Avsnitt
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A brief tale telling of how, across a 40 year timespan and from the streets of Dublin to the mosques of Egypt, a bond exists between tour guides. Though, only one in our tale got caught....
This is the last of the Tales of a Dublin Doctor series. It has given me huge pleasure to rerecord my late father's work and publish it here. Thank you for listening.
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While nibbling on a pork chop, my Dad muses on the lack of true tradition in the Christmas dinners of the 1980's and before.
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Saknas det avsnitt?
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A lunchtime walk in the city centre leads to a brief encounter, a flood of memories and a recounting of the history of "the Jervo", Jervis Street Hospital. The hospital was a Dublin institution and an important part of Irish medical progress across decades and centuries.
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Junior hospital doctors working in the 1950's got a pretty raw deal. At Christmas time, the workload increased and the opportunities for a bit of levity were sparse on the polished floors of the wards. This is a lovely tale that shows the honour of my father and a minor discretion by one of the much feared and revered ward sisters.
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This is a tale about the establishment of the oldest charity in the world. When Dad recorded the original in 1989, it was in the 250th year anniversary of Coram's inspired actions. This note from the "Coram Foundation" website:
When Thomas Coram (1668-1751) returned to London in 1704 after eleven years in America, it was to a city that was a powerhouse of industry, invention, global trade and wealth. It was also noisy, disease-ridden, polluted and the site of desperate poverty. The situation for children was particularly bleak with soaring mortality rates. Parents who were unable to care for their babies due to poverty or illegitimacy had few options, and many chose to abandon them in the street – it is estimated that around a thousand babies a year were abandoned in London. It was this clear need for practical action that spurred Coram to start his campaign.
Worthy work indeed.
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This wandering tale makes a number of points about hospital administration and the human condition while giving a brief history lesson on the now defunct Richmond Hospital. It tells of an unlikely relationship between Ireland's great author, Brendan Behan and a senior ward sister in the Richmond.
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In Dad's time as a professor of forensic medicine, he travelled to many different universities to act as external examiner. He had a huge appetite for knowledge and loved to meet and befriend people from different cultures and walks of life. His meetings with the old coffee seller in the souk in Benghazi were a real high point of his visits to the city. His insights on the then Libyan leader, thought not recorded here, painted a different picture to that recorded by Western history.
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This is a tale of a brief encounter with some tourists in a Dublin supermarket. I was the one who collected my parents from the mentioned trip to Strasbourg. I do remember the dung like smell. Back then, I was abhorred by it. Today, I revel in both the powerful aroma and distinctive taste of a good Munster. It originates from an abbey in the French Vosgian mountains (Munster deriving from the Latin for "monastery"). It is not to be confused with the mild Munster cheese from the south of Ireland or the even milder Muenster cheese from the USA.
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In this brief tale, my Dad looks back at part of the history of the Liffey Quays. His observations bring life and personality to some of the buildings that formed part of the physical and social fabric of the city back in the 1940s and 1950s. The Scotch House gets a mention and is a bar I remember from my youth. Today, it is a large scale office redevelopment.
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Enjoying the "craic" in a rural Irish pub is something to which I am no stranger. I could tell many of my own stories of great nights in pubs cross our small land. However, this story of a stranger joining in the "session" in a small bar on a Friday music night has its own attraction and must have been very special for the locals.
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The Guinness barges plied their trade on the river Liffey for many years taking stout in barrels from St. James' Gate to the city quays to be loaded on ships bound for Liverpool. The last barge sailed down the Liffey on 21 June 1961 and the fleet of barges were all sold off. Dad had a lovely story about the barges, the local women on Queen's Street Bridge and their influence as far away as Benghazi in Libya.
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The Pike Theatre in Dublin’s Herbert Lane opened its doors in 1953. The theatre was a small venue which quickly gained a reputation for staging late night revues and the works of then modern playwrights. On staging the Tennessee William’s European premier of The Rose Tattoo, the producer and co-owner of the theatre was arrested.
Protest grew across the country and across Europe. Perhaps this was all kicked off by an impromptu tirade delivered from the bonnet of a car by a less than sober Brendan Behan. Perhaps. I would like to think that it was.
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Our Dad loved his fishing expeditions to the west of Ireland. There were many stories too ribald to be included here. However, this lovely tale of a high achieving man gaining his life's ambition is a nice look into Ireland in simpler times. The hero, "Paul" of the story was the great Paul Murray, an almost "all round" sportsman. I don't know why Dad did not name him in the original story. Perhaps it was more fun to do it that way.
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I remember our holidaying on Valentia Island. I was a young boy in short pants at that time. It was before the island was linked to the mainland by the Maurice O'Neill Memorial Bridge at Portmagee. I do remember visiting the lady mentioned in the tale who had her sow and bainbhs (Irish for piglets) in the kitchen. "Pigs in the kitchen" were a reality back in the day. Valentia is also famous as the place where the first transatlantic cable was laid becoming operational in 1866. The cable operated commercially for 100 years before being decommissioned in 1966. Less famous is the Valentia Duck, the subject of this tale.
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Life was hard for a student back in the 1940's. Here, my Dad recounts the events of a particular day and gives insight into his life as a self funded student as well as a look into Dublin society at that time. It is interesting to me writing this over seventy years after that I too enjoyed afternoon tea in the same room in the Shelbourne Hotel. For me, it was as guest of one of my beloved daughters, as memorable an experience as that of my Dad in 1947.
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I don't believe that this story was ever recorded by my Dad. I suspect that back in the mid 1980s, it would have been too raw in the Irish national memory. It is still very raw today with those who lost loved ones so callously and needlessly in the Dublin bombings of May 1974.
I remain amazed at Dad's ability to find the positive personal story in the midst of the horror that surrounded the morgue on that night. The perpetrators of the bombings were never caught. Though, the involvement of Unionist forces and the British military intelligence (if that is not an oxymoron) has long been suspected. For most of us, the "troubles" are behind us as we progress as a people. That is no bad thing.
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In the 1940's, my Dad, then a student, worked at various jobs to earn his keep. One such employment was a lowly position in the Gate Theatre Dublin. This episode recalls a telephone conversation with the most famous film producer of his day.
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This is the second of the "Tales of a Dublin Doctor". It is series of tales written by my father, Patrick Bofin and re-discovered in a file at the back of a press, 30 years after his passing. I thought the tales were worth the retelling. I hope you enjoy them. The gillie of the title was a Mayo man who assisted my father on fishing expeditions in the west of Ireland.
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This is the first podcast in my series Tales of a Dublin Doctor.
Our late father Patrick Bofin died at 63 way back in 1990. Our Mum survived him by thirty years. Both Dad and Mum were medical doctors. Dad had been a professor of forensic medicine and for many years, the Dublin city coroner.
As any student who attended his lectures in the Royal College of Surgeons would testify, dad wrote and presented very well. He made often gruesome topics from recognising types of gunshot wounds to the effects of immersion in the sea on a cadaver, both bearable and interesting.
One of the things he did for escape was to write and contribute stories to the Sunday Miscellany programme on Ireland’s national broadcaster, RTE.
Following her passing in January 2020, I was going through Mum’s papers and buried at the back of a press, I found a file of all Dad’s scripts and submissions, carefully typed on his trusted Remington portable typewriter. In this podcast series, I reread Dad’s stories. I hope I do them justice and I hope that you enjoy them.
A Meeting in the Green Bar is a brief tale of an encounter between the legendary Brendan Behan and Jack Doyle, the boxer, actor and opera singer in a pub on Dublin's Leeson Street.