A tribute to the late Liam Ryan, Willomere Drive, Thurles

St. John’s parable must have been written with you in mind: loaves and fishes.

You multiplied both in quantities that even Jesus would have admired. And he, not having mastered the fly, fared well, feeding five thousand, with just 5 loaves and 2 fish.

Long ago, any journey to Ballyragget combined both these arts: baking and fishing.

Though both your parents master bakers, you would say that Seamus, your older brother, had a special touch. We can still see him, under your own father’s watchful eye, sliding out the trays of crackling loaves from the great ovens whose fire never went out.

In that distant past, you were kneading dough while silently the world slept. In years you no longer missed, you delivered bread on horse-drawn vans. Fortunately the horses knew the road, for fear you might fall asleep.

You joked that after dances, you and Seamus would go straight to work in the bakery at 2am without sleep.
Immaculate you: there was no fear there would be a trace of flour on your slim suit, when you began dating 'the queen’ as you called her, and dancing to showbands in the Premier Hall.

Down by the river bank
When our visit to grandad's bakery was over, we would head off, as night fell, down some river bank, by purling waters and whispering ghostly trees.

‘You fish this spot, you’d say, I’m heading down here. I’ll see you in a while’. In the distance, I can soon hear the line whipping and slicing the night air, in search of the elusive fish.

This was your retreat, alone beneath the starry firmament on a Summer’s night.

Thus began our long journey into night. We head home, lying across the back seat of the Beetle. I see the silhouette of your face illumined by some passing car, somewhere near Fennor Hill, as we head away from your past, along the road unfolding mine, till we could make out the watertower and knew we were back home.

You would come back from Bennetsbridge or Ballycamus looking like you had been to Bermuda. You were bemused by those who holidayed abroad: ‘why would you go some place to spend it staying cool indoors and with no decent river?’
But you and the die-hards made one dream exception, when the unseasoned, indifferent traveller and friends took off in a trailer across Alaska.

Each Summer, you preferred the Wicklow coast, a different hue to the Golden Vale.

The Union MOney
The front door bell rings : more union money being delivered by the familiar shop stewards from Dwans, Erin Foods, Valley, or THE factory. There’d rich pickings for any intruder tonight. One of us would help you fill in the big ledgers, long before Excel and direct debits.

Later we learned much of what you did from those for whom you did much.
A woman stopped me once and said: ‘your father sorted out my pension’. And there were many like her. You sat on company boards, in court, in Liberty Hall and attended countless meetings with Peetsy, Bulfin or the Lewises.

Ready to go again
It’s March and the rods are out. You’re winding up fishing line, oiling a reel, tying flies, dusting off the camping gas stove for lunch on the bank.

The garage is like a Natural History Museum with its displays of insects. You, Cooke, Shorley or Blackie have invented new species of flies that evolution could only dream of. Nouvelle cuisine for the suspicious fish.

The bags are all set now and brimming with tackle : Berkeley line, Shakespeare waders, Hardy or Orvis rods. Let’s pray there’s a return on the investment this season. Then off you would head off to Two Ford Bridges for the evening.

Often we would not hear you come in. Your good wife, who incidentally didn’t eat fish - it was nothing personal -, was a widow for a few months of the year. You were the inveterate fishing gamblers holding out for a win, chatting late into the night in Glasheens. From the ancient walls of the magnificent abbey peered the ghosts of the Cistercians making sourdough with flat oats.

At any point you could ring: ‘Do you want any fresh yeast?’ I feel the onset of another lesson in the right way to do things!
A friend once asked, ‘do you talk about anything else other than bread?’. ‘I’ve just picked a few 16kgs bags of French flour'. (Pause) Jesus himself must be thinking : where was he when I needed him back in Galilee!

‘The gluten is much higher’, he’d say. ‘My own father got a priest to bring back some after the war. It’s the only flour for soft rolls’.
If we win I’ll die happy - i couldn’t listen to that crowd again!!

And then, September would come. The two hurling Titans are going head to head once again.
This is senior hurling, dividing the seniors in the house. And the gloves are off.
Before the match she’d say: ‘Jesus if we win I’ll die happy... I couldn’t listen to that crowd again’!

It’s 3.30 pm on Sunday: the radio is trying to keep up with the TV picture. Here comes the throw-in! Take a deep breath now : this is not for the faint hearted.

The marriage is on hold for seventy minutes. And there’s no divorce allowed yet.
You’re getting animated: ‘put it over!’ Foul! Oh god DJ’, you gasp. But she’s ice cool and confident.
You baptised the new cat Henry. In reply, she pinned Lar Corbett to the door. ‘Don’t put that stripey jersey on in this house!, she would warn. Seán Mc Loughlin is down the road, don’t forget.

Instead you donned a bright red baseball cap - given to you as a present by Patrick O'Reilly - which read: ‘Make Ballyragget great again’.
And when the dust of the final had settled, I said some days after: ‘he’s gracious in defeat all the same’.
She raised her eyebrow exclaiming: ‘Are you going soft? Don’t fall for that. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word’.

During one such banter, I recall you mumbled in a huff to your beloved Mary: ‘you know, I should never have crossed the border at Fennor Hill into this place back in 63!’
Coolly, she countered: ‘well, if we had any sense we should never have let you in’!

And then adding for good measure: ‘ye couldn’t look after your own on Noreside, so you had to come here!’
If victorious on the first Sunday of September, you are cock-a-hoop, and said little. In defeat, you would conveniently turn off your phone for a week and say you had no credit.
When you first arrived in the early sixties, you suffered Hell’s Kitchen, but you could still laugh loudly with the Rattler at work. In Erin Foods or the ITGWU, you were respected by all.

The Autumn Comes
The Autumn is now here, and the season is done. The bragging rights are hushed for another hurling year.
Sugar beet dots the roads, you had best be careful on your bike with these loads. You’re in the Munster Hotel with Jim, or on the farm Dan, walking the fields with Freeda, or playing piano for mam. You’ve painted the house, while your teenagers were still in bed. If you’re not up before six, you’d say, you’re not right in the head.

You’re following Aidan’s sublime horses, or walking the woods out at Knoxses, you’re advising on how not to be fooled by the banks, cos' your college education hasn’t helped your cop-on.

Long Life
Dad, You lived life’s long cast. We are grateful in aeternum for all.
The rod is hung up now, the rivers run uninterrupted. For the early riser, dawn has given way to dusk. Alas, one day, the day must come when the day no longer comes.

Omnes una manet nox! Yes, one night awaits all, and the path is just trodden once.
The inky vault above you is resplendent with stars, cast like dust across the baker’s table.

The fish can rest easy tonight.... They bow their heads to your passing shadow....you the lone fisherman, retracing your own steps as you slip on night’s cloak....happy you had a magnificent long cast, on life’s expectant river.

Written by Paul Ryan