Lazarian Wordsmith's Blog, page 12
March 31, 2016
Plagiarism on a big scale.....and it was paying well.
Read an interesting article in the Sindo (Sunday Independent) Ireland this week about a lady living in, it appears , in Cork Ireland who ripped off three books by another Irish author: from the back catalogue.
It was accomplished it seems by typing in the books and then INDIE publishing, and offering them for sale on Amazon, with a change of title and character name changes. And of course a new author name.
Amazon sold the books unaware and I estimate the first rip-off book alone earned (if 70% KDP royalty applied) over €10,000.
The figures were also given for the second book – but Amazon had been made aware by then and suspended payment.
The third book – I presume is now on the back burner.
What a cheek! What a cheek! To steal another writer's work – and blog, give interviews, and generally market yourself as the genuine author. What a bare-faced cheek! How did she think it would be un-noticed? Obviously nothing between her ears!
Wonder how “entrallingdimple” feel about the glowing tribute and interview they did for the Plagiarist.
It's important to note that the figures for the royalties given in the article and elsewhere do not agree with mine. But I'm basing my calculations on the fact that I earn 70% royalties on Amazon (where the books were sold). Bloggers are getting incensed that the quoted royalties stolen are so low.
Bit of a red-herring I think. The point is that an author of it is claimed 26 books: three of while we know were plagiarised, needs more careful scrutiny than the payments she received.
Some also wrote that they did not know if the person was a she or he.
Well lads, and lassies, the photo I tacked down was for sure a lassie.
The links given if you Google her name are no longer available, the website is down, and most of her 26 published books are no longer available to buy.
But so far I can not find any legal action having been initiated by the genuine author: it would not be me.
March 7, 2016
Getting back into the swing of the sequel - and Detective Fanahan!!!
“This way Garda.”“It's Detective Inspector. Lead on Mc Duff.”“In here, we only cut her down and laid her on her bed. Nothing else was disturbed. The letter is on the nightstand.”“Thanks. Who cut him down?”“The porter cut her down. Will I send for him.”“No not yet. I want to have a look at him, he has changed hasn't he?”“I..I can't say. I'm only here a few years. Looking after her.”“OK! Can I have a minute?”
Fanahan started to hum a tune, a song he heard somewhere, and at time of thinking inside, he ran it through his mind, often vocalising it as humming. He also muttered to himself, silently. Cardboard programming he called it. Saying out loud what was worrying him. Sometimes even finding a quick solution, that formed in his brain and became reality.You have changed Plonker, smaller, skinnier. Jees when you fell on me in the street – you almost flattened me! How many years ago. Five? Six? The wig fell off. Christ is that a wig? It's a better one anyway. Did someone buy it for you Georgie, or did you inherit it. If someone looks in and sees me smiling and talking to myself they may try to keep me in here. Shay you are here to identify Georgie. Is it him? Who the feck, else could it be? He has changed, but as he was incarcerated in here – it must be him. I need to get out of here quick and have a few scoops, before I report back. Well a lot of people will be relieved – the killer brought to justices. God's justice, if not man's justice. Dead as a doornail – no danger any more.Can't believe he hung himself. Did he come back to himself and do it, or did he come back as he did it. Feck we will never know. Good riddance. Hung himself? Now that's something I always wondered about. They say when a man hangs himself, he gets a big Langer, a big erection. No Shay you wouldn't – you wouldn't take a peek. Sh-one-t I would. But what if someone sees me – the detective was observed peeping up the dead woman's skirt. Jees no I can't risk it. Crap you will never get another opportunity to find out. Get rid of yer woman first.
Fanahan started to hum a tune, a song he heard somewhere, and at time of thinking inside, he ran it through his mind, often vocalising it as humming. He also muttered to himself, silently. Cardboard programming he called it. Saying out loud what was worrying him. Sometimes even finding a quick solution, that formed in his brain and became reality.You have changed Plonker, smaller, skinnier. Jees when you fell on me in the street – you almost flattened me! How many years ago. Five? Six? The wig fell off. Christ is that a wig? It's a better one anyway. Did someone buy it for you Georgie, or did you inherit it. If someone looks in and sees me smiling and talking to myself they may try to keep me in here. Shay you are here to identify Georgie. Is it him? Who the feck, else could it be? He has changed, but as he was incarcerated in here – it must be him. I need to get out of here quick and have a few scoops, before I report back. Well a lot of people will be relieved – the killer brought to justices. God's justice, if not man's justice. Dead as a doornail – no danger any more.Can't believe he hung himself. Did he come back to himself and do it, or did he come back as he did it. Feck we will never know. Good riddance. Hung himself? Now that's something I always wondered about. They say when a man hangs himself, he gets a big Langer, a big erection. No Shay you wouldn't – you wouldn't take a peek. Sh-one-t I would. But what if someone sees me – the detective was observed peeping up the dead woman's skirt. Jees no I can't risk it. Crap you will never get another opportunity to find out. Get rid of yer woman first.
