Brendan Rumley SJ Remembered

Whenever I read the name Brendan Rumley with Fr in front of it and SJ behind it, it always makes me look twice. This is a night of memories and everyone has their own memories of Brendan. I remember his great sense of fun.

I remember the night the two of us got chased around the streets of Rome by a crowd of angry Italian communists . The school had organised a pilgrimage to Rome for the Holy Year in 1975 , and we landed in the middle of a bitterly fought election campaign between the two main parties who cordially detested each other...the Communists on the left and the Christian democrats on the right . We were very taken with the Communist posters...big, red , hammer and sickle jobs , really well-designed. This wasn't anything to do with the merits or de-merits of Communism...but coming from a very sheltered and conservative Ireland of the mid-70's , these were novel, eye-catching, radical and ...oppositional. Brendan turned to me and said 'Gosh, I'd love one of those for my cubicle'. I replied that it'd annoy the J's. It'd annoy our parents. It'd be perfect !'

So out we went one evening after dinner to peel off a few posters . Whatever about us annoying the J's and annoying our parents, we sure as hell managed to annoy a group of Italians on the other side of the road who followed us as we walked quickly away from our half-peeled posters , and then ran after us as we legged it as fast as we could .

Brendan wore his faith lightly. i was gob-smacked when he told me , two years later, that he was thinking of joining the Jesuits. And later, when i visited him in the Novitiate in Manresa, I was amazed at the depth of his spiritual life. At a time when my own prayers were remarkable a ) for their brevity and b) for their self-interest, he was telling me how the high point of his day, every day, was the hour he spent in silent adoration, and how much he was looking forward to doing the largely-silent 30-day Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius Loyola .

He was Gerry O'Beirne's sole Spanish student and his Spanish was put to good use when he was sent in 1986 to Latin America . He was stationed at a Jesuit school, the Colegio Christo Rey in a place called Tacna, in Peru. Peru was not a safe place to be at the time. And it took great courage to accept this assignment at a time when the country was locked in a bloody conflict between the Maoist Sendero Luminoso guerrilla group which controlled large swathes of the country , and the Government. Neither side much minded how many eggs they had to crack to make the omelette each desired . The Jesuits were popular with neither side. But they were popular with the people .

We live in a selfish and a faithless age . How sad then, that Brendan...so full of faith , and so selfless, a true man for others...should be taken by his illness only a few short years after he was ordained a priest of the Society of Jesus . But how great it was that he was able to do all the good he did , in the time that he had . My youngest son is the same age now as we were when we were chased about the streets of Rome. I like to think, and i dare to hope , that as my children embark on the great adventure of their lives, that in Brendan, I have a friend in Heaven who i can call on from time to time to help me keep them safe and keep them on the right path. 

Ar dheis de go raibh a anam .

Eamon Doohan

Cathal Ryan Remembered

Cathal M Ryan Brussels May 1987
@@rgmcdermott

It's an honour to say a few words about our dear friend Cathal Ryan. 

Ironic that it be here ....we were once caught playing cards in row 13 and were on the verge of expulsion. Fortunately, on that occasion, Paddy Crowe relented and let us off the hook!

Cathal shared our laughter, our meal table, our sadness, joys and failures. He cribbed our homework and we cribbed his (if we were desperate-lets be honest!) Most of us, myself included, never knew him during his adult life. But we knew him intimately during a time in his life that was formative. That he cherished, that was filled with promise and the close bonds of friendship and shared experience. A joker and a wit, we were all the butt of his pranks! In the current era, he'd probably be a YouTube sensation, dispensing advice on full body waxing and how to survive online dating !! 

His unique approach life maybe characterised by his German exam in the Leaving Cert. He studied hard, arrived well prepared that afternoon for the paper, only to discover....it was a morning exam. He was 5 hours late!! Yes, that was Ryan!

He loved life, he loved the ladies and he loved his friends. And that was us. If he were here now, he would not be mournful, he would definitely not be listening to me, in fact he'd probably be shuffling the cards for the next game in row 13!

Mike MacManus

Amsterdam 1987 

Funky Fennell - Two E's, Two N's and Two L's

Up until the time John Fennell arrived in CWC, my striking memory of biology, was a quoted ‘fact' from Mrs. Miller (RIP), that “Pigs fed on the cardboard boxes that Kellogs cornflakes were packaged in, and put on more weight than the pigs who were fed on the cornflakes themselves.” 

Oh, and in a rigorous scientific experiment conducted in Mrs. Miller’s laboratory, by the class of that time, extremely severe evaporation can take place when fermenting apple juice in a biology lab…..In particular when the large glass container is left close to a (slight ajar) window. Remember, there were no hosepipe bans in those days! 

