
A day in the Bere Island school where teachers commute by ferry and classes take place on the beach
It's the first week of a prolonged spell of gloriously sunny May weather, and I'm at the pier at Castletownbere in Co
Cork
, where several people are gathered, waiting to board the 9am ferry to Bere Island.
Among the scattering of tourists in bright walking gear and stout boots are Fiona Hartnett and Aoife Butler. They are both teachers at Bere Island primary school, Scoil Mhichil Naofa, where 25 pupils await them at the other side of the water. Today the two teachers are joined by support teacher Darragh O'Sullivan.
The teachers always have to be exceptionally punctual.
School
literally can't start unless they make the morning ferry. 'There's only one way in and one way out,' Hartnett says.
When I ask her what are the particular challenges of teaching on an island, especially when she has to commute by ferry to get there, she doesn't hesitate in her reply.
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'Getting a substitute teacher.'
Children play in the playground of the Primary School on Bere Island, Co. Cork.
Primary school teachers Fiona Hartnett and Aoife Butler take the Bere Island Ferry over and back to the primary school on the island every day. Photograph: Dan Dennison
The ferry to Bere Island from the pier in Castletownbere. Photograph: Dan Dennison
The ferry can take four cars, or on this particular crossing, one huge, fully loaded truck and two cars. Watching the heavy truck reverse down the pier and then navigate backwards on to the ferry into the tightest of spaces is to witness driving of a skill few people could manage.
'It's like Tetris,' says Irish Times videographer and photographer Dan Dennison, who gingerly reverses his own (smaller) vehicle on to the ferry, looking apprehensive.
The ferry departs at 9am sharp for the 20-minute crossing, swinging out into the stretch of water that lies between island and mainland. The sea is utterly calm and a rare cornflower blue. When the ferryman hears we are reporters going over to do a story at the school for the day, he flat-out refuses to take payment for either us or the car.
The primary school Scoil Mhichil Naofa on Bere Island, Co Cork. Photograph: Dan Dennison
9.20am
Hartnett has a car parked at the pier on the island. She takes Butler and O'Sullivan with her, and we follow. The road winds here and there and upwards for a couple of kilometres, and then her car stops at a single-storey building in a grassy hollow, fringed with mature trees. Children aged four to 12 are arriving: on foot, or hopping out of cars, or running down the road, little daypacks bouncing on their backs.
This three-room school dates from 1980. The right-hand room is Hartnett's classroom, where she teaches junior infants, senior infants, first and second class; ages four to eight. The middle room has a kitchenette, storage for materials, a library, beanbags and a space for O'Sullivan to work one-to-one with students who need extra support. The room on the left is Butler's classroom, where she teaches third, fourth, fifth and sixth class; ages nine to 12.
In March this year, enrolment data from the Department of Education showed that 127 primary schools had fewer than 20 pupils. Two-teacher primary schools, like Scoil Mhichil Naofa, are still woven into the social fabric of rural Ireland. Nowhere is their existence more vital to a community than on islands. Bere Island has a population of just under 200. As so many small rural communities across the country have lost services over recent years, such as post offices, banks and Garda stations, the local primary school has become an even more crucial social hub.
There are just two classrooms at Scoil Mhichil Naofa on Bere Island. Photograph: Dan Dennison
Irish words and numbers at Scoil Mhichil Naofa. Photograph: Dan Dennison
9.30am
The school day starts. Officially it starts at 9.20am, but on an island, there's always a bit of latitude for getting off the ferry and driving up to the school. I'm sitting in Hartnett's classroom, where they are working on a word-association game where she invites the class to tell her words they associate with 'summer'.
Their island environment shines through in their answers.
'Beaches!'
'Fishing!'
'Sand!'
'Swimming!'
Hartnett does another word game. This one is word association with Bere Island itself.
'Island!'
'Shark!'
'Wild bulls!'
'Water!'
'Fish!'
