Archive for the ‘Dublin History’ Category

Edit: This is my final post on CHTM. Thanks for your readership of my posts over the last decade! Stay in touch! My new podcast, Three Castles Burning, is available on all podcast platforms.


CHTM was established in the winter of 2009. It is difficult to believe that a decade has passed. In signing off for the year personally, this post seeks to give a sense of some of what we published in 2019. While less busy than in previous years content wise, the quality was high! We thank readers for their continued support, their comments (which often really add to pieces) and their engagement with the blog across its various platforms.

Revolutionary period:

Much of our 2019 content focused on the revolutionary period. These posts included Surrey House, Rathmines (home of Constance Markievicz), food distribution during the revolution and the day the Volunteers stole pigs set for export, May Day during the War of Independence, the Munitions Strike (the centenary of which is fast approaching) and the Bachelors Walk massacre.


Some of the most interesting comments this year came on a piece exploring multiracial bands in Irish musical history, while other musical pieces focused on anniversaries, including the centenary of An Fear Ceoil, Seamus Ennis. Original Pirate Material explored the bootleg tapes of O’Connell Bridge, while there was also the great Earl Gill. There was the return of legendary Dublin band The Atrix to celebrate, too.


1928 coverage of the Liffey Swim, Irish Independent.

Architecture and Built Heritage:

Architecture was more prominent this year than before on the blog. Posts examined the George’s Street Arcade, Deirdre Kelly who fought so bravely for Dublin, the unlikely meeting place of the Dublin United Tramways Company and ALDI and the emergence of Lord Edward Street. Monuments remained a feature of the site, including Big Jim.

Public Houses, Social History and Gach Rud Éile.

A popular post from the start of the year concerned early houses (fewer, but still in existence), while there was also the curious tale of The Zodiac. It was goodbye to Hector Grey’s, a century of the Liffey Swim, and we remembered the Pike Theatre, a lost (and tiny) Dublin institution. We had migration, white horses and censorship in there too.

Thanks to all who engaged with the blog in 2019. Be sure to check out Three Castles Burning, a new Podcast I hope captures some of the spirit of CHTM, and remember CHTM books Volume 1 and 2 are available in all good bookshops now, and would look fantastic under any Christmas tree!

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buildingsofireland.ie image of Crow Street

Crow Street is one of my favourite streets in Dublin. You could easily miss it, but if you venture down Dame Street and turn into it, you’ll find one of the most colourful streets in the capital in terms of the diversity of independent businesses there. All City Records, Classic Ink Tattoos and other long-established businesses are there. While within the Temple Bar area, it has avoided the crassness of much of the district.

The street has an interesting history,going back to the Crow Street Theatre of the eighteenth century, and it was the home of the Charitable Musical Society, centrally important to the visit of Handel to Dublin. That’s not why we’re here today though.

In revolutionary times, the street was fundamentally important to the intelligence war. At 3 Crow Street, what appeared to the public to be only a legtimate printing company was the headquarters of the Irish Republican Army’s intelligence campaign.J .F Fowler’s printers had long been in the printing business, its name appearing in 1850s Dublin editions of books, but there was other business apace in different parts of the building. Republican Frank Thornton recounted that:

The first office opened by G.H.Q. Intelligence in the city was over Fowler’s in Crow Street, Off Dame Street, which was right bang up against Dublin Castle. Here, Liam Tobin, Tom Cullen, myself, together with Frank Saurin,Charlie Dalton, Charlie Byrne, Joe Guilfoyle, started off our Operations.

The Crow Street operation was in business from the summer of 1919. By this time, things were heating up in Dublin, with IRA assassination teams (broadly remembered in Irish history as ‘The Squad’) striking against intelligence police targets on the streets. Republican Charlie Dalton, in his memoir of the period, recounted how:

…one of the Squad called on me and asked me to accompany him. ‘The assistant director of intelligence wants to interview me’, he told me. He brought me into the city and through a number of side streets to Crow Street, an alleyway off Dame Street, quite close to Dublin Castle – the stronghold of the enemy. When we came to a small printer’s shop he beckoned me up the stairs, and on the second floor he knocked on the door….After a little delay, a door was opened and we were admitted. There were three or four other Volunteers inside, some of whom I knew slightly, I noticed there were stacks of newspapers lying around.

