This Kilkenny Life: "Corncrakes, cuckoos & the ‘Greens’"

‘Tell me this’, says he, ‘When’s the last time you heard the cuckoo?’ I’m chatting with my

friendly taxi man who’s driving me home from the pub where the chat hovered around sport

and politics but not the cuckoo. My taxi man and myself usually swap notes about mutual

minor health issues but this was a first. I scratch my head. ‘The last time I heard the cuckoo?’

I repeat. ‘Haven’t a pup’s notion. Years ago,’ I tell him. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Because’, says

he, ‘I hadn’t heard the cuckoo in at least twenty years but, believe it or not they’re back, or

least one of them is back because he, or she, is ‘serenading’ me every morning.’ ‘Around

what time?’ ‘Five a.m. or thereabouts’. ‘Jesus, no wonder I wouldn’t hear him, or her. I’m on

my second, third or fourth sleep by then and as many dreams and maybe the odd nightmare.

Are you going to or coming off work at that time?’ ‘Ah, I’m well off duty, so what’s bringing

them back, Gerry?’ ‘Do I look like an ornithologist?’ I say. He looks at me. ‘Lads can look

very strange, Gerry, at this hour of the morning after a few pints.’ I laugh. And then a

question of my own. ‘When’s the last time you heard the corncrake?’ ‘A life time ago, Gerry,

a life time ago. And for sure I wouldn’t want one of them lads ‘serenading’ me in the

morning.’ And then, just before he pulled up outside my door – a Eureka moment. ‘I’ll tell

you what’s bringing the cuckoo back.’ Go on, tell me.’ ‘The Greens.’ ‘The Greens!’ he

exclaims. ‘Yep, the Greens; the cuckoo knows the Greens are back and the environment is

slightly safer – for a while at least.’ ‘Gerry?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Gerry, that, if you don’t mind me saying

so – is cuckoo.’ And off he zoomed into the night. All of which brought to mind the

following wee poem that I composed about as many years ago since I last heard the cuckoo –

Cuculus Canorus to give it its proper ornithological appellation.

Cuculus Canorus Complex!

Well it’s cuckoo-time in Ireland

When folks with nothing on their minds

Go grabbing pen and paper

And start writing to the Times

Stating when and where, precisely,

And all with much ado

They’d this: Ornithological Experience

Of hearing their first cuckoo

e.g. Sir, It was April twenty seventh

Between the hours of one and two

When, with my darling wife and wolfhound,

I heard my first cuckoo

Or, Sir, I would like to mention

That Easter Sunday afternoon

I heard the cuckoo, cuckoo twice,

In a wheat-field near Macroom

Well I have to admit I’m baffled

By all this ballyhoo

I think these folks, if they’ll pardon me,

Are themselves a bit – cuckoo!

Indeed I like a bit of nature myself-

A picnic, country walk

But I must confess, I couldn’t care less

If I heard the cuckoo TALK!

Our DALY Bread!

I met him, as I often do, in the supermarket. At the bread counter. ‘Gerry Moran’, he

announces (as if he hadn’t seen me in years and we only talking hurling a fortnight ago)

‘Gerry Moran’, he repeats, ‘tell me this and tell me no more, who the hell was Daly?’ I’m

perplexed. ‘Daly who?’ I ask. ‘Daly as in Daly’s Hill where we grew up, where we played

cowboys & indians and guards & prisoners.’ ‘DeLoughreys owned it.’ I tell him. ‘Ah I know

that, I know that but who was Daly? I thought you’d surely know and all the writing you did

about it.’ ‘Well I don’t know.’ ‘Will you try and find out?’ ‘I will.’ ‘I’ll be keeping an eye

out.’ ‘I know you will. By the way’, I say as he tossed a large sliced into his basket, ‘when’s

the last time you heard the cuckoo?’ ‘Not in donkeys years’, he shoots back, ‘but I always

heard the corncrake on Daly’s Hill.’

P.S. So, who the hell was Daly? Anyone know? Reply a.s.a.p. or I’m in trouble.