Growing up in Cork in the fifties and sixties I was always aware of a certain privilege attached to the name Dwyer.
When introduced to someone new there was always that little flicker of the eyes and the question “Are you related to….”
In the fifties I enjoyed this, even basked a little in the reflected glory.
It must have been, I often think, the main reason why I, a particularly wimpish child, was never bullied in school.
In the sixties, of course, as a revolting teenager, I forswore such reflected glory.
How could a child of the revolution possibly claim status from being descended from one of Corks Merchant Princes?
My family in fact were just that.

Between 1820 and 1980, they were one of the largest employers in Cork, they ran a dynastic empire from an enormous base which took up a major piece of Washington Street in Cork.

Calling Card/Blotter found by my Waterford friend Tom Power in his aunts old shop

They had founded and ran a stable of successful manufacturing businesses ; Sunbeam Wolsey, Seafield Gentex, Perdix Shirts and Knitwear, Templemichael Mills, The Lee Boot Factory, Hanover Shoes.
They employed thousands of Cork people for 160 years, there was hardly a household in Cork without a member who hadn’t worked for the Dwyers at one time or another.

However this all came to an end in the eighties.

Due to various causes, an over virile great grandfather, who produced three separate families and the failure of the remaining members to modernise and embrace a whole different attitude to trade, the business closed in the nineteen eighties.

I remember when I moved to Waterford in the early Eighties my new boss, George Gossip of Ballinakill House, coming to me one day and saying “My aunt tells me you are one of “The Dwyers of Cork” would you ever tell me what that means.”

The truth of the matter is of course that our fame was a strictly local phenomenon and outside Cork, other than in those families whose shops were provisioned by Dwyers, little was known about us.

About four years ago, spurred on mainly by my brother Ted, we decided that, for the sake of the generations to come, we should try to put together the story of our remarkable family and their rise and decline in Cork.
We were lucky to persuade the brilliant Mary Leland to write this for us.

At last the book is ready for publication, is with the printers, and will be officially launched in November-in time for Christmas!
(And I think I have persuaded RTE’s Nationwide to cover the launch)

Amazon have agreed to handle it for us so if anyone is interested in purchase I will keep you informed as soon as it is cold from the press.

Many of you may have blinked and so missed my brief appearance on Nationwide in September.
I was the man with the umbrella on the walking tour (which happens towards the end of the programme)
Thanks to the RTE archives you can even replay it here

If you have sufficient patience, I even briefly speak at the closing moments !

Good write up of Caligula which is on in The Project for the Dublin Theatre Festival in today’s Guardian.

As Daughter Deirdre did the set design I declare an interest.

Helen Meany
The Guardian,
Monday October 6 2008

“You’re being absurd,” Emperor Caligula is told, and how could he not be? In Albert Camus’ 1930s play, the notorious Roman ruler becomes a mouthpiece for the philosophy of the absurd, demonstrating the meaninglessness of life by embarking on a reign of terror. With relentless logic, he pursues his idea of freedom by tyrannising others, “converting philosophy into corpses”.
David Greig’s witty translation brings contemporary irony to a play that offers an original perspective on ancient history, while anticipating the extremes of 20th-century dictatorships. Both aspects are evoked in Conor Hanratty’s strikingly austere production. Tilly Grimes’ costumes have a formality that dispels any toga-and-sandals cliches.
The shining black surfaces of Deirdre Dwyer’s abstract set suggest a series of mirrors, framing the pool in which Caligula gazes, unable to see beyond his own reflected image. Will O’Connell convincingly swings from cold rationality to manic spleen. With a dangerous facility for the language of propaganda and spin, he adopts the guise of madness when it suits him.
“We can always find another emperor,” one member of his retinue says coolly, but it takes a long time for the conspirators to summon up the courage to get rid of Caligula – they are poets and thinkers, who retain some sympathy with the emperor’s ideas. Caligula’s assassination is inevitable from the start, yet it seems as if Camus is more interested in elaborating philosophical arguments about freedom and responsibility than in dramatic momentum, and some of the characters are sketchy and emblematic.
Nevertheless, every ounce of theatricality is exploited here. The CHRG company emerged last year from a mentoring programme run by the Rough Magic theatre company, and has established its own style of nihilist chic.

We went on a flying 36 hour visit to Wales over the week end.
The daughter, Deirdre, has started in the Royal College of Music and Drama doing a post graduate course in theatre design and some one had to bring over all her stuff in a car.
We drove through the lashing rain along the M4 from Pembroke having been tossed about the Irish Sea and discovered that door to door to Cardiff from Waterford took about 9 hours.

Deirdre brought us on a flying visit to the college to show us their first project, a huge and brilliant Adam and Eve collage sculpture.
The collage colours for these were provided from discarded billboards, one of the lecturers had a contact in that trade.

(Those of you in my acquaintance who, like me, are not too enamoured with La Ramsey’s kitchen posturings would have been delighted to discover what particular part of Eves anatomy Ramsey’s bouffant hairstyle was used to portray.)