And one final one from Mrs. Miller’s class, when TC pricked his finger to do the blood test to identify your blood type, and said blood emerged from his index finger, he promptly fainted and fell in a heap on the floor. Thankfully he didn’t consider medicine as a career. 

Although he did take a case of sexual discrimination against UCD when he was denied entry into Physiotherapy in UCD, which he won. Much to our dismay, he decided not to take up the offer of the place in the end. But I digress…….. 

Returning to Mr. Fennell, on his first day in Clongowes in biology class, he swaggers up to the blackboard. Then picking up a piece of chalk, he writes his name on the board, turns around and addressing the class, announces, “My name is Mr. Fennell. Two e’s, two n’s, two l’s.” Here was this new teacher staking out his turf, with some amount of bravado. I liked him instantly. He wasn’t known as Funky Fennell for nothing. 

On some Saturday mornings though, he didn’t as much swagger as stagger.

 

From memory, biology was our first class on Saturday mornings, and on more than one occasion one of his earnest students was dispatched to the refectory to get some oranges for a 'biology experiment'. The experiment involved squeezing the oranges into a glass, and the juice promptly consumed by Mr. Fennell, thereby illustrating the point of the experiment. Friday nights are not supposed to be followed by Saturday mornings in school. Particularly when you are the teacher. 

At on the St. Patrick’s Day SCT victory celebrations, Mr. Fennell introduced some more than willing students - all over 18 and legal I hasten to add - including myself, to Harvey Wallbangers. How sophisticated I felt. However, whatever imagined sophistication didn’t survive to the following morning. Some oranges for a biology experiment would have gone down well then. 

Looking back, it’s worth remembering "Funky Fennell" wasn’t that much older that we were; his 25 years of wisdom in comparison to our callow sheltered 18 years. He was one of the most engaging and fun teachers I had and biology was always a subject I enjoyed, even on Saturday mornings. 

He instilled a lasting love and interest in all things biology….and your minds can wander wherever you wish with that one! We’re all adults now, although some may set out to prove differently on the reunion weekend. Here's to Mr. Fennell: 2’es, 2 n’s, 2 l’s. 

Some other snippets: 

Week 2 in Rudiments in CWC in the top open, Paddy Digan - in the bed next to mine - and I were playing chess. Silently. Whereupon on discovery, we were summoned to Mr. O'Keeffe's room, and given 4 of the best with the leather pandy bat. Ouch! It wasn't as if we were disturbing anyone. 

In Latin class, our teacher Murtagh O’Shea gave me 100 lines: “I must not demonstrate cousinly affection in class.” The reason? I was sticking the pointy end of a compass into John Donnelly’s bum. 

On one late leave in Dublin after a cup match, having borrowed a pair of glasses to make myself look older, I was refused entry into Soldier Blue (who remembers that X rated movie of the time? not me anyway) as I was underage. I was mortified.....but I don't think I was the only one. Sparrow Harte & Dan Farrington too? 

But probably not as mortified as when in Madigans after a cup match, I was nominated to go to the bar to order pints. Slinking up to the bar - not the best strategy when trying to portray confidence - and in the deepest voice I could muster, I demanded “2 pints of Smithwick's and 2 pints of Guinness.” The barman looked at me, smirked, and asked “Where’s your mother son?” Mortified, I retreated to the laughing mob, to lick my wounds. Naturally they gave me plenty of help with that! 

Ned Carroll giving some of us a life to the races on a Saturday afternoon. Racing regulars would have been Morgan Mooney, John 'Conor Pass' Moore, Fran Fitzpatrick. "Puff' Carroll was such a kind man, who was given a terrible time in the Big Study. 

Remember the Stink Bomb episode, which I think occurred during Ned's Big Study watch? Poor Ned was picked on mercilessly. Paddy Crowe, Headmaster at the time demanding "I want the boy, and I want him now." I believe the boy responsible for said Stink Bomb episode may be one of boys the named above? 

 

Grattan Donnelly

The opinions expressed published works are those of the author and do not reflect the opinions of Clongowes 1978 Blog or its Editors.

A Man for Others......

Sometime around '74-'75; someone, somewhere, decided that we should have a school (or was it a line?) magazine. Not quite the standard of the Clongownian, but something lighter; a compendium of riddles, humour, jokes, short stories, an odd poem and a highly entertaining “Glossary of Geographic terms” by Brendan Cullen. The only three lines that I recall from it were; High Pressure = exam week, Depression = exam results, Lava = M.K.(O'Brien) pronouncing Lover.