Newspapers were the least of the material in 3 Crow Street. Intelligence workers were figuring out how to crack the codes of Crown Forces, while as Dalton (who accepted a position) remembered, “we compile a list of friendly persons in the public services, railways, mailboats and hotels. I was sent constantly to interview stewards, reporters, waiters and hotel porters to verify our reports of the movement of enemy agents.”

Race meetings, fashionable hotels like the Shelbourne Hotel, and restaurants like Kidd’s Buffet were all known to be popular spots for members of the British forces and crown services to gather. Still, the most significant job for 3 Crow Street was to get an idea of just what was happening inside Dublin Castle.

In this regard, Lily Mernin was key. Born in Dublin in 1888, but raised primarily in Waterford, Lily worked as a shorthand typist inside Dublin Castle. In 1919, she made contact with the republican movement, leading to Michael Collins meeting her at her home, where she agreed to become an intelligence agent. As Dominic Price has noted, this was an incredible coup:

Situated in the same building as Mernin was the British Army’s intelligence department. This gave her access to officially classified information such as official reports, troop strengths, British army raids and information on the identity and addresses of British secret service personnel. She also picked up a great deal of information on physical descriptions, social habits and activities of British and RIC personnel through friendships and gerneral ‘loose talk’ among Castle employees.


Lily Mernin, photographed with Piaras Beaslai. (Image: National Library of Ireland)

Mernin, codenamed ‘The Little Gentleman’, got down to work. Quickly she solved one mystery, as key republicans were being sent death threats on official Dáil Éireann notepaper. Not only did Merin discover where in the Castle they were coming from, she found the very typewriter. Bravely, she attended social functions as a means of gathering information.

Striking against British intelligence operatives, and the Dublin Metropolitan Police ‘G Division’ in particular, was of paramount importance.The much-feared ‘G Men’ had been centrally important to identifying ringleaders of the Rising, and their ‘Movement of Extremist’ files demonstrate just how much the British state knew about republican radicals. As far as the republican movement were concerned, these men either had to turn or be elimated. Collins later justified this by explaining the key difference between an intelligence officer – or a spy – and a regular soldier:

Without her spies England was helpless… Spies are not so ready to step into the shoes of their departed confederates as are soldiers to fill up the front line in honourable battle. And, even when the new spy stepped into the shoes of the old one, he could not step into the old one’s knowledge… We struck at individuals, and by doing so we cut their lines of communication, and we shook their morale.

Operations at 3 Crow Street were overseen by a team that included Liam Tobin, who had served at the Four Courts during the Rising, Tom Cullen and Frank Thornton. Collins, though in almost constant contact with this team, did not frequent the premises.

Intelligence gathering was a two way street of course. Secret republican munitions factories, Dáil ministry offices and more besides were constantly being raided throughout the period. In time, the Crow Street operation folded, moving to Great Brunswick Street, where the sign “O’Donoghue & Smith, Manufacturing Agents” was over the door.

Fowler’s business survived the revolutionary period. There is nothing marking the building today as a site of such importance in the Irish revolution, but that is true of so much of the city centre core, where revolution was plotted behind quiet doors.

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The last days of O’Devaney Gardens (Image Copyright: Peter O’Doherty)

This year, there was considerable political debate in the capital on housing, much of it centered around O’Devaney Gardens and the question of private and public land. A new photobook explores the final years of the flats, through the lens of photographer Peter O’Doherty, and is an important piece of social history in its own right.

O’Devaney Gardens dated from the 1950s, named in honour of Bishop Conor O’Devaney, martyred in 1612. Media reports on the opening of the flats were more concerned with the historic tales of Bishop O’Devaney than the state of the new housing schemes. Many of those moved into the new scheme came from Dominick Street in the inner-city.

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Irish Independent, 1955.

Dominick Street, readers of the Sunday Independent were informed, was now “the street that died.” “As the people moved out, Corporation workmen moved in. Doors and windows were bricked up and the old Georgian houses made ready for the demolition squads. When will life return to Dominick Street?” In time, the decline of O’Devaney Gardens was the subject of much media comment.

Last year, Peter O’Doherty published the brilliant ‘Voices From The Flats: O’Devaney Gardens’. It is a fine piece of oral history work, interviewing those for whom the ‘Long Balconies’ were home. Importantly, O’Doherty’s work does not dwell on the negative – and there were things that went wrong – but also captures much of community.