February 19, 2016
Still doing the setup for the sequel to WW - hard work remembering what I did in book 1.
Sidesteps to Beat Steps
“You're welcome Superintendent Tyrell - to the show.”“Now Ivor. I'm retried it's just plain Bob now.”“But you did spend time in the force and rose to the rank of Superintendent.”“I did, but now as you know Ivor I'm here to talk about my Memoir “Sidesteps to Beat Steps” my time as a footballer and pounding the beat.”“On the beat, walking the streets, on patrol. I never knew you did that.”“Ivor in the old days all rookies started in that way, but again Ivor – the book, that's the mission today.”“You solved the serial killer case and brought the killer of eleven women to justice, Bob.”“ I had help, there Detective Inspector Shay Fanahan made the first breakthrough, when he recognised the killer, even though he was dressed in drag. Sergeant harry Roycroft down in Port Siney initiated a search of the Bowen place and found the graves. Dogged police work on both their part. And the dogged detection work of Sheba as well.”“So it is true a seeing eye dog, sniffed the killer out even in his Grannies clothes.”“Ivor if you were afraid of dogs no matter if you were up a tree, when one gets sniffing for you - you panic. The late Prunty Senior always said that one of these boys will stand beside a prancing stallion going down to the start at the Currough, but put then in a room with a Shih Tzu, they … well I will leave the rest to the viewer's imagination. It was his record keeping for the customers of his handmade shoes that first put us on to Bowen. I could almost hear him and his cackling laugh as I wrote the case into the book. A gentleman and we all miss him, may he rest in peace.”“Where is the killer now? Bob.”“In a place – you couldn't call it a hospital, or a prison – it's a place for the criminally insane.”“Are the staff, and maybe even visitors, safe from him? Could he kill again?” “Ivor – he doesn't even know who he is, or where he is, all that remains is the personality of a frail, elderly lady. I say lady because she believes she is the mistress of a large house, with tended gardens, servants and people to cook her meals and serve her. In fact unless she is seated at the end of a dining table with a few candelabra with lighting candles, and a tablecloth on it, she will refuse to eat until things are restored to normal, as she says. I'm afraid that for Duchess Bowen, there are no today's or tomorrow's just yesterday's.” “Bob are you sure Georgie, the serial killer, is gone?”“Jees Ivor! I hope so. A killer with no conscience or regret, must never be allowed out into the population.”“What if one day he woke up and said – I'm back, it's me Georgie. I'm myself again.”
“Then we could charge him with the murders. We have never been able to so far, because basically we could not bring an old lady to court and charge her. You see Georgie is gone, long gone - I don't believe he exists any more. Wish he did – there are many unanswered questions.”