The one item I can vividly remember from that magazine was a short article which began “My name is Bill and I am an alcoholic” written by Bill McEvoy, affectionately known to the boys as Bill Porridge. 

We all knew Bill, but nothing about him. Bill seemed to be about the same age then, as we are now, a kind of general factotum attached to the kitchens. He looked a bit like Churchill, with flat feet, that shuffled rather than walked and always wore a white waiters coat, that was never quite white and made for a smaller man. 

That Bill wanted to tell us about himself, has stuck with me for the rest of my life. He was happy to share his story with the boys, to tell us all that he was human too, albeit with a problem that he had addressed and kept under control. This was the “Dignity of the human being” that Bertie Brereton kept on about. Bill's article was my Eureka moment . 

Fr Joe Brereton was one of the coolest, calmest men I have ever encountered. The story followed him that while driving the college car, after a repair at the garage, the steering wheel came off in his hands. He didn't panic and just calmly pushed it back down onto the steering column and continued on his journey. Whether true or not, it summed up the man known as “Bertie”. 

He appeared to float along, when walking, suffered terribly from the cold and always looked like the next winter would be his last (How wrong we were!) He taught me English & Religion and would always subtly blend the two, to make them mutually complementary and interesting. 

Bertie had no access to new technology. He was the master of the 'pen picture' ; writing meant selecting the bare facts, condensing everything down and finally polishing the story to make it clear and interesting to the reader. 

Around this time Bertie was very taken by the story of Mother Teresa and in particular Malcolm Muggeridge's book “Something beautiful for God”. He knew that there wasn't a hope in hell that he could motivate a class of 15 year olds to read the full book, or be particularly interested in the destitute and dying of India. There were millions of them anyway, what did it matter? Bertie honed, polished and captured the essence of the story and made us think about and discuss the simple messages. 

The essential dignity of the human being and that everyone had the right to life. A right that superseded all other rights. Not for immediate application in our young lives, but deep frozen in our consciousness for later consumption; after all, we were very unlikely to be in a position to determine. who lived or died at that age. 

Bill, through his little article defined for me exactly what was the essential dignity of the human being. Dignity was not being nicely dressed, good table manners or always being polite, or even speaking with a plummy accent. It was something much more intangible but very real, being “Something beautiful for God” 

Whenever I recall my time in Clongowes, I think of many of the standout characters both among the boy's and the staff. No one forgets people like Fr. Jack Brennan, Fr. Gerry O'Beirne, Fr. Paddy Crowe or even Fr. Michael Sheil, because they were strong omnipresent characters. But I also remember, with enormous fondness visiting many of the SRPA clients, scattered around north Kildare. 

I can still recall all their names. Everyone of them had a story of hardship, loneliness or illness. They all had one thing in common, their incredible dignity. On reflection I think we the boys, benefited far more, because we learned so much from them. 

I also think of the wonderful dignity of people like Brother Fitzgerald, who without any dramatics, fixed, broken windows, burst pipes, broken door hinges, lost keys and more than an odd blown fuse. Tony Crabtree, who ran the tuck and book shops. Eileen (Delaney) & Phil Melia (the butler), Bill McEvoy, Bill Delaney who cleaned the classrooms every day, Martin (the tailor), Jim Tracy who was forever 34. 

Mrs Melea, who managed the younger domestic staff. The Dunne's and the Tracey's. Mrs Tomlinson who worked in the Infirmary for over 40 years, The staff who cut the grass, mowed the football pitches, made sure the heating worked. The dumper and its driver that had the combined title of “Sputnik”. The people who did the ordinary things extraordinarily well. People who worked and lived anonymous lives so that we could enjoy the privilege of reaching our full potential to became the “Men for others”. 

These were the others for us. 

Epilogue: 

By about 1975, when I had completed the Inter Cert and there were three of us in Clongowes with another three to go. My parents were really wondering whether their very considerable investment in our education was yielding the desired results. Exam results were good enough but not spectacular. 

Apart from that, there was not a lot else to show for my three years and fees were rising fast. Early into my Poetry year, I was actually starting to really enjoy Clongowes and life there improved dramatically. I had found my niche in the SRPA and on the catering committee; hard-balling in negotiation with Chef Robert Dagger and Br. Adams S.J. 

One of the staff , a young girl – surname Kelly, lost her wage packet and was in terrible distress over it. All I remember is that she reminded me of the Edith Piaf that Fr. Ray Lawlor had introduced us to. Several days passed and a general appeal among the boys and staff to locate the missing wages proved fruitless. 

