What if you were suddenly to discover that those pills you have been taking for whatever ailment were nothing more than Smarties. Well, God bless the Smarties as far as I am concerned. My little story for today did not evolve around a packet of Smarties, it was water. However, the principle is exactly the same.

I seem to have spent a lot of Easters off the Island for one reason or another. Where ever I have been, something always seems to have taken place that has marked the event and etched it in my mind, which is just as well now that I have started this blog lark. I recall such an event in the late 80's. An old Castletown seafarer, better known as Buttons Kelly and I, decided we would go and spend Easter with my Uncle Sean at his pub in Tipperary. Uncle Sean had a very short fuse and one hell of an Irish temper on him, yet he was one of the kindest men I have ever met. The pub was a sort of ram shackled old place in the town of Templemore in Tipperary. Back then pubs were not permitted to open on Good Friday so staying in one, was indeed a bonus. We drank copious amounts of ale but before Uncle retired to bed he familiarized Buttons and me with one or two house rules. Basically, the most important rule was don't let anyone in under any circumstances and don't answer the door to anyone. Fine we thought as he slid away up the stairs clutching his gun and phone with his dog running behind him leaving Buttons and I to remain drinking our way through the night. He always went to bed with the gun and phone and I will return to this in later blogs. One particular evening an hour or so after uncle went to bed; a faint knock was heard at the front door. It was raining heavily and thundering. Who would be out on such a night we thought. After several knocks we gave in. Uncle was fast asleep upstairs so what the hell. Off came the chains and bolts on the door to reveal an old lady stood there in the pouring rain "I'm after running out of holy water with all the thunder and lightening" she said. "I wondered if Sean would let me borrow some until the morning!" "Of course he will" I replied and was handed a font. I left her on the door step and I headed for the kitchen. Of course I didn't have a clue where he kept his holy water. Also I was unaware that Father Flynn, the local parish priest was flogging the stuff off at around a tenner a bottle to raise funds for the church. With the font filled to the very top with good old Irish tap water, I handed it back to the old lady. "Oh begorra" she gasped. "I couldn't possibly take that much." "Take it" said I, "he has got loads of it". Well, maybe the water wasn't very holy, but I'm sure it gave the old lady peace of mind as she blessed herself with it throughout the rest of the night. The following morning with the incident forgotten, Buttons and I took ourselves off and went about our business for the day. We returned to Uncle's pub at teatime to find him sitting up at the bar next to Father Flynn and in a foul mood. "Come here you to me!" he barked as we entered the bar. "Where did you get the Holy Water last night to give Mrs Kelly?" I had not bargained for the old lady returning to thank him for the very generous helping of Holy Water. "From the tap" I replied. "I did not know where you kept it and the old lady was in need". "Right" says uncle. "We don't need your heathen pagan ways down here; you can take them back to that island of yours and, keep your sinful ways to yourself." "Oh, 'tis a sin indeed from deep within the soul", Gasped Father Flynn, as he choked on his very large, and of course, free measure of whiskey. "Well, Father Flynn" said I, "Why don't you take yourself off to the hills and bless the reservoir! Then, we will all have loads of the stuff at the turn of the tap". Uncle exploded and became an Irish human volcanic eruption. If I were to paraphrase the expletives that came from his mouth my blog entry would be blocked. Father Flynn hissed in general agreement as he thanked the bar maid for another very generous measure of the best Irish whiskey. To the sound of Uncle and father Flynn tutting and cursing at the bar, Buttons and I beat a hasty and safe retreat. A couple of hours later and 40 miles away in a hotel in County Offaly, we laughed ourselves silly at the events that had taken place over the last 24 hours. The next day, we returned to Uncle's pub. It was late afternoon and Uncle greeted us with a smile and plied us with as much drink as we could handle. He even laughed at the events of the night before. The two sinners and lost sheep were welcome back in to the fold. Father Flynn duly arrived for his teatime constitutional. He even granted me absolution and forgiveness in return for a large whiskey.

Back in the 1930's, my grandfather's brother Vernon Glassey was a Methodist preacher in the parish of Malew. He once threatened to gather up all the ale and pour it into the Silverburn River. That probably explains why, the hymn "Shall we gather at the river" is a very popular in balasalla. It also probably explains the pull of the Silverburn on us Glassey's.

Until tomorrow then, this is Tom Glassey, news at 6.25 a.m on the banks of the Silverburn River and occasionally tasting the waters.