'Walrus on a speedboat!' shouts out one child, clearly inspired by a television ad for a certain media company, and everyone falls around laughing.
'What are some of the things that happen in the summer?' Hartnett asks.
'Barbecues!'
Isla Daly in Fiona Hartnett's class listing words associated with summer. Photograph: Dan Dennison
Teacher Fiona Hartnett with her class in the primary school on Bere Island, Co Cork. Photograph: Dan Dennison
Then one very small child pipes up, 'The Tour De France!' with perfect French pronunciation.
There's a silence in the room. These are not familiar words to the majority of the class.
'Yes, you're right. The Tour de France happens in the summer,' Hartnett says. 'What is the Tour De France?'
Silence.
The small child who threw out the phrase puts her hand up, waving it back and forth furiously like a branch in a storm. 'It's a cycling race,' she says triumphantly, clearly delighted to be in possession of a scrap of information not shared by her classmate.
10am
At the other side of the building, in Butler's class, some of her older students are studying Irish tenses, while the younger ones are doing jigsaws that depict different parts of the world, or national flags. 'How I mange the different classes in the same room is that one group is learning, while the other is working on exercises,' she explains later.
At one stage, when a child has completed a jigsaw of Europe, Butler comes over to shake it up and give the puzzle to another child.
'Miss, you've broken the world,' the child says, when parts of different countries in jigsaw form tumble on to the table.
10.30am
There's a tin whistle lesson. The tune is the earworm Mary Had a Little Lamb, and it is fair to say not everyone finds the right tune, but everyone gives it a good go. Butler is endlessly patient with her young musicians. Over the next couple of days, I am to catch myself randomly – and tunelessly – singing Mary Had A Little Lamb.
At some point, Butler brings up on the interactive whiteboard the day's Connections word puzzle from the New York Times. As it happens, I do this puzzle every day myself, and there are days when I don't always solve it, usually foxed by American lingo, or sporting references I have never gleaned.
Everyone sits up excitedly when Connections comes on the screen. Butler calls different children to take turns at the board, choosing the four words from the 16 on offer that connect in some way with each other.
Throughout the day, I will continue to marvel at both Hartnett and Butler's ability to both teach and multi-task, and how they each respond to the different concentration levels of children at different ages in the same classroom
Four of today's words are 'Hawaiian', 'Plain', 'Supreme' and 'Vegetable'. In five seconds, the class has figured out that the connection is one of their favourite things – pizza. I wonder if the person who set today's New York Times Connections puzzle knows it is being played all over the world, including in a small school on a small island off the coast of Co Cork in Ireland.
The children also play the New York Times game Wordle, and Flaggle, a game where you have to figure out which national flag is being slowly revealed.
'We do them every day,' Butler tells me later. 'They love it.'
11am
Back in Hartnett's class, during the lesson, one child asks to go to the toilet; another wonders aloud how long until lunchtime; another gets up, goes over to Hartnett's desk, and starts playing with some pens there, until guided gently back to her seat. Another child brings up a water bottle to be opened. These are the youngest cohort of children in the room; the four- and five-year-olds. Hartnett navigates all these ad hoc interruptions with skill and warmth.
With some children in the class between the ages of four and five, the noise levels creep upwards from time to time. Hartnett has a simple but extremely effective way of pulling the children's attention back to class. When the noise starts to get too loud, she does a quick unheralded clapping sequence that goes a bit like 'Clap! Clap! Clap-Clap-Clap.' The children all join in and also clap the same sequence. It's her signal for everyone to be quiet. And after every little clapping session, they are indeed quiet – for a time. She doesn't have to say a word.
Throughout the day, I will continue to marvel at both Hartnett and Butler's ability to both teach and multitask, and how they each respond to the different concentration levels of children at different ages in the same classroom.
11.20am
It's lunchtime for both classes at 11.20am. I note the motivation, especially in Hartnett's class, to be able to tell the time on the wall clock is strong. Connie O'Donoghue, who is five, has been doing a countdown under his breath to 11.20am. On the exact count of 11.20am, the children spring up as one.