“You're welcome Superintendent Tyrell - to the show.”“Now Ivor. I'm retried it's just plain Bob now.”“But you did spend time in the force and rose to the rank of Superintendent.”“I did, but now as you know Ivor I'm here to talk about my Memoir “Sidesteps to Beat Steps” my time as a footballer and pounding the beat.”“On the beat, walking the streets, on patrol. I never knew you did that.”“Ivor in the old days all rookies started in that way, but again Ivor – the book, that's the mission today.”“You solved the serial killer case and brought the killer of eleven women to justice, Bob.”“ I had help, there Detective Inspector Shay Fanahan made the first breakthrough, when he recognised the killer, even though he was dressed in drag. Sergeant harry Roycroft down in Port Siney initiated a search of the Bowen place and found the graves. Dogged police work on both their part. And the dogged detection work of Sheba as well.”“So it is true a seeing eye dog, sniffed the killer out even in his Grannies clothes.”“Ivor if you were afraid of dogs no matter if you were up a tree, when one gets sniffing for you - you panic. The late Prunty Senior always said that one of these boys will stand beside a prancing stallion going down to the start at the Currough, but put then in a room with a Shih Tzu, they … well I will leave the rest to the viewer's imagination. It was his record keeping for the customers of his handmade shoes that first put us on to Bowen. I could almost hear him and his cackling laugh as I wrote the case into the book. A gentleman and we all miss him, may he rest in peace.”“Where is the killer now? Bob.”“In a place – you couldn't call it a hospital, or a prison – it's a place for the criminally insane.”“Are the staff, and maybe even visitors, safe from him? Could he kill again?” “Ivor – he doesn't even know who he is, or where he is, all that remains is the personality of a frail, elderly lady. I say lady because she believes she is the mistress of a large house, with tended gardens, servants and people to cook her meals and serve her. In fact unless she is seated at the end of a dining table with a few candelabra with lighting candles, and a tablecloth on it, she will refuse to eat until things are restored to normal, as she says. I'm afraid that for Duchess Bowen, there are no today's or tomorrow's just yesterday's.” “Bob are you sure Georgie, the serial killer, is gone?”“Jees Ivor! I hope so. A killer with no conscience or regret, must never be allowed out into the population.”“What if one day he woke up and said – I'm back, it's me Georgie. I'm myself again.”
“Then we could charge him with the murders. We have never been able to so far, because basically we could not bring an old lady to court and charge her. You see Georgie is gone, long gone - I don't believe he exists any more. Wish he did – there are many unanswered questions.”
February 10, 2016
The Tower View Reading Club are asking for a Sequel to In The Wicker Wood.
I don't know what I will call it but the Sequel starts like this! Am I linking the two books in a sensible way?
Fanahan was down, depressed some would call it, but since he did not believe depression existed: for him, he was just down.
Milo had died. Or to be precise Milo had drank himself to death. This time with booze left on the shelves. In other words he failed to drink his Dublin Pub dry.
Cremation was not a real funeral, a real internment! Putting a small box into a grave was a shame. Six by four that was what a man deserved, and six down as well. The undertaker had just bent down and placed the ashes a foot or so deep.
Give me a better send off, Fanahan thought. Scatter my ashes over twenty virgins! Jees where would you get twenty virgins today? Primary School? Grade School?
“Gerry, give me another pint and a large brandy chaser. Those photographs on the wall of the football match. Milo said I could have them after he was finished with them, For sure that time is now. Take them down and I'll bring them with me.”
“He didn't say you could have them, he used them to annoy you – that Cavan beat Galway, but I don't like them either. So take them out of my sight. This is a changed Pub from now on. I might even consider barring some of the customers!”
Grate Pictures, just great for starting a nice fire in a grate! Bloody Tyrell, the Cavan Hoor, had retired. He wrote his Memoir, of his Gaelic playing career, his time as a Garda, and his part in solving the big cases. It was a best seller – he had a lot of celebrity help to promote it. And now he was a security expert spoofin' on the radio and TV when big cases were being analysed, fell on his feet! Retired, wrote a memoir and now a security expert on the radio and TV spouting on criminal issues. SHITE.
Detective Inspector Seamus Fanahan! Stuck in a policing rut and not going anywhere fast. No woman, no kids, no prospects and now – God help us all no best pal. Milo a best pal? Well OK. No pal at all.
He thought when he solved the case of that prick, was he a pal as well? He killed all those girls and kidnapped a priest, that he would get a promotion and a plum job. He got the promotion and was sent back to office duties training dunces – showing them how to use and in some cases abuse the computer records system. If someone wanted a drink driving arrest to disappear before the court case – he could help. His drinking habit could not be sustained on an inspector's pittance – after deductions.
Fanahan was down, depressed some would call it, but since he did not believe depression existed: for him, he was just down.
Milo had died. Or to be precise Milo had drank himself to death. This time with booze left on the shelves. In other words he failed to drink his Dublin Pub dry.
Cremation was not a real funeral, a real internment! Putting a small box into a grave was a shame. Six by four that was what a man deserved, and six down as well. The undertaker had just bent down and placed the ashes a foot or so deep.
Give me a better send off, Fanahan thought. Scatter my ashes over twenty virgins! Jees where would you get twenty virgins today? Primary School? Grade School?
“Gerry, give me another pint and a large brandy chaser. Those photographs on the wall of the football match. Milo said I could have them after he was finished with them, For sure that time is now. Take them down and I'll bring them with me.”