So myself and a few others decided that we should do something to help and we organised a dorm collection. Not one boy refused and we collected several multiples of the weekly wage and presented it to Ms. Kelly. We thought nothing more of it and it was very much something that came from the boys and not prompted by the school. 

Christmas came and the Christmas report arrived home. There was always some reason or other, in every report. that Fr. Paddy Crowe felt I was operating well below potential. He was probably correct. I felt sure that this report was going to be no exception. But I was in for a very pleasant surprise. 

Although I can only paraphrase his report “Daniel has had an exceptional term and his time spent in Clongowes appears to have had a belated but impressive effect. I am particularly encouraged by his consideration for those less fortunate especially the remarkable initiative displayed by him and his colleagues in coming to the aid of one of the domestic staff after the loss of her wages” 

My parents knew then that the Clongowes ethos was eventually starting to pay dividends and I know that that report is still somewhere among my mothers most treasured belongings.

Dan O'Connell

A Soapbox Opera

When we were in the early stages of rehearsing the acclaimed 1977 production of Coriolanus, i had the great fortune of finding myself standing right beside the plays renown director Fr John Looby.

Somewhat at a loss for words in this predicament, I did manage to blurt out a question which I hoped would not offend. Why had Fr Looby chosen this play as it was not one of Shakespeare's best known works?

Fr Looby thought for a moment. Then, sucking in his teeth in that little way he had, he said "Peter, the advantage of working in Clongowes is that its very easy to cast the plebeians"

And then, mirthfully, he sucked his teeth even louder.

Over forty years on, I have reflected on what Fr Looby said to me that day.

There was no doubt an element of jest in his remark. But was it really fair to configure the word plebeian with the year that brought the Leinster Senior Cup home after decades of hurt?

The year which delivered an unprecedented Leaving Cert performance of such magnificence that it lifted the school several rungs up the school performance table as published by the Irish Times?

The year which has gone on to deliver extraordinary contributions to law, medicine, journalism, business, politics and house flipping.

There can only be one answer. Yes.

For there was one aspect of the 1978 generation that was not just plebeian, it was positively cretinous.

I bow to no man in my appreciation of the work of Francis Fitzpatrick, Tigger O'Beirne and others who have contributed to this magnificent blog. The memoirs of Suetonius pale in comparison to the vivid pen pictures that these writers have painted of legends like Ben Sherry, Pop Casey, Headmaster Crowe, Gerry Lynch, and the woman they called the Soup Dragon.

However no one can understand what it was like to grow up in the senior echelons of the school between 1976 and 1978 without mentioning the word SUPERTRAMP.

Ok to modern eyes Supertramp are a footnote in musical history. They enjoyed some commercial success in the late 70's with their album Breakfast In America but, after the issue which all greasy haired hippy greenish groups like them always split over, ie money, their musical reputation has been significantly eclipsed by time and taste.

Consequently I crave indulgence from younger readers who surely cannot fathom the ubiquity with which this bunch of hairy veggies dominated the cultural tastes of the greatest year that Clongowes have ever produced.

In the same way that i equate the Black Death with pustule blotched bodies being thrown onto a cart, i equate a walk down the cubicles of Poetry with the mind numbing screechings of Crime Of The Century and Crisis? What Crisis?

There was no refuge here. No "safe space".

From one end of the corridor you would hear "Dreamer, you're nothing but a dreamer. You can put your hand on your head..OH NO!"

You would quicken your pace to get away from this. But just when Dreamer" would pipe down from one cubicle, Bloody Well Right would pipe up from another!

Right, you're bloody well right,you know you got a right to say". it went. And went.

The wanky lyrics were bad enough. Some of us could obviously equate with the lines "so you think your schooling's phoney/I guess its hard not to agree/You say it all depends on money/and who is in your family tree.... 

Sure, Pink Floyd mined that seam as well. But its one thing one person in the year liking Supertramp, another thing altogether when every tape recorder on the block is mass spewing drippy bollocks sung by a singer so high pitched he can only have had an elephant sitting on his balls when he went in to record.

Even In The Quietest Moments? There weren't any!

That was the one with the sound of air sirens and bomb warnings. Hey, war is hell everybody!

ill stop the lights here for a moment. One man offered a respite from the Supertramp virus.

That man was Con Clifford.

Not for him the stinky hippies. The poster on his wall was of a band now regarded as one of the finest in pop history.

While some sneered at their commercial perfect pop, history has awarded them the status of giants.

That band was Abba and Con Clifford got them well before most of the rest of us.

He told me once that he wanted to knob the blonde one in the dungarees but there was far, far more to it than that.