Connie O'Donoghue poses for his portrait in Fiona Hartnett's classroom in the primary school on Bere Island, Co Cork. Photograph: Dan Dennison
I assume they are rushing to their lunch boxes, but no. They form a surprisingly patient queue to wash their hands by turn at the washbasin in the corner of the room, where each child has their own tiny towel (really a facecloth) hanging up with their name on it.
Then they dig into rice cakes and sandwiches and bananas and grapes and slices of apple. Everything is gobbled up by 11.30am, because of course it's one of the two highlights of the day – playtime. The two classes burst out into the yard like so many corks exploding from bottles.
Children play in mixed age groups in the playground on Bere Island. Photograph: Dan Dennison
11.40am
It's playtime in the yard for the whole school. The youngest child in Hartnett's classroom is Oleksandre Loboda, who is four. There are three 12-year-olds in Butler's classroom: Feya MacCarthy, Erica Murphy, and Abigale Harrington. There are sibling groups in each classroom too. Leo O'Keeffe Sullivan (10) and his brother Elliot (9), sit adjacent to each other.
As the children play together outside, I meditate on what it must be like to spend your primary school days – your entire primary school years, in fact – in such close proximity with the same few people. There must be some inevitable bonding for life, as well as bonus lessons in the art of socialisation. Most children tend to play and hang out with their peers, because their peers are the people they spend the most time in school with, but at Scoil Mhichil Naofa on Bere Island, at break time, everyone plays together. I see chasing games, and games of 'It', and rounders, where some runners have the short legs of six-year-olds, and others the longer legs of 11-year-olds.
We are inside, talking to support teacher O'Sullivan when Hartnett knocks loudly on the window for our attention, and points to the road.
'Cows!' she shouts.
A large herd of cows are running past the (closed) school gates, bawling and mooing, and flicking their tails. The children run up to the gates to gawk, and then return to their games. The Irish Times photographer vaults over the gate with his camera and runs after the retreating cows.
Noon
At noon, two minibuses pull up outside the school gates. Butler's class is going on a marine treasure hunt to the Cloughland beach at the East End of the island. The minibus I travel on is driven by local woman Ann Harrington (a surname that repeats over and over during the day I'm on Bere).
The drive to the beach at the East End in the hot noon sunshine is ridiculously, absurdly beautiful. The fields are lush and dotted with grazing sheep. The odd winsome donkey watches us pass by, curious head over a gate, while the edges of the verdant island shimmer with beaches.
Up the airy roads and down the rocky glens the two minibuses go, as if we were in the cheesiest Irish version of the cheesiest Hallmark movie shot through a technicolour-saturated lens. What does it do to your consciousness as a child, I find myself wondering as I look out the window; growing up with such gorgeous landscape to look at, and having the rare freedom of living on a safe island to roam around?
They might take it all for granted now, but sometime in the future, the children in these two minibuses will possibly look back at their island school days on Bere and realise how special an experience it was to be able to go so easily to a beautiful beach for an environmental experience.
The Cloughland beach is indeed beautiful. It's completely empty, for a start; a sandy beach with clear rock pools and mounds of glistening seaweed and a small pier.
The children from 3rd to 6th class go on a beach walk to compile a nature report of their findings on their iPads on Bere Island, Co Cork. Photograph: Dan Dennison
The children from 3rd to 6th catalogue nature findings on the beach. Photograph: Dan Dennison
Jude Harrington on the beach. Photograph: Dan Dennison
On the beach, the children work in pairs of two to find the 16 objects on the 'bingo cards' they have made on pieces of paper back in the classroom. Each pair shares a school iPad, which come armoured in heavy-duty purple covers. Every time they find something, they tick it off their bingo card and take a photo of it.