Some of O’Doherty’s documentary photography of the site is now captured within the self-published O’Devaney Gardens, available from The Library Project in Temple Bar and other stockists. It is a moment in time, brilliantly captured, and deserves a wide audience.


O’Devaney Gardens (Image Copyright: Peter O’Doherty)

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Cast a cold eye


Unveiling the memorial, 1967.

Though it divides artistic opinion, I have long been a fan of the William Butler Yeats memorial in St Stephen’s Green, which has been closed to the public for some weeks now to facilitate restoration work by the OPW. It will likely be into the new year before we can sit in the memorial space again.

A bronze piece, by the celebrated Henry Moore, looks over what is in many ways a kind of amphitheatre space. The sculpture is quite abstract, which led to some criticism in the Irish press at the time of its unveiling, though as Kevin Connolly rightly notes in his study of the poet, Moore’s work embodies “all the swirling energy and majesty” of the work of Yeats. The piece, in truth, is Standing Figure: Knife Edge, first envisioned by Moore in 1961. Variations of it are to be found in several cities, though the artist’s copy is the one we are lucky to have in Dublin. It is a work which was in existence before Moore was approached by the Yeats Memorial Committee, but for me I think it is a good fit.

Henry Moore was at the forefront of British sculpture and modernism throughout an incredible career, which had begun with his first public commission, West Wind, on the London Underground headquarters in 1929. In the 1950s, a Moore piece was selected for UNESCO headquarters in Paris, and his work is to be found across continents today. More of Henry Moore’s work can be seen at Trinity College Dublin.


The memorial in recent times.

At the unveiling of the Yeats memorial, Moore’s speech of just eighteen words said all that needed saying:

There is no name greater than Yeats, with whom I would rather my work associated. Thank you all.

The piece was unveiled by An Taoiseach, Jack Lynch, in the presence of an audience that included friends and admirers of the poet, as well as some of the leading Irish poets of the day, including Eavan Boland and Brendan Kennelly, who read the work of Yeats. To Lynch, “it goes further than any skillfully contrived analogy between sculpture and literature to convince us, if needs be, that here indeed we have a most fitting memorial.”

1967 was a year that brought further changes to Stephen’s Green, with the unveiling of Edward Delaney’s magnificent memorial to Theobald Wolfe Tone, founder of the United Irishmen. As Gerry Walker has noted:

The late 1960s witnessed a real development in large-scale bronze sculpture in Dublin. Edward Delaney (1930-2009), the leading proponent, produced abbreviated figures in Thomas Davis and Wolfe Tone which signalled a final stylistic and conceptual break with the previous century. Less inward-looking, despite the political subject matter, the genre was carried by a postcolonial modern European expressionism attuned to the times.


RTE Archives image of the Henry Moore piece, 1967.

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This year marks the thirtieth anniversary of the passing of Dominic Behan. Playwright, novelist and songwriter, his remarkable career was every bit as prolific as that of his brother Brendan, with whom he shared radical political tendencies and many characteristics. In Dominic’s honour, a night will be held in Liberty Hall on the 30th of this month with singers including Phelim Drew and historians. A new edition of his memoir has been published too (photo below, apologies for making a haims of this post first time!)

Born in Dublin’s north inner-city, Dominic Behan spent the formative years of his life in Crumlin, where the Behans were moved to from Russell Street. He would joke about the “jungle” of Crumlin in his memoir Teems of Times and Happy Returns, still one of the great Dublin memoirs, capturing both the stories of the inner-city streets and the new suburban experience.

A plaque on the Kildare Road house honours Brendan, but in truth it was a house of writers, singers and debate. It is difficult for us now to imagine how transformative Crumlin, Kimmage and schemes like them were in the hungry 1930s, and not just for those moving into them. Brendan would quip that there was “no such thing as suburbia, only Siberia.” Crumlin native Fiona Watchorn remembered how “we had never seen so many houses – all of the same shape and size, and wondered how the new kids could find their own.”