Thank you Con.

For the most part, I had to keep my feelings to myself. How can you argue with the taste of so many? The masses were totally against me, high as kites in their Supertrampian heaven. Dreamer, you're nothing but a dreamer...continued to pur out of the cheap, overworked cassette players up and down, day in day out.

But there was one moment of revenge! A few hours when I thought that the suffering had been worthwhile.

One day, word got around that Supertramp were playing Dublin.

Supertrampers hugged themselves in ecstasy. Piggybacks were broken into. Plans were hatched for the night out of the year.

But, a few months later, there was even better news.

THE CONCERT WAS CANCELLED!!!!!!!!!!

I remember putting my hand on Tiggers shoulders. "Jesus, thats shit, Tigger"

Even though my heart was dancing at Lughnasa at this absolutely brilliant news, I still found time to console the inconsolable.

"Maybe they will reschedule?"

Thats the Clongowes way, isnt it? To reach out to those who are rock bottom while keeping a straight face.

Well, that forty years gone. And so, by and large have Supertramp joining the likes of Aztec bars and clackers in the dustbin of history though they may still may be big in Gdansk or Sverdlosk .

I think I'm over them. if Rossa wants to sing Dreamer at the reunion I wont start shaking or getting flashbacks. 

I'll just throw my slop bowel at him!

All rights reserved - Peter Howick 

Charles Bronson, Jill Ireland and Double Ben

It’s a wet Sunday night, around 10.30, must have been January 1977. 

As the lights come back on, 350 boys file out of the hall. They have just watched the second instalment of three, as Charles Bronson singled-handedly takes out an entire neighbourhood of south Detroit. Testosterone fills the air. Plastic bins are kicked. We make our way up to our own night-neighbourhoods; the 5th. Year rooms, Main Street, the Rat’s Hole and The Hotel. 

Up in the dorms, groups huddle. The plot is discussed; the final scene in which a blood-stained Charles Bronson stumbles home to a semi-dressed Jill Ireland, being the most analysed. 

Ten minutes later, were tucked up in bed. The rain drives against the window. I check the time. 11.20. Sleep won’t come. The familiar knot in my stomach grows. Sunday night. No amount of visualisation of Jill’s satin nightdress helps (those horse-hair mattresses tend to have that effect). 

11.30. Now only eight hours. The knot hardens; eight hours to the start of the new week. And that can only mean one thing; Monday morning, 9.15. Double-Ben. Double-chemistry; the cruellest possible start to any week. 

7.50. I drag myself out of bed. The last time I looked at a chemistry book was the previous Thursday. I have a bad feeling about this one. 

Ben Sherry RTE 

9.15. Class opens in the usual way. Ben stands with his back to the desk, rapping with his knuckles against it in the now familiar alertness test…clakity clak clak. Nervously we respond with our feet; clak, clak. (Did he really do it hide a flatulence problem?) Either way, the distraction is welcome, but we know that blood-letting is not far away. 

Silence falls. I keep my head down. Eye contact is lethal. My location in the class - midway down the centre row - has been carefully selected. Avoiding the front and definitely the back. Across the aisle from me is Ollie Dyar and directly in front of me is David Nunes; the two potential Crick & Watsons of the class. The tactic - up until now - has worked pretty well; surrounding myself with such chemical talent has meant I have been free-wheeling in their slipstream and have largely gone unnoticed. 

Until this morning. 

It starts innocently enough. Some routine questions about the weekends theme-work, answered solidly by some of the reliable's at the front. But then he starts working his way down the centre row, quickly progressing to the second row, his frustration palpable, as he’s not getting the answers he expects. I throw a sideways glance at Ambrose beside me (I call him Ben to this day!). We both know danger is coming our way. Like me his head is down. And like me, I can see he’s ashen-faced. 

Without warning Ben (the real one) skips the row in front of us and decides to lob a grenade towards the back of the class. Afraid to turn around, I can now hear this grenade has landed firmly on Con Clifford’s lap and already he is on his feet, having to bring his copy book up for further scrutiny. When Ben asks him why his work has not been done, Con replies meekly (with one of the greatest ever lines) “I’ve been building up my notes.” 

Clifford is sent out of the class in shame; giving the rest of us precious minutes to get some oxygen on board and our act together. 

Ben resumes the interrogation. With horror, I now realise he has reverted to his original order, working his way down our row; the holy grail of what he’s looking for being the correct definition of the effect of potassium and magnesium ions in a water solution (how sad is that, that I remember?). 