'Shell, sand, bird, water, fancy rock, 'peri wrinkle', jelly fish, jumpy things under rocks, bugs, salt, something weird or creepy, crab shell, something white, flower, rubbish, bird poo,' one sheet reads.
The children of 3rd to 6th class on a nature walk by the beach. Photograph: Dan Dennison
Twelve-year-olds Leo O'Keeffe Sullivan and Abigale Harrington's bingo list, accompanied by lovely drawings, includes a number of similar objects, with a few additions of their own. 'Seaweed, Elliot, a bus, anemone.' The Lesser-Spotted Elliot is duly found, and his photo added.
At one end of the beach, Jude Harrington (9) insists that we come to look at 'the rainforest'. I clamber after him, over slippery, mossy stones, and find myself looking down from a height into a slice of narrow cove, the sand dappled with sunlight that shines though the 'rainforest' trees above. It is such a gloriously unexpected surprise of a view, and I turn to thank Jude for bringing us there, but he's gone, skipping back to the others, who have busied themselves with a new game.
All their objects have been duly found and photographed, so the children now turn their undivided attention to the universal game that children all over the world play near water – the game of who can throw the biggest stone into the sea off the pier and make the biggest splash. Back and forth they scurry tirelessly, sometimes lugging rocks in pairs, intent on their self-imposed task. Only the arrival of the minibuses to bring us back to school ends this game.
1pm
In Hartnett's class, the lesson is about wind, and what causes it. Images come up on the screen of hair being blown around, of a wind turbine, of a storm. There is some restlessness until the topic changes and a picture of a Venus Fly trap appears on the screen. Hartnett explains how the plant works; how it gets nutrients from trapping flies inside its little green snapping leaves. Then she plays a video of this happening.
The children are agog. 'Wow!' they shout, simultaneously appalled and fascinated as a plant swallows a fly.
1.20pm
There's another break for both classes to eat.
1.30pm
Everyone goes out to play again for 20 minutes.
1.50pm
Hartnett's class start putting their tiny chairs up on the tables, and looking for their shoes and lunch boxes and other paraphernalia. Not all these items are found.
2pm
There's a big group picture outside. Hartnett's class are picked up by their parents and guardians. School is over for the day for them.
Class photograph at the Bere Island primary school. Photograph: Dan Dennison
2.15pm
The children have used their iPads to make a story about their trip to the beach, incorporating all the photos they took, and personalising it with their names and borders. They look fantastic. I feel about a million years old, thinking back to my own analogue school nature walks, which usually consisted of sticking leaves and sticks and seeds into a copy afterwards with Sellotape.
2.30pm
Most of the children in Butler's class are reading. She takes each child up to her desk in turn to quietly look at their last night's homework. I take the opportunity to ask the class what they like about their school.
'That I have lots of friends,' Meabh Hobbs (11) says.
'I like that there's not many people here. It's not crowded,' Anthony Murphy (9) says.
2.50pm
Tidy-up time. Books are put away into clear boxes under the table, one child takes the designated daily turn to sweep the floor, and the others put their chairs up on the desks. With only a few minutes to freedom, they are all now visibly longing to go home. Adults start arriving at the school gates. Bags are grabbed.
'Thank you, Miss! See you tomorrow, Miss!' they shout as one, and run out the door, leaving some unswept crumbs on the floor, and a sudden, shockingly deep silence behind them.