Dominic remembered Russell Street fondly, recalling that “the native industries of Russell Street were drink and cleanliness, represented respectively by the Mountjoy Brewery and the Phoenix Laundry.” It was far from the worst of tenement Dublin, with Dominic recalling how “Russell Street was the extreme tip of a jungle of north city tenements: Georgian, red-bricked, strait-laced, and, at this time, complete with closed hall-doors and mahogany railed staircases. Even a few of the windows were still intact.”

The atmosphere in which the Behan children were raised was fundamentally radical. Stephen Behan, Dominic’s father, was a veteran of the War of Independence, and took the Republican side in the Civil War which followed. By trade, Stephen worked as a signwriter, a trade Brendan would briefly follow him into. Stephen married Kathleen in July 1922, as the country was in the midst of Civil War. Her brother was Peadar Kearney, author of The Soldier’s Song, the national anthem. Not long after his wedding, Stephen was himself imprisoned. Family lore had it that Brendan Behan would first see his father through the railings of prison.

Dominic, born in 1928, arrived too late for the excitement of the revolution, but he found his heroes in that tradition. To him, “Jim Larkin gave a new meaning to Christianity when he decided to fight his cleric critics with their own cannons – a Bible and a plea for a true brotherhood of man.” He brought his politics into much of what he did; working on a number of building sites with his brother Brendan in the 1940s, with one foreman complaining to their father that they were “the greatest bastards I’ve ever come across.One wants the men to strike for an incentive bonus so that the other one can bring them down to the pub to drink it.’ His political activism would land him in trouble in the early 1950s, with his role in agitation for the movement against unemployment seeing him imprisoned.

Dominic’s lyrical output was unprecedented. He was quick-witted, and able to get songs into the public domain quickly as events unfolded. Arkle, his tribute to the greatest racehorse Ireland has ever produced (known simply as ‘Himself’) honoured a brilliant victory for the Irish Thoroughbred racehorse over hotly tipped English opposition:

They’re at the last and over, Pat Taffe has more in hand
He’s passing England’s Mill House, the finest in the land
My God he has us beaten! What can we English say?
The ground was wrong? The distance long? Too early early in the day?


Marble Arch Records cover of Arkle

Some songs were sweet, like Liverpool Lou, which became a top 10 hit for Liverpool group The Scaffold, and which Yoko Ono would select as one of her Desert Island Discs, noting that John Lennon had sung it to their child as a lullaby. Still, it is undoubtedly the republican songs that Dominic is best remembered for, Come Out, Ye Black and Tans and The Patriot Game among them. Behan would accuse Bob Dylan of plagiarising his song for his own With God On Our Side, leading to legendary tensions. In a scene in Don’t Look Back, the documentary of Bob Dylan on the road, Dylan retorts quickly that “I don’t hear nobody like Dominic Behan, man!” when his name is mentioned. Music industry legend has it that when Dylan suggested “my lawyers can speak with your lawyers”, Behan replied, “I’ve got two lawyers, and they’re on the end of my wrists.”

As a broadcaster, singer and playwright Dominic would spend his life between these islands. In Britain, he was fundamentally important to opening doors for emerging Irish acts, including The Dubliners, and was part of a golden age of Irish folk and traditional performers on the UK circuit, which could include talent as diverse as Seamus Ennis, Margaret Barry (honoured at this years RTÉ Folk Awards) and a young Luke Kelly. In an interview with this writer, Christy Moore (for whom Dominic produced the album Paddy On The Road) recounted that time fondly, but while acknowledging a profoundly important truth: “Dominic was pure Dublin to his very core. He mesmerized me with an enormous repertoire of songs, reflections and poetry. Himself and his wife Josephine were very kind to me. Like myself back then,he seldom put the cork back into the bottle. The sessions went on ’til the bitter end.”

At the time of his passing in August 1989, Dominic Behan was just sixty years of age. His ashes were scattered on the Royal Canal in Dublin, and an oration delivered by his friend Seán Garland, President of The Workers Party. He would be remembered in the pages of The Irish Times as “a funny man, garrulous, brilliant, infuriating, angry,lovable but never boring.”

Up Russell Street!, a night in honour of Dominic Behan marking 30 years since his passing, takes place at Liberty Hall on 30 November. Tickets available now from eventbrite.


2019 edition of Teems of Times and Happy Returns.

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Designed by Paul Guinan (www.paulguinan.com)

At long last, I finally got the podcast over the line!