“He didn't say you could have them, he used them to annoy you – that Cavan beat Galway, but I don't like them either. So take them out of my sight. This is a changed Pub from now on. I might even consider barring some of the customers!”
Grate Pictures, just great for starting a nice fire in a grate! Bloody Tyrell, the Cavan Hoor, had retired. He wrote his Memoir, of his Gaelic playing career, his time as a Garda, and his part in solving the big cases. It was a best seller – he had a lot of celebrity help to promote it. And now he was a security expert spoofin' on the radio and TV when big cases were being analysed, fell on his feet! Retired, wrote a memoir and now a security expert on the radio and TV spouting on criminal issues. SHITE.
Detective Inspector Seamus Fanahan! Stuck in a policing rut and not going anywhere fast. No woman, no kids, no prospects and now – God help us all no best pal. Milo a best pal? Well OK. No pal at all.
He thought when he solved the case of that prick, was he a pal as well? He killed all those girls and kidnapped a priest, that he would get a promotion and a plum job. He got the promotion and was sent back to office duties training dunces – showing them how to use and in some cases abuse the computer records system. If someone wanted a drink driving arrest to disappear before the court case – he could help. His drinking habit could not be sustained on an inspector's pittance – after deductions.
February 1, 2016
Over 20,000 Readers – 20,000! Pity it's my Tripadvisor Review's Readers!
A long time ago I had a very good holiday in the Canaries. I told Tripadvisor about it. Because I gave information about the hotel, nearby restaurants, bus routes from the airport, fares, taxi fares to the nearby town and things like that. I attracted a good readership.
I then knew that a review is sometimes about more that a single experience.
In all the years I think I only wrote a few time about questionable places.
In the Canaries being asked for cash to pay a large bill.
Or recently, in Dublin, when I observed families with children being refused admission to a pub/dining premises. “No Children” the owner roared as he barred entry at the door.
Or when I found ants in my bed in Sorrento. I had a few words about the hotel laundering my clothes when I also found them in my carry on luggage stored in the wardrobe. But got the usual Italian stall.
But otherwise I had great experiences, in all the places I visited.
So now they tell me they have awarded a badge to me to show I have over 20,000 readers.
That's great – now how do I translate that following to my book readers?
Write a travelogue you fool!
January 26, 2016
No Today, no Tomorrow, only Yesterdays - Excerpt from In The Wicker Wood.
Patsy softly closed the door to the day-room behind him. He had carried out his duty as promised. He had delivered Sonny into the Home without incident. He put his keys back into his overall pocket and pointed, “There he said, in the chair by the window. That’s him.”O’Neill went forward and squatted by the chair. He reached forward and touched his Grandfather's elbow. A face he did not know, with eyes blank, staring and dead, turned towards him.“Daideo,” he began in Gaelic, “It’s Sonny.”Daideo turned blankly, not seeing, struggling to make the mental links that would make him see. His mouth moved. O’Neill leaned closer.“Mind her. Mind your mother.” His head dropped down again and he examined the floor. “The sins of the fathers,” he muttered. “She came back, full of the sin of that father, but I never blamed her, or the boy.”Patsy crept forward. “Make it short Sonny. Time is ticking on Boy.”O’Neill waved a dismissive hand. “Quiet! I can’t make out what he is saying. Daideo.” He said again, louder, “I’m here! It’s me Sonny. Daideo!”Daideo reached out and grabbed his arm. “Sonny? Is it you?”“Yes Daideo. It’s me Sonny, I’m here.”“She never wanted to tell you. I did. She kept a tin: a Billy-Can, to show you, to tell you. Then she threw it away: into the flax-hole. I marked the spot and got it out. I dried them in the sun. I hid them: below the third stone on the mountain, the Druid’s Stone. The hay will be good this year. I’ll turn it with the rake and bring it home on the bogie. Mind them children there! Who owns them?”
He sat muttering, and sobbing softly in the midst of some inconsolable memory, distraught, his mind lost in the past and destined to remain there. For him there was no today, no tomorrow only yesterdays.
January 7, 2016
I love trying to write A Fairy Tale. Me head goes bonkers and I spout!
From Streets of Birdsong.
