One Reply to “Cork Never Sinks”

  1. This was Ogilvy and Moor’s next door to my Grandmother’s bed and bed breakfast hotel, The Star Hotel at 10 Parnell Place. I think the houses were knocked down in about 1974. Next to that was my Great Aunt Lizzie O’Connell’s house no 11. As a child we would come over from Liverpool with my mother every Summer for six weeks and roam the streets of Cork all day long. Fitzgerald’s Park, Patrick St, Roche’s Stores,and all the cinemas were ours. We would get the bus to my cousins in Ballyphehane, maybe my Uncle Neilly was driving it. Every church and monastery in town was known to us. We played at the river banks and on river chains, and on the steps of the old opera House in the evenings with the Lindopps from Lower Oliver Plunkett St. My Uncle Joe was our hero, our toy maker, joker, and, magically, our horse driver. He drove my grandmother and all of us in a pony and trap before the car ttok over completely.The houses were later remodelled from the lovely Georgian buildings they were and all the beautiful objects from the big houses: paintings, statues, maps, furniture,and objets d’art that Joe got at the auctions cheap were sold for £40 after my grandmother died in 1966. A bust made of marble of an Irish patriot was given to the museum and I think it may still be there. Patty O’Boyle am I, (nee Bleasdale). My Mother was Betty Lomasney and my grandmother Mary Lomasney. Old Mrs Crowley too was our neighbour at the One Bright Spot “The Temperance Hotel” where we served in her corner shop: snuff, chocolate and tobacco. Frank Mitchell had the corner shop around on L.O.P St and Lena was across the road in the dairy. Every day the fruit men came down from Dublin in their wagons to the docks and they stayed in a huge room at the Star. It had ten brass beds in it. Other rooms had all at least two brass beds.My sisters and I had a candle at night, and the horse trough in the street was for ever a source of fun and temptation. The smells were of oranges, oats, horse manure, and the noises were of old shawlies and tramps calling out their wares or us calling them names. The loveliest sound came from the opera singer who stayed in digs in the house at the back of the tiny wedge shaped yard that backed on to Oliver Plunkett St. Every night she practised. We had a miraculous child hood there, and I loved the City as my home.

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