Three Castles Burning is available now on a host of podcast providers, including Apple iTunes (Spotify will follow) and Podbean. For those of you who are old fashioned,you can stream it, and all future episodes, here.

Episode one is the Bachelor’s Walk Massacre, and features guest Lorcan Collins. We stood at the site of the atrocity and got into it, the Howth gun running, and questions of commemoration.

The Bachelors Walk Massacre of 1914 was a turning point event in the Irish revolution, shocking Dubliners and packing the ranks of the Irish Volunteers. Yet today the event is largely forgotten, without so much as a plaque honouring the victims. Guest: Lorcan Collins, Historian and Author.

The editing will improve, this is a brand new project for me but I hope you subscribe and stick with it. If you want to help us out, please give it a play and a rating on Apple iTunes which will move it up the chart. Future episodes already underway include 1930s suburbia, the Animal Gangs, Grogans public house, Dominic Behan and Dalymount Park.

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Crosses honour the dead of Bachelor’s Walk (Illustrated London News, 1914)

The version of events surrounding the violence on Bachelor’s Walk that made it to the United States in July 1914 was somewhat different from how things occurred. Readers of one New Jersey newspaper were informed that “some of the mob fired first with revolvers. The mob then pressed forward and threatened to sweep the soldiers with the revolvers.”

In reality, the 26 July had witnessed something different entirely. The King’s Own Scottish Borderers, confronted by a jeering crowd, opened fire on unarmed Dublin civilians on a day of considerable embarrasment for the authorities, as the nationalist Irish Volunteers successfully armed themselves. To The Times newspaper in London, those fired upon were “the sort of slum crowd which gave so much trouble during the Dublin strikes.” Three were killed on the day, with a fourth dying weeks later as a result of injuries sustained at Bachelor’s Walk. In Dublin, there were immediate scenes of mourning and anger, with recruitment into the Irish Volunteers swelling the ranks of the nationalist organisation, while the funerals of the victims became political spectacles. In its aftermath, Bachelor’s Walk loomed large over political discourse. When John Redmond and Prime Minister Asquith held a recruitment meeting at Dublin’s Mansion House months later, the signs of protestors urged those in attendance to “Remember Bachelor’s Walk, Don’t Join the Army!”

It is curious that this event remains uncommemorated today. A plaque honours the Asgard’s landing of arms at Howth earlier that same day, yet nothing marks the violent deaths of innocent civilians. A year on from the event, attempts to unveil a plaque there in July 1915 were stopped by the authorities, under the war-time Defence of the Realm Act. Dedicated “to the memory of innocent civilians slain by British soldiers”, the completed plaque was not unveiled, its location today a mystery.

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American frontpage coverage of the deaths.

The King’s Own Scottish Borders, garrisoned in the Royal Barracks, maintained that they were responding to attack by a hostile crowd when the first shots rang out just after 6:30pm in the vicinity of the Ha’penny Bridge. Certainly, some stones were thrown, though Thomas Johnson of the Irish Trade Union Congress would later remark that he had seen “more stones thrown at a football match in Belfast without interruption of the game.” Professor Eoin MacNeill of the Irish Volunteers, in correspondance with Roger Casement, would try and outline what had happened:

The news from Howth and Clontarf soon got all over Dublin. The King’s Own Borderers had to bear the brunt of the disgrace…of the Castle regime. Even at Clontarf, a young girl cried out upon them for cowards and asked the women to line up before their bayonets. Half a mile further towards the city, at the North Strand, a jeering mob collected around them and reminded them of their prowess in South Africa. In Talbot Street they thrice charged the unarmed populace with their bayonets, and still the cry of ‘cowards’ followed them, all along O’Connell Street to Bachelor’s Walk. When they reached the metal bridge, they could stand it no longer.

MacNeill claimed “from Amiens Street to Liffey Street you could not find a missile of any kind, except orange or banana skins”, something contested by some first hand accounts, but the facts of history are that the crowd were unarmed and the King’s Own Scottish Borderers were never in any danger. Subsequent investigation of the incident was widely dismissed as a cover-up, and the end effect, as MacNeill noted, was a sea change in public feeling.