“The foal grew into a stallion and injured the son of the Overman Collins and cast him into Dreamlife. Rathmor now want to take the boy and give him new Fairylife with them.” Glaoim started again but was interrupted by Tig Hernach, the Chronicler, who explained.“We have taken human children before and left malicious fairies in their place.” Glaoim waited. With patience slowly, hoping his voice was steady, he said. “This time Rathmor – want an exchange. They want to take the boy and leave a fairy – in his place. A full fairy.”“What!” Tig Hernach was on his feet again: screaming. “A FULL Fairy! One who would breed with them and in so doing would become MORTAL! NEVER! No mix. NEVER! It would mean the end of us.” The assembly took up the cry “NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER.” They stopped suddenly, when the air in the centre of the hall began to wave and pulse, a pillar of intense white shimmering light shot up from the floor and spread slowly across the roof timbers. From within the pillar, the Banshee threw her keening into the gathering to announce her arrival. The figure of a tall dark cloaked woman stepped out of the light and into the room.“Aoibhinn. Banshee to the Dal Gais.” Glaoim announced with reverence and a small bow. “You are welcome.”Younger fairies began to tremble and older fairies bowed their heads – even the regional Kings and Queens acknowledged her presence. The atmosphere of fear and wonder that now filled the hall: roused Finvarra from a dream, of young maidens and crocks of hidden gold. He waited, while his senses resumed, then slowly rose, fixing Aoibhinn with a kingly glare.“Witch” he began, his voice firm and strong. “You were not called to be here. Depart!” “Whist you old fool. Sit back down and dream of the days when your loins were fruitful. I am here to help. I am here to warn of the real danger in this deed against my Dal Gais Clan. The mating of the Pooka was no accident it was arranged by the Redhats, the Feardearg, so that in the time yet-to-be the Rathmor Fairies will be no more. Overman Collins has no other son. The afflicted one will not father a clan and the one who will be Imbol – will not exist. The knowledge from the time of Danu will be lost. Overclanns will allow their memory of the fairies and the spirits of the land and the Banshees to die. We must fight evil and the Feardearg. We mustrestore the lineage. The fairy who goes must be full and as such will be mortal.” Finvarra rose slowly and spoke. “Let it be so. Let Rathmor choose one of their own. Aoibhinn is right. The time must be now.”
Before Bill left Amalgad told him that he must keep quiet about the land under the fairy rath. “When you get home the fairy will be in place of your son and your son will be here with us. You and a small number of humans will see the boy as a fairy, others will see him as the boy. When men look at fairies they see what they expect to see.”“Sometimes,” Bairead interrupted, “they even see themselves.”“Yes.” Amalgad added sadly, this time, not annoyed by the comment. “Indeed: sometimes, the real evil ones only see themselves.”
“The foal grew into a stallion and injured the son of the Overman Collins and cast him into Dreamlife. Rathmor now want to take the boy and give him new Fairylife with them.” Glaoim started again but was interrupted by Tig Hernach, the Chronicler, who explained.“We have taken human children before and left malicious fairies in their place.” Glaoim waited. With patience slowly, hoping his voice was steady, he said. “This time Rathmor – want an exchange. They want to take the boy and leave a fairy – in his place. A full fairy.”“What!” Tig Hernach was on his feet again: screaming. “A FULL Fairy! One who would breed with them and in so doing would become MORTAL! NEVER! No mix. NEVER! It would mean the end of us.” The assembly took up the cry “NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER.” They stopped suddenly, when the air in the centre of the hall began to wave and pulse, a pillar of intense white shimmering light shot up from the floor and spread slowly across the roof timbers. From within the pillar, the Banshee threw her keening into the gathering to announce her arrival. The figure of a tall dark cloaked woman stepped out of the light and into the room.“Aoibhinn. Banshee to the Dal Gais.” Glaoim announced with reverence and a small bow. “You are welcome.”Younger fairies began to tremble and older fairies bowed their heads – even the regional Kings and Queens acknowledged her presence. The atmosphere of fear and wonder that now filled the hall: roused Finvarra from a dream, of young maidens and crocks of hidden gold. He waited, while his senses resumed, then slowly rose, fixing Aoibhinn with a kingly glare.“Witch” he began, his voice firm and strong. “You were not called to be here. Depart!” “Whist you old fool. Sit back down and dream of the days when your loins were fruitful. I am here to help. I am here to warn of the real danger in this deed against my Dal Gais Clan. The mating of the Pooka was no accident it was arranged by the Redhats, the Feardearg, so that in the time yet-to-be the Rathmor Fairies will be no more. Overman Collins has no other son. The afflicted one will not father a clan and the one who will be Imbol – will not exist. The knowledge from the time of Danu will be lost. Overclanns will allow their memory of the fairies and the spirits of the land and the Banshees to die. We must fight evil and the Feardearg. We mustrestore the lineage. The fairy who goes must be full and as such will be mortal.” Finvarra rose slowly and spoke. “Let it be so. Let Rathmor choose one of their own. Aoibhinn is right. The time must be now.”