Sile had spotted that there was a production of Alan bennet’s “Enjoy”, starring Alison Steadman on in Cardiff on Saturday so, being fans of both Bennett and Steadman we had booked tickets over the phone.
We managed a quick, pleasant and mollusc free dinner in a restaurant which the British sense of humour had called The Slug and Lettuce and then on to Cardiff’s New Theatre for a really marvellous night of theatre.
Bennet can be very very funny and also pack in some heavy punches, in this case on how we treat our oldies.
Steadman was at her brilliant best as were the rest of the cast,

particularly Carol Macready as Mrs Cregg,
an impeccible and hilarious cameo.

The play, which was written by Bennett in the eighties well deserves its revival and I am delighted to discover today that it will be in the West End in London in Feburary.
Get to it if you can.

As we left on the road home the following morning Irish ferries texted us that the boat was going to be two hours late (a cause to bless the mobile for once) so we were able to spend a couple of hours (and about €20) visiting the Welsh Botanic Gardens which is just off the M4 at Cross Hands.

This has a huge dome greenhouse and rather too many formal gardens but still we reckoned worth the detour.

Not a weekend I think that I would recommend for either leisure or economy but I do think that we managed to do a good job of milking a work of mercy for our own purposes.

Here are a few plants I photographed in the Botanical Gardens.

This last one being a most delicate Slipper Orchid

I’m delighted to find that Thezan les Beziers, our village in France, has got itself a web page, or is just about to get itself one as it is not finished yet.
This is full of information and great photos of the village and even bits of history.

This picture, from the Thezan Page, is taken from the graveyard in the north which shows the Orb flowing down to the south and the buildings in the centre of the village clearly built into the old walls.
Our house is just out of sight (well, you can see a smidgen of the roof behind the church.)

Okay I know it is much to early to be talking about Christmas, I know all the lines, :–….. earlier every year ….. wait ’till after Halloween ……. When I was young we never put up a decoration before…..

But if you want to organise a family Christmas with any hope of the family attending you have to start thinking about it around mid-summer’s day.
From the spring of this year I was nurturing a little evil thought in my head.

Before I divulge this thought I would like to say a few words in my defence.

For the last thirty five (odd) years I have thrown my heart and soul into Christmas and the cooking of same.
We have always had a house full, once we even invited Sile’s extended family and had 28 staying over Christmas (we were in the restaurant at the time, and a lot of them were little, so it was not-quite-as much a squash as that sounds.)

During this time I have become fairly proficient at producing the Christmas dinner and all the traditional trimmings.
In my other role as cooking guru to the people of Waterford I am in constant demand over the Christmas period to talk, demonstrate and especially answer questions about every possible aspect of The Dinner .
Christmas is the time when all the insecure cooks feel obliged to come out of the closet and search frantically for help.
Sometimes I feel that if I was never to see or hear of Plum Pudding etcetera again I wouldn’t be too distressed.
I must say at this stage that if ever I made the merest hint about changing any of our usual Christmas food traditions my three daughters were up in arms.

This year, I knew , was going to be our turn to have Caitriona and Aonghus (my married eldest daughter and spouse). This formula of turn and turn about has been very fairly worked out with the Butlers, his parents.

The evil thought was that we might spend Christmas in France where we now have loads more space (Six bedrooms and five bathrooms on the last count-it is intending to be a B&B after all) than we have in Waterford (three bedrooms and one bathroom).
Not only more space but as most of our traditional trappings of Christmas are unavailable over there we would have to do Noël à la Française ...
(which seems to consist mainly of lashings of shellfish-Yum!)

However….
The best laid schemes….

Now you will all know how absolutely delighted I am that I will be a grandfather in January but, it must be admitted this has put a stop to my gallop.
There is no way daughter Caitriona can fly to France a few weeks before her accouchement in Hollis Street.
So Christmas in Waterford it is.

Just two weeks ago I gathered the daughters together and begged them to lay down a few essentials for Christmas.
They are all a little more grown up now so after some baulking I was allowed to change from Turkey to Goose (provided the stuffing stayed the same) and maybe change the vegetables about a little (without touching the spiced roast spuds) and yes, I could experiment a little with an alternate Christmas Cake.
Small victories for a chef who imagined he was going to be serving Lobster, Oysters and Prawns on the terrace in Languedoc on Christmas Day (in the correct French tradition) but in this case I was certainly a beggar not a chooser.

I started my researches into alternate Christmas Cakes this week.
Based on a combination of the traditional Tea Brack and a Boiled Fruit Cake but using, far more aromatic, Earl Grey tea and eschewing all the dried fruit I never cared for (mixed peel, hard dark raisins, angelica) and substituting those I love (Apricots, Prunes, Stem Ginger) I have come up with something rather delicious.

The despiriting thing is that at the end of the day I may have just substituted one tradition for another and -should I live long enough- may come to be as heartily sick of this one.