Jill Ireland

But now, he introduces a new mind-game. As he receives each incorrect answer, there is a stretched moment of tension as each victim is dispatched. But more worryingly, the next one is now given a higher title; his way of raising the stakes. 

“Mr. Healy, would you care to help us?” Not the answer he’s looking for. Gerry is sent to the door. 

“DOCTOR Hickey?” Chickey makes a gallant effort, but to no avail. 

Dangerously close now. My non-writing hand is shaking so much I have to sit on it. And as I do so, I hear the words. Time freezes. And everything goes into slow-motion. 

“PROFESSOR O’Beirne. Would you care to share YOUR theories with us on this?” 

Time stands still. I’m on my feet but my knees are shaking. Doing my best to look intelligent. I look around. Hoping my eyes can make contact with some key allies remaining; Rossa? Mike? Greg? But it’s heads down all round. There are no life-belts being thrown my way. Sink or swim. This is a lonely place. 

I blurt out an answer. It’s a version of one I’ve heard earlier but with one grammatical change that somehow stuck in my head from my short Thursday reading; I added the words other than (Again sad, I know - that I remember)… “ hardness in water is caused by the presence of ionic solutions OTHER THAN potassium and magnesium…”. 

The answer is met with a stony silence. Ben stands expressionless, tapping the top of his desk. This could be the final straw. Full explosive mode may now be just a tap away. The tension hangs there and is stretched. 

In silence, Ben stops tapping and reaches down behind his desk. I wondered what form of humiliation was in store. Airborne missiles were not out of the question. He walks down to me and places a black metal box on my desk. He opens it and asks me to put my hand in. 

I do as he says; hardly able to place my shaking hand in it. 

I pull out two wrapped boiled sweets. 

He smiles. Shakes my hand and asks me to sit down. I do so, my heart still thumping. 

Twenty minutes later and we’re out of there. Double chemistry was followed by Pat Sheary’s history. John Fennell’s biology brought us to lunchtime. By then normal service had resumed and we were all laughing. 

The rain had stopped. After lunch, we went for a walk around the track and on the way to 2.00 class, I found the two forgotten sweets in my pocket; nothing ever tasted as good. 

By then the first day of the week was nearly over. Only six days to the next instalment of Charles Bronson and Jill. The stomach knot would be back, but I knew it would never be as bad again. After class. More laughing. With my friends. My brothers. Happy, happy days. Never to be forgotten. 

TOB. 

E mail: tobarch@gmaitobarch@gmail.com

If you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this article certain organisations may be able to provide help and advice.

The First Pupils

On May 18th 1814 the first pupil, James McLorinan of Dublin was admitted to the school. His parents were drapers and belonged to the evolving prosperous class of Catholics who were willing to take advantage of the classical education, which Fr Kenney proposed to offer. The annual fee was 50 guineas, and the boys spent 11 months in the school with the annual holidays confined to the month of August.

Students were accepted from the age of seven. In winter they rose at 6am and retired at 8.45pm each day. In summer they rose at 5am and retired also at 8.45pm. The school uniform consisted of a cap made from rabbit skin, a blue blazer with brass buttons, a yellow cashmere waistcoat and corduroy trousers.

The first three Rectors were Fr Peter Kenney (1814-1817), Fr Charles Aylmer (1817-1820) and Fr Bartholomew Esmonde (1820-1821). Fr Kenney came back in 1821 and remained until 1830 when Fr Esmonde returned. In 1814 all three were young men. Fr Kenney was only thirty five while Frs Aylmer and Esmonde were both in their twenties. The fact that a large number of wealthy, sophisticated, middle-class parents of the period were willing to entrust the welfare of their sons to such young and inexperienced men for eleven months of the year, is ample testimony to the esteem and respect they had for the Jesuit system of education.

The reputation of the College spread rapidly and by 1815 there were 110 pupils enrolled. This figure rose alarmingly in 1816 to 201. It is difficult to ascertain where such a large number were accommodated. Various suggestions include the castle itself and in the castle yard where the Wogan Brownes’ stables, outhouses and offices were located. One thing was certain; the school was overcrowded and that overcrowding combined with a poor quality water supply led to a major outbreak of typhus in the College in 1819. Fr Aylmer, reacting to medical advice and to the concerns of the parents, closed the school and sent the students home for six months.

This hiatus enabled him to embark on an extensive building programme, which was to transform the College campus dramatically. 1819-1820 saw the construction of the Lower Line Building (now the Concourse) and the Higher Line Gallery (now the 1966 Building). The Higher Line Building was famous for its long gallery. Lewis, in his Topographical Dictionary of Ireland (1837), states that the corridor was, ‘more than 300 feet long’. This period also saw the construction of a shorter gallery parallel to the Lower Line Building. This is now the People’s Church.