Before Bill left Amalgad told him that he must keep quiet about the land under the fairy rath. “When you get home the fairy will be in place of your son and your son will be here with us. You and a small number of humans will see the boy as a fairy, others will see him as the boy. When men look at fairies they see what they expect to see.”“Sometimes,” Bairead interrupted, “they even see themselves.”“Yes.” Amalgad added sadly, this time, not annoyed by the comment. “Indeed: sometimes, the real evil ones only see themselves.”
January 4, 2016
What is this mysterious person – an editor – that some people say I need to employ to produce my book?
I get amused when on a forum: Createspace or Amazon, a would be writer asks “Do I need and editor?”
I want to scream – WHAT TYPE OF EDITOR? There are many types, of which the following is only a sample.
Acquisitions Editor
So next time someone says I am an experienced editor, and used to work at “Lick Your Lips” magazine ask: “What type of editor?”
I want to scream – WHAT TYPE OF EDITOR? There are many types, of which the following is only a sample.
Acquisitions Editor
So next time someone says I am an experienced editor, and used to work at “Lick Your Lips” magazine ask: “What type of editor?”
December 10, 2015
Are Amazon or Goodreads or similar reviews worth the paper they are not written on?
Let's start with this – I do not do reviews – I'm a writer: not a reader who writes reviews.
I'm glad I have this rule, since most reviews that writers get enamoured with and then re-post on their websites, and other promotional forums that they value, are rubbish.
So when is a review really not worth bothering about?
Well let us start with:-
“I got a free copy of this book and although not asked decided to review it.” Normally this is followed by the writer's bio, obviously supplied with the “Free” copy. So disregard this type of review, since it is about the information the writer supplied, not the story.
Then there is a glowing review and when you check the reviewing history of the poster, you find this review and the one for the “Girlie Magazine” or the four slice toaster and the curtains: all also sold on Amazon.
Friend and “Followers” reviews you can spot from a mile off. They are the ones with the worse style of writing. Usually they also call themselves writers, but they are not.
Reviews written without mention of the names of any of the characters in the book, or just the main character, are very suspect, as are reviews of scanned parts of the plot with an additional odd bit of the back cover blurb.
One solitary review of one book and no other ever – is obviously suspicious.
But the ones that get me are those reviews trumpeted on an author's website as from “Mr X reviewer from XYZ's X review group” and author of 200 reviews. This review of their precious book means Mr. X is working for his next merit badge.
So in conclusion, I always wanted to conclude with a conclusion just like the best executive summaries I used to write and read.
Read a book because the author himself or herself has sold you on it with a good evocative title, a good blurb, and if it is being sold on Amazon or the like, that gives a Preview or a Look Inside feature, read those and decide for yourself.
If on the other hand the preview/look inside raises questions about the work, in terms of grammar, punctuation and maybe in some cases unsubstantiated CSI or NCIS action that is believable only in the authors mind, skip the wonderful opportunity offered to read their masterpiece.
December 4, 2015
Faró,Fadó - long long ago (in Ireland).
From "Brown Trout Street" - The Canal.
My memories of the canal are of a time when it was used by Odlum's Mills to transport grain and flour between their Mills at Dublin, Sallins and Portarlington. The large black canal boats were power driven although I have some memories of seeing horses pulling canal boats, where the horse and a man walked along the tow-path.During the Emergency, when petrol was scarce, the canal was used to ferry turf from the bogs near the town to Dublin and to ferry the provisions for the town back down.The canals also helped to build up the distribution and popularity of Guinness which from the turn of the century was transported from St. James's Gate Brewery by canal because in those days the porter was not a good traveller over roads. Rural areas would have a better pint if the brew could be transported under gentle conditions. Canals were ideal, because the brew was cushioned against bumps or knocks or rolling about. The porter was carried in wooden barrels which were filled