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Especially with Kerry having to play Meath in Tullamore the day before. Instead, he was channelling his former manager, Brian McEniff. During the 2003 championship, McEniff made an enormous noise about having to play an All-Ireland quarter-final replay against Galway, in Castlebar. 'A pilgrimage to Castlebar,' he called it when the venue was announced. Given that the opposition was Galway, some of the Donegal players sniggered at their quirky manager. But McGuinness – who appeared as an injury-time sub for Christy Toye that day – would have noted the support that Donegal garnered through McEniff's proclamation. 'It would only happen because it's us,' said McGuinness of having to go to Roscommon. If 2012 owed something to 1992, then the lessons taught by McEniff go deep. ***** In a way, it's absolutely amazing. At The Famine Village in Doagh, the proprietor Patrick Doherty talked of living in his family home with the thatched roof and the low entry. Related Reads 'One of my early years, I had the match played in my head a thousand times beforehand' David Clifford 'could be the best player that has ever played the game' - McGuinness 'It's challenging but it's adding to the entertainment' - Goalkeeper view on new rules There were a few 'back in the day' yarns, one which centred around how mothers treated teething weans to the long stems of seaweed, coiled up. The child would bite on the tough stem and the taste of sea salt would please them enough to stop the crying. Doagh Famine Village. Alamy Stock Photo Alamy Stock Photo What changed everything, he said, was the entry into the European Economic Community in 1973, and the acceleration of events in 1984. The Man From The Council would then come round to your thatched house and order it to be tumbled and replaced with a fresh house. The clothing company, Fruit of the Loom, came to Buncrana in 1987 and employed thousands. Ireland was modernising. Donegal's modernisation was gaining pace, building on the existing and improving tourism industry. Think about it. For a couple hundred years, they were few areas in Europe quite as remote as Donegal. People ate the seaweed and cockles off the beaches and what they could catch on a rod. Now, the world comes to them. To taste their now legally-distilled Poitín. To chew on the local seaweed and marvel at the few thatch cottages left. They sit in recreations of Irish wakes and lap up the folklore before grabbing coffee and traybakes, making plans to hear a little of that old time music later on in the evening. Americans, English, Europeans, Irish, they all come in their droves to rent out houses and take trips on the coach tours, marvelling at some of the most unspoiled views of western Europe; or at least those that have not entirely succumbed to Bungalow Blight. They have it made. In other ways, they don't. There are fishing vessels moored in the deepwater port of Killybegs that are valued around €25 million. In the past, they would have fished the waters nine months of the year with people employed the length of Bundoran to Falcarragh within the industry. Now, the boats can leave the harbour in late October but they have to be finished by the start of March. Other crews from Spain, The Netherlands and Portugal can dock in Killybegs and travel 15 miles outside the bay to fish their bigger quotas. That's got to rub a few noses in it. Even something as emphatically Donegal as a day on the bog is gone. People still 'win' the turf, but it's a clandestine affair and selling turf for burning has been banned since 2022. Given the misery of the mid-1800s outlined earlier, you'd be forgiven for believing that Donegal had never achieved prominence. Within the Donegal GAA crest is a right hand gripping a red cross, the coat of arms of the O'Donnell Clan. They ruled Tír Chonaill for centuries as old royalty of the Gaelic nobility system. Frequently warring with other clans, most notably the O'Neill's, their most famous member was Red Hugh O'Donnell who was instrumental in many battles during the Nine Years War. Eventually though, after red Hugh's death in 1602, Rory O'Donnell engineered the Flight of the Earls on 14 September 1607, taking the prominent members and supporters of the families in a ship holding a reported number of 99. An art installation commemorates the Flight of the Earls, Ramelton. Alamy Stock Photo Alamy Stock Photo Leaving for Spain in a French boat hired in Nantes six months previously, determined to seek Catholic support, particularly from Spain to challenge English rule in Ireland. It never happened for them. As they left Ireland