The dead were all working class Dubliners. Mary Duffy was a 56 year old widow whose son was serving with the Royal Dublin Fusiliers. James Brennan, the youngest of the dead, was a teenage messenger boy. Patrick Quinn was a father to six children and employed as a coal porter. In September, the wounded Sylvester Pidgeon succumbed to his injuries, his death reigniting public outrage.


Luke Kelly wounded in hospital following the Bachelor’s Walk outrage.

There were dozens of other injured Dubliners too, including several children. One of the wounded was Luke Kelly, namesake and father of the ballad singer who would go on to achieve international fame as a member of The Dubliners. Luke Senior lived a remarkable life in his own right, and distinguished himself as a football player with Jacobs Football Club in the League of Ireland.

In the immediate aftermath of the events, soldiers were confined to Barracks across the city. As historian Pádraig Yeates notes, “one soldier with a Scottish accent who was foolish enough to venture out in civvies was thrown in the Liffey. The Lord Lieutenant, Lord Aberdeen, wanted to visit the injured in hospital but his officials refused to allow him risk his person, given the mood in the city.”

The funerals brought Dublin to a standstill, with the bodies of the three victims brought to the Pro Cathedral, before a procession through the city streets to Glasnevin Cemetery. The Irish Independentreported on 29 July that “The removal of the remains of the unfortunate victims of Sunday’s shooting in Dublin from the City Morgue to the Pro Cathedral last night was marked by scenes of the most impressive character. Seldom in the recent history of Ireland has a more poignant and dramatic scene been witnessed.”


Volunteers parade in the funerlal procession for the victims of Bachelor’s Walk (National Library of Ireland)

Mary Duffy’s son marched in British Army dress uniform, but for the most part it was the uniforms of nationalist Ireland which were on display during the great procession. The words of Duffy’s grieving son, who condemned those who shot down “helpless women and children in my native city”, had a deep impact. Likewise, the first hand account of a former British soldier who witnessed the carnage was also widely reprinted in the press:

I heard the officer, a young man, give the order to load. I tried to get a couple of women and a girl out of the way. I got the little girl clear, and the women lay down on the pavement. I saw the soldiers load their rifles with ball cartidge. They seemed to be very excited. They were within ten yards of me, and I saw one man fire. He reloaded, and as he put in his second cartridge he pointed his rifle downwards without taking aim. He pulled the trigger, and I was shot in the leg.

There were scenes of mourning during the funeral procession, in particular at Bachelor’s Walk, where the Freeman’s Journal reported that “the assembled thousands became overwhelmed by grief…Hundreds wept and sobbed aloud.”

In the days following the shootings, there were sporadic protests, one of the most remarkable of which was in Liverpool, where a Dublin GAA team were taking on Merseyside opposition. Frank Thornton recounted in his Bureau of Military History Witness Statement:

It was decided in Liverpool that we would mark the occasion by making a strong protest in the streets of Liverpool against the shootings at Bachelor’s Walk. The Volunteers were paraded on Sunday afternoon, headed by the O’Toole Pipers Band and a large banner in front with the words “Remember Bachelor’s Walk”, “Bullets for Dublin”, “Support the Volunteer Defence Fund”. Hundreds of collectors accompanied the demonstration through the city and a large amount of money was collected, all of which went to purchase arms at a later date.


Bachelor’s Walk, In Memory (Jack B. Yeats)

The painter Jack B. Yeats would capture something of what the tragedy came to mean for Dubliners in Bachelor’s Walk, In Memory, painted in 1915. Jack was moved to paint this from something he had seen at the site of the killings, noting in his diary “a flower girl placing her own offering on the scene of a killing.”

The historian George Dangerfield, writing in The Strange Death of Liberal England in 1935, captured something of why Bachelor’s Walk became the turning point moment it did, putting it in context by comparing it with the indifference – and sometimes tactical support – of the authorities for the UVF arming itself: “Under these circumstances, it matters very little whether three thousand civilians were slaughtered, or three hundred, or thirty, or three: there are stains in Bachelor’s Walk which nothing will ever quite wash away.”

‘Remember Bachelor’s Walk’, whether chalked on walls, printed on handbills or carried on banners, was a rallying cry for nationalist Ireland in the years of the Irish revolution. While commemoration of the civilian dead was disgracefully prevented by the authorities in 1915, we have now passed the centenary of this event without marking the lives cut short on that day. They deserve more.

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