Despite all the building, when the students returned in September 1819 the numbers had dropped significantly to somewhat over 100. The figure of 200 was not reached again until 1886 with the amalgamation of Tullabeg and Clongowes. Fr Kenney returned as Rector in 1821. He realised with just over 100 students in the school that he wouldn’t require the two-storey building that ran parallel to the Lower Line Building and which consisted of classrooms and dormitories. In August 1822 he converted it into a chapel for the boys and it became the People’s Church in 1907.

This material is largely taken from A Short History of Clongowes Wood College, which was privately published in 2011 by Mr Brendan Cullen, a local historian and formerly teacher of history in Clongowes (1971-2007). It is reproduced here by kind permission of the author.

@clongowes78

Poetic Champions Compose

On the 8th August 1981 after 5 years in captivity courtesy of Islamic Jihad Terrorists - the famous journalist John McCarthy is freed and is flown by RAF Jet to Gosforth air base where he meets a world press, who are itching to find out how he has survived such barbarian, inhuman and degrading treatment for such a long time at the hands of his captors. McCarthy explains “I survived an English Public School........I can survive anything”..........does this resilience in the face of any of life’s issues also apply to OC’s.

Its’ the 4th September 1977 - memories of a long hot summer at home in Dublin dissipate as my brothers and I arrive at the Castle for my Fifth Year in Clongowes. The changing of the guard has happened we have a new Head Master Philip Fogarty SJ and a new Higher Line Prefect Mocky Sheil SJ. We knew our headmaster as last year he had been living in the Castle and giving us O-Levels boys classes on communication namely audio/visual. We had fun making interview videos with a camera and sound.

Mocky Sheil SJ was a returning OC himself, having spent 7 years in Belvedere.He was to change, indeed shake up our way of life in a number of sectors, particularly discipline and time-keeping..........

We have a new 5th Year Prefect - Fr Pat Sheary SJ............those of us who took O-Levels History have already experienced him for a year in class. Like all our previous prefects Fr Sheary SJ had to run a fine line between keeping discipline and not impinging too much into the lives of adolescent boys who were dealing with the emotions and strains of teenage life in a boarding school. One memory, I have is that one of the atheists in our History class who was also in the top 5 students got an exemption from “attending Mass or religious duties” on the basis that he made a damn good argument to Pat Sheary that he should be entitled to religious freedom. Ah a liberal Jesuit education.......thats what we all received at CWC.

Manchester United win FA Cu 1977

Liverpool win the First Division again and surprisingly Man Utd beat them in the F A Cup final 2-1, which makes us United fans doubly happy. France win the 5 Nations and complete one of their elusive Grand Slams. David Soul and Silver Lady is number 1 in the UK Charts to be overtaken by “Yes Sir I can boogie” by Baccara in October.

Kieran Kelly is appointed school Captain - no surprise - he had been lower line captain and stepped easily into the role. I am, much to my own disbelief appointed a “Study Prefect” for Rudiments/Grammar. One of the perks is getting a room which I share with my good friend Cornelius Clifford, who unknown to himself is going to cause me some grief.....keep reading.

Poetry/5th Year is tough we are reminded at every class and/or Prefect talk that the Leaving Certificate is a 2 year cycle which determines our lives and that, to get into our favoured course at University, “hard graft” is required. Clongowes really did allow us to develop all our talent whether that be sport, academia, music or acting. In our Poetry Drama Festival Messrs Coyne and Shanahan apparently are born for their parts. According to the 1977 Clongownian “An Punt ar Eileamh”, Sean O’Casey’s “Pound on Demand”, both actors “are very convincing drunks”!

The rugby season in 1977 was disappointing the SCT was defeated in the first round despite the contributions of a number of our year including Barry Walker, Greg Dilger and Freddie Brown. Little did we know that a number of the Team would collect the holy grail of an SCT medal the following year!

The SRPA - the charity organisation run by 5th Years is taken over by M Coyne who is President ably assisted by Messrs. O’Beirne and Shanahan. I have one memory of the SRPA when I was press ganged to help, M Mooney and myself visited a couple of homes and then were offered the opportunity to watch Tony Ward playing for Ireland v. Scotland by the Assistant Bursar in his home...........which we gladly accepted.