behind them, nervously looking at the shores of Lough Swilly, paranoid that the English were aware of their plan, they left behind a leadership void. One that was filled by the Plantation of Ulster by English and Scottish settlers. The descendants of the O'Donnells and O'Neills would go on to die young on foreign battlefields or rise to nobility and loyalty in Europe. Prior to their departure, they had elevated Donegal to international renown. The contrast in centuries was hammered home in one letter to The Irish Times some years ago, when a daughter recalled telling her father that his native parish in Donegal was hanging on a wall in the Doges Palace, Venice, in the 17th Century. He replied: 'Imagine, the Venetians knew about us in the 1700s and Dublin only discovered us in the 1960s!' They know all about them now. ***** Check out the latest episode of The42′s GAA Weekly podcast here


Irish Times
4 hours ago
- Irish Times
Kerry and Donegal. Two households, both alike in dignity. And in scenery. And, for sure, in roguery
From Tuosist and Teelin, they'll come to Croke Park. From Gallarus and Gaoth Dobhair, from Ardfert and Ardara. Hog's Head and Horn Head and all the many mad, wild heads in between. An All-Ireland final between Kerry and Donegal , the island's two most far-flung outposts. People and places forgotten by Official Ireland, gathering in kinship to be at play. Alright, alright. Easy on the uilleann pipes there, Carmel. For a slightly less misty-eyed take, let's turn to the internet – and the Tripadvisor account of one @Abcvance out of Grimes, Ohio. The dateline is October 2019 and our Ohioan friend has a question. @Abcvance: 'Looking at coming to Ireland in Aug/Sept. Doing Dublin, Galway and then deciding between Donegal or Kerry for the other area. Which do you recommend & why?' Oh boy. Here we go. READ MORE @bredamv: 'My choice would always be Kerry, with its spectacular scenery, the highest range of mountains ... Wonderful beaches, beautiful lakes, islands to visit ... I know there are some who may disagree, but in my two visits to Donegal I have been underwhelmed by it.' @Claudes: 'Both Kerry and Donegal are beautiful (bredamv, where did you go in Donegal that you didn't notice the spectacular beauty of this county?)' @nakagoli: 'Donegal is, imo, more beautifully rugged than Kerry. And it has the advantage of being a bit quieter as many visitors seem to think that Kerry is a MUST. It isn't!' @bredamv: 'I certainly did not see more rugged beauty in Donegal, neither did my fellow travellers. I guess from looking at the McGillicuddy Reeks every day, I kind of expected similar beauty in Donegal but I now know that Kerry has a large number of the highest mountains in Ireland including the highest Carrantoohill [sic] at 1,038 metres, while Donegal's highest, Mount Errigal at over 700 metres is way down the list.' @Claudes: 'Kerry having the highest mountains in Ireland surely has nothing to do with this issue and I don't know why you keep mentioning this fact.' Kerry and Donegal Fans on Hilll 16 during 2014 All-Ireland final. Photograph: Alan Betson/The Irish Times Sadly, it's there that we must leave our Tripadversaries to their squabble. History does not record whether @Abcvance ever made it to our green and gold shores but you'd imagine he or she trod mighty lightly once here. Maybe they decided not to journey on from Galway at all, for fear of causing offence. Donegal and Kerry. Two households, both alike in dignity. And in scenery. And, for sure, in roguery. Darragh Ó Sé tells a story of Eamonn McGee coming down for the Comórtas Peile na Gaeltachta one year in the early 2000s with €20 in his pocket, drinking for three days in between bouts of football and going back to Donegal with a fiver. Fair to say the future Donegal All-Ireland winner was neither unique nor unwelcome in his endeavours. Ahead of the 2014 final, I was in Darragh's company when his phone rang. 'This is a Donegal fella now,' he said. 'He'll be looking for tickets.' He picked it up and got onto the front foot immediately: 'John! How are you? Come here, before I forget, I'm short two tickets for Sunday, have you heard of any going?' 