Afghanistan - Paris Match Magazine http://www.kennethohalloran.com/entertainment-for-men daily 0.75 2016-02-22 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https://static1.squarespace.com/static/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/t/56dd0711e32140a33478ecd8/1457324804393/ Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times https://static1.squarespace.com/static/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/56dd028401dbae8cf9de37b5/56dd030486db438d71db4b4b/1457324804393/ Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1457324818725-ZY0IUQ0R9T39BUQCAR28/Aziz+Ansari+India.jpg Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times American actor and comedian Aziz Ansari, traveled to India in search of his roots — and tons of 'romba tasty' food. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1457324819121-USDHHGUYVUPJOQIKL4G0/Aziz+Ansari+India+%281%29.jpg Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times Trivandrum, the capital city of the Indian state of Kerala https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1457324821832-EKX2S02HGBLX6N4QTAQD/Aziz+Ansari+India+%285%29.jpg Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times American actor and comedian Aziz Ansari, traveled to India in search of his roots — and tons of 'romba tasty' food. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1457324825520-ZUBD2A1PTOVUDGQMQZQI/Aziz+Ansari+India+%2810%29.jpg Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times Trivandrum, the capital city of the Indian state of Keral https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1457324824095-KZWWPXQPV5D2WU805UTG/Aziz+Ansari+India+%288%29.jpg Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times American actor and comedian Aziz Ansari, traveled to India in search of his roots — and tons of 'romba tasty' food. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1457324823244-ZJPXMF6EW7EC8ANIMSBO/Aziz+Ansari+India+%286%29.jpg Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times Trivandrum, the capital city of the Indian state of Keral https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1457324820343-HMTIKKYKAWW5KO7BQEZ7/Aziz+Ansari+India+%283%29.jpg Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times American actor and comedian Aziz Ansari, traveled to India with his brother, in search of his roots — and tons of 'romba tasty' food. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1457324819730-1DX5JTH10H1HSY0ZU6BK/Aziz+Ansari+India+%282%29.jpg Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times American actor and comedian Aziz Ansari, traveled to India in search of his roots — and tons of 'romba tasty' food. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1457325211509-ERX3CB1SV5THY8HYE54U/Aziz+Ansari+India+%2811%29.jpg Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times Trivandrum, the capital city of the Indian state of Kerala https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1457324821161-5VHOFRAISWERPKN88M0H/Aziz+Ansari+India+%284%29.jpg Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times American actor and comedian Aziz Ansari, traveled to India in search of his roots — and tons of 'romba tasty' food. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1457325170509-TKUGHSOTRHLSSBNGEWNF/Aziz+Ansari+India+%287%29.jpg Aziz Ansari, Actor, India - T Magazine New York Times American actor and comedian Aziz Ansari, traveled to India in search of his roots — and tons of 'romba tasty' food. http://www.kennethohalloran.com/bing-bing daily 0.75 2016-09-06 http://www.kennethohalloran.com/welcome daily 1.0 2017-05-11 http://www.kennethohalloran.com/bio daily 0.75 2016-02-22 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1421607480950-GEH3C2KJD6H41WFJGGZB/image-asset.jpeg Bio http://www.kennethohalloran.com/awards daily 0.75 2016-02-03 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https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473176909226-11MBLMS489XS8WB94RKH/Donald_Trump_Book-digital-1.jpg Blogger Area http://www.kennethohalloran.com/books daily 0.75 2016-09-05 http://www.kennethohalloran.com/books/trump monthly 0.5 2016-09-06 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087157116-4JQLNK53YRN94ZAAKVID/Donald_Trump_Book-web-1.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087156453-IIKOXQ6X0ZQGSV5G3K1U/Donald_Trump_Book-web-2.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087159404-RX0X147METPW62HPJM69/Donald_Trump_Book-web-3.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087162187-58FNOZXQIXWPS9OZ95ZT/Donald_Trump_Book-web-4.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087162939-YGJD7TKNDT7MSEJSN8XC/Donald_Trump_Book-web-5.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087165768-7Z9CEG8WQVFI41QJ0RDC/Donald_Trump_Book-web-6.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087165875-2Q4VKPD435G7RQJ77W3P/Donald_Trump_Book-web-7.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087172251-WI9ZX0ZLGTBCU553XEUP/Donald_Trump_Book-web-8.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087169449-FNM95HX6L4BFF2PD18S6/Donald_Trump_Book-web-9.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087174395-IC91KJ9A8R2NYP60UG7G/Donald_Trump_Book-web-10.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087181002-3YQKKV4EHVKUWU83FU7X/Donald_Trump_Book-web-11.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087177970-02D8JEKGPK9VV7FN513C/Donald_Trump_Book-web-12.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473087184486-YDOE4W1UM6HF50CQZ4EK/Donald_Trump_Book-web-13.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54ba4fa1e4b054d28237cff5/1473174823669-3S9MT26AJV89PM3EZUSV/Donald_Trump_Book-web-14.jpg Books - BING, BING, BONG, BONG, BING, BING, BING