Earl Grey Fruit Cake

(Needs 2 x Ikg Loaf Tins)

300g (10oz.) Sultanas
150g (5 oz.) Chopped Dried Apricots
100g (3 oz.) Prunes, chopped
60g (2 oz.) Chopped Stem Ginger
150g (5oz.) Dark Brown Sugar
150g (5oz.) Caster Sugar
2 Cups of Strong Earl Grey Tea (freshly brewed and drawn)
150g (5 oz.) Unsalted Butter (melted)
300g (10oz.) Flour
3 medium eggs
2 tsps. Baking powder
1 generous handful Pine Nuts

Mix the fruit , sugar and tea together and soak for 12 hours.
Or
Bring to the boil in a large pot and then leave to cool.
(if you do it this way you can mix the cake in the pot and save on wash up)

Sieve together the flour with the baking powder, beat the eggs together
with the melted butter, and add these alternately to the fruit.Mix together well.
Grease well two 1 kg. loaf tins, line the bottoms with greaseproof paper or tinfoil and divide the mixture between the two.
Bake these at 180C 350F Gas 5 (or about 150C in a fan oven) for 1 hour to 1 Hour 15 mts, test with a skewer, it should come clean.

We got these originally for window boxes in the restaurant about eight years ago.
We brought them here, to our new house in Waterford, took them out of their pots, and they are now thriving (under Sile’s green fingers) and rapidly becoming shrubs.

In the early seventies when I worked in Snaffles in a basement in Leeson St in Dublin where we used to have a fairly ritzy clientele. Film stars on the prowl often ended making it down the stairs and ringing the bell to get in.

A fairly frequent customer was the director John Huston, often accompanied by his little daughter Angelica.

One morning, during the filming of Macintosh Man in Ireland John Huston rang and booked lunch.
He asked for a quiet table as he was bringing Paul Newman, and booked it for the latest possible time, 2.00, as they were filming in the morning.

There was consternation in Snaffles.

Paul Newman was the biggest star of the time.

We waited until 2.00, 2.15… no sign.
Then the phone rang.

John Huston on the line; “Sorry we didn’t make it but I guess you were closed, I sent Mr. Newman down but he couldn’t get in”
John, the head waiter, asked him “Did Mr. Newman ring the bell ?”
“Ah Shit !” said Mr Huston, “I forgot to tell him to do that”

That was how I never met Paul Newman.

My web friend Jedrzej has a superb picture on his blog, Venividi of birds on a wire which instantly led me to the old Leonard Cohen song of the same name (he did it before with Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bookends“)

When this was a hit in the sixties my friends of the time (you know who you are) who were as addicted to puns as I was , quickly changed it to;
“Like a bird on Dwyer”
thereby totally destroying Cohens beautiful verse.

It would be nice to think that it stopped there.

But no.

The Witchita Lineman, Glen Cambell’s classic;

I hear you singing in the wire.
I can hear you thru the whine.
And the Wichita Lineman,
is still on the line.

Soon became:

I hear you singing in Dwyers
(If I could hear you through the wine).

The final indignity happened when at the height of the Troubles the Wolfe Tones were rallying support against internment with their songs.

I hardly need to tell you what “The Men Behind the Wire” became .

Politeness is an essential oil for living in village France.
We live in the old part of the village and no-one there would dream of passing you in the street without a “Bonjour” or “Bonsoir”.
In the flat of the town, where the shops are, this is not so rigidly maintained , but never would a greeting go unanswered.

On entering a shop one always says “Bonjour Messieurs Dames” to all present and “Au revoir Messieurs Dames” as you go, having already politely thanked the shopkeeper for their kindness in serving you.

They have a greeting for all occasions, on our trips to campsites no-one passed, if one was eating, without saying “Bon Appetit”(and this included children.)

“Bonne Soiree” is “Have a good evening” and is used between 6.00 and 8.00 only.
“Bon Weekend” is used on Friday evenings.
A waitress, having wished one “Bon Appetit” before the first course will wish you “Bonne Continuation” as she serves the second.
As we pulled up in front of the house last July and started to unpack a neighbour drove by and stuck his head out the window to wish us “Bon Installation” and enivitably as we pack to go we will be wished “Bon Retour”.
(“Bon Retour” is interesting because it does not mean, as I thought, and was gently corrected by a neighbour, ; “Welcome back” but rather something more like “Safe Home”)

Such politeness is not , of course, easily learned.
Walking through the village if you see a parent or (more likely) a grand parent walking out with a toddler you say “Bonjour” to the adult and then another “Bonjour” (traditionally accompanied by an ingratiating smirk) to the child.
Woe Betide the child who doesn’t give the appropiate response.
The French have no shame in public displays of corporal punishment.

As I passed the carpark by the church last week I suddenly became aware of a persistant and repeated sound.
Two unaccompanied small boys with red faces were yelling “Bonjour” at the top of their lungs, I had not replied.
Positively embarrassed I immediately managed the reply complete with smirk and they retired triumphant.

They had , of course, been learning the rules of La Politesse for longer than I.

Post Scriptum September 30th.

In an article in todays (English) Independent, Terence Blacker, under the title of
“Why Britons love la vie en rose” answers his own question by saying;
“they are responding to a sense of community which the French have mysteriously managed to retain….. It is the way they greet each other in the street or in the shops, in the attitude towards children and across generations generally.”

I feel that Mr. Blacker and myself might be using the same hymn book