'Ah shite Darragh, I was coming to you for the same. I'll see what I can do ...' Kerry and Donegal. Counties where the rhythms of life wouldn't have much trouble jamming with each other. Almost exactly the same size, broadly similar in population. Scoured by emigration, down all the generations. Hereditarily certain of one thing above all – that the bastards in Dublin couldn't care less and should never be depended on. A horse and jaunting car at the Gap of Dunloe in Co Kerry. Photograph:The sea, the islands, the fishing. The Gaelgóirí communities dotted through hills and coves. Hundreds of rally cars gunning away in Killarney and Letterkenny every summer. Thousands of spectators craning to get a whiff. Donegal golf, which is Kerry golf but cheaper (albeit not as much cheaper as it used to be). The tourist season, in which the rest of us get to go and live in one Narnia or other for a week. The end of the tourist season, with the dreaded promise of the long winter to come. Yet when it comes to football, they couldn't be more different. They each have their own DNA, proud and staunch. In Kerry, you move the ball by kicking it. In Donegal, you ferry it around through the hands. Neither county is as dogmatic as they'd like to let on about these truths but they hold them to be fairly self-evident all the same. And so they come to Croke Park for the All-Ireland final, trailing their people behind them. For two such football-dotty counties, their paths have remained blissfully uncrossed for the vast majority of championship history. This is only the fourth time they've met – somehow, Kerry managed to play every other Ulster county before they first happened across Donegal. All three games so far have been in Croke Park and the score is tied – one win, one draw, one defeat all round. They come together at a time when the sport itself is entirely up for grabs. Exactly whose DNA is best suited to these new rules ? Instinct would have said Kerry, naturally. All you needed was to see a couple of those flowing moves, a few of those dinked balls to the linkman, all that space around David Clifford. It was as if the FRC went through months of meetings and reports and sandbox games to come up with ... Kerry football. But the longer the summer has gone on the more the certainties of the past decade and a half have taken hold. The best teams still make possession ten-tenths of the law. There is more risk in the game now but a ball kicked away is still a cardinal sin. Every team's starting principle is creating a defensive shape designed to turn the ball over and go on the attack. Which sounds a lot like ... Donegal football. Fanad Head, the northernmost lighthouse in Ireland, in Co Donegal. Photograph: Bruno Morandi/Gerry Images Whither or which, the sport is back in the affections of the floating public again. Whatever else the new rules did, they did that. At a Holy Communion party back in May, a couple of us snuck in out of the sun to catch the second half of Dublin v Galway in the round robin. We thought we were outlaws, making good our escape from the bouncy castle Alcatraz out the back. By the time Tom Lahiff kicked the winner for Dublin, the livingroom was sardined. In truth, the knockout stages have been a bit of a washout. Down v Galway was a cracker, Meath v Galway was a stinker, albeit an entertaining one in the end. Kerry's shock-and-awe routine against Armagh was the new game in excelsis, Donegal's turnaround against Monaghan on six days' rest was a ferocious statement of intent. Everything else has been a bit light on fireworks. Maybe we should be careful what we wish for. Though the final isn't a referendum on the new rules, the FRC looms over it all the same. The championship has been largely free of refereeing controversies but the stakes are never higher nor emotions on more of a hair-trigger than in an All-Ireland final. Nobody wants Sam Maguire to be decided by a three-up breach. It seems relatively safe to assume that Donegal and Kerry will deliver though. They look to have timed their runs to the minute. They both would have picked the other out as the danger heading out onto the second circuit and now they're jumping the last together. It comes down now to who gets up the hill. Donegal and Kerry players parade before the 2014 All-Ireland final. Photograph: Morgan Treacy/Inpho Writing in these pages before he went off to get a proper job, Keith Duggan presaged the 2014 final with a line about the relative histories of Kerry and Donegal . 'It brings together a football tradition based upon absolute certainty and a football tradition based upon absolute hope,' he said. And he was right, as usual. But it's a different story now. Donegal don't travel to Croke Park in hope these days. They are fuelled by absolute certainty. They bring it in busloads, from Downings and Moville and Killybegs and everywhere else. The same as Kerry have always brought it, from Lispole and Waterville and Kenmare and beyond. Tradition evolves, dances through itself, tumbles through the times. Kerry and Donegal own the city this weekend. Are you watching, Ohio?