A number of our Year join “The Higher Line Debating Society”, and these include DJ Hegarty, Eamon Doohan and Peter Howick. There is also “The Academy” on offer, where students agree to present a Paper on a speciality topic........at the time, it seemed like a lot of hard work to most of us, however there were volunteers. These extra curricular students numbered “Oliver Dyar” who shared his knowledge of “Nuclear Fission & Fusion” with us, D J talked down to us about “Mao Tse Tung”, C Lucey implored us to understand “Isaac Newton” and our genial Editor Rossa waxed lyrical about “The Assassination of J F K & The Warren Commission”. Fair play to one and all - and they did get a special academic tie - to remind us of their elevated status.

The Academy 1977

After the Halloween break, I brought back a gas camping cooker. We made toast and soup and basic hot food in our room. All was going well until Pat Sheary catches Morgan with a slice of toast and hot soup................Morgan spins a yarn that he used a flame with an aerosol can of deodorant to make the offending food item. Pat Sheery sends him off to Mocky Shiel and before long the Fire Brigade from Naas are brought in to blow up cans of aerosol to explain to Morgan and others who had to attend that he could have blown up the 1929 building and a number of fellow students! Meanwhile I disposed of the camping gas cooker, brining it back home at the first available opportunity.

Its’ now April and the Punchestown Racing Festival “Wednesday” clashes with my final rugby game for the 3rds v. Belvedere at home. Ned Carroll our Latin Master offers me a lift to the races, I explain to him I can’t go as I am due to line out as 1st centre on the thirds. He mentions the quality of the racing and surely I could get a replacement to play for me. I agree thats’ a solution, but who, ah my great room-mate Con, surely he would relish a game for the 3rds when he has been on the 1st’s all season..........he agrees and in bliss I head off to Punchestown. I return around 8pm to find out Mocky Sheil is looking for me urgently........something about rugby.

I run into Mocky just as Late Study is about to begin and he suggests we deal with the issue in his room. Not sure what I am guilty of, I tread carefully, he said that he refereed the 3rds game against Belvo and that I better have a damned good excuse for not turning out...............I advise him “I forgot”........he says “this is neither true nor credible.......and by the way how did I get on at Punchestown?”. My mind goes blank and all I hear is “Fitzpatrick you let your team down, disgraceful........you will never be asked to play rugby again”. When I catch up with Con........he tells me, he couldn’t sub for me as his mother had unexpectedly arrived up from Tralee and he had to go out with her! Friends........cannot be relied on when something better comes along........another life learning......Anyway, I wasn’t too perturbed as it was the end of the rugby season and rugby wasn’t my favourite sport. That said, I did love sport above everything so perhaps I had lost a privilege.

One of the major events for us in 1977 was our first social - the argument had been made by Tigger, Rossa, myself and a number of other supporters - through the School Council of which I was a Member that Poetry should have a dance night with a girls‘ s school. The argument being that we had spent 5 years similar to most of the Rhetoric year and should not be discriminated against because we had chosen to do “O-Levels”. Permission was granted and an invitation sent to Mount Anville. In May 1977, we had our first social. I remember we had to collect £1 pound from each of our year to pay for the DJ/Music, other than that the Catering Staff provided the grub and our night was a relative success. The South Dublin girls were more mature and worldly wise than we were, despite the bravado of the Smokers and future Rock stars led by Johnno Donnelly - who gave the impression that women were their “subject of excellence”..........the rest of us were mere mortals.

Following the social - there was much banter amongst the lads and a few choice phrases come to mind, 41 years on. I can remember Grattan and Morgan exchanging their thoughts about the girls each had managed to partner for the night. Morgan mentioned that Grattan’s girl obviously had a good or indeed great personality and Grattan responded that Morgan’s was as bald as a coot..........this is as much as my memory will permit me to recount.

Con and I housed the “Poker Night(s)” in our room during Winter recreation Study break 8-9.15pm a healthy poker school existed with Gucks, Dingle, Morgan, Grattan, Titch Kelly and Bob Kryger being the principal benefactors for Dingle who had an uncanny knack/skill of winning the largest pots.

One day in May a US high school came to tour Clongowes and some of us were press ganged into looking after the students. The purpose of hosting these American students was to provide the whole Clongowes experience to them in 1 day. Speaking to their English Teacher and Head of Tour, early on in the day, he was fired with enthusiasm as to visiting “hallowed ground” - namely James Joyce’s early Alma Mater - I was a bit nonplussed, this was just our home. 40 years on and being in the TV Business.........we didn’t realise then what a star “Joyce was” and “still is”!

Till next month - my 6th and Final Article - continuing the theme ‘born in 1960 and made in CWC.

Courtesy of Francis Fitzpatrick @fitzlaws

The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed belong solely to the author, and not necessarily to Clongowes or the  CWC 1978 committee or other groups or individuals.