Irish Examiner
9 hours ago
- Irish Examiner
Wedding of the Week: Cork couple return to Fota to get married after Amazon rainforest proposal
A TRAVEL theme set the wheels in motion for Cork couple Deana Hurley and Eric O'Leary's big day. Deana, from Bandon, and Eric, from Sunday's Well, were married in a civil ceremony by Janice O'Callaghan of Bespoke Wedding Ceremonies at Fota Island Resort, which was also the reception venue. Deana Hurley and Eric O'Leary with Xavier Hurley and Reuben O'Leary. Pictures: 'I'm normally a strong-willed woman, but unexpectedly, I cried the whole way down the aisle after seeing Eric already crying at the top — happy tears, of course,' says Deana. 'We had originally planned an outdoor ceremony in the gardens adjacent to the Smith Barry Suite, but rain meant we had to move indoors, but it worked out beautifully. Deana Hurley and Eric O'Leary with their wedding party. 'Guests later told us that as soon as we lit the unity candle, the sun broke through and stayed shining for the rest of the day, giving us full use of the gardens after all.' To surprise Eric and his rugby-loving brothers and dad, Deana had arranged for wedding singer Angela Ryan to perform 'Ireland's Call' as the newlyweds signed the register. 'Their faces lit up when they heard it!' she says. Deana Hurley and Eric O'Leary. Dermot Sullivan ( was behind the camera, as was the Ivory Films videography team. Toasting to their future happiness were their parents, Margaret Buckley and Billy Hurley and Karen Hegarty and Denis O'Leary, as well as the groom's grandparents, Oonagh and Basil Hegarty. Deana Hurley and Eric O'Leary. Deana adds: 'After dinner, we did an anniversary dance where all married couples hit the dance floor based on how long they'd been married, until only one couple remained, Eric's grandparents. They were genuinely surprised and shed a few tears when they realised it was a tribute to them.' Deana Hurley and Eric O'Leary. The bride's sister Clodagh Hurley was her maid of honour, and their sisters Anneisha Hurley and Celina Neville were the bridesmaids. The groom's brother Tim O'Leary was the best man with their brother Jack O'Leary and the bride's son/groom's stepson Xavier Hurley as groomsmen. Enjoying the fun as pageboy was Reuben O'Leary, Deana and Eric's 18-month-old son. Deana Hurley and Eric O'Leary. The couple, now based in the Gurranabraher area, first met for a coffee date on Cork's Grand Parade in May 2021, after spotting one another on Facebook Dating. They discovered they share a passion for travel, and after globetrotting together, Eric went down on one knee to propose 'deep in the Amazon Rainforest' in October 2022, adds the bride. Deana Hurley and Eric O'Leary. "Our vision for our big day was a travel-themed wedding. I love creative projects, so I DIYed as much as I could,' says Deana. Elizabeth Cott of Wonderous Weddings created the floral décor, and the team at Fota Island Resort, led by Roberta O'Keeffe, 'made the day seamless', says the bride. Deana Hurley and Eric O'Leary with Eric's grandfather Basil Hegarty. Magician and MC Jamie Skelton was 'a huge hit' with guests, says Deana, who wore a custom-designed dress by Mizz Rio, Dublin. 'I originally wanted my dress in black but surprised myself — and everyone else — by choosing ivory.' The bridal hairstyling was by Kim Moynihan (Hair by Kim,) and Aneta Winnicka was the makeup artist. Eric sourced the suits from Ballycurreen. Deana Hurley and Eric O'Leary. The Danny O'Leary band and DJ Bertie kept the dance floor full. 'I overdid it,' says the bride. 'Between the Macarena, cha-cha slide, bunny hop and every country line dance imaginable, I came away with two sprained Achilles tendons! But every second was worth it." Her sister Clodagh surprised Irish country music fan Deana with a video message from her favourite singer, Derek Ryan. Deana, a project manager with GlobalMeet, and Eric, a healthcare assistant with Cope Foundation, plan to honeymoon in South Africa in October. If you would like your wedding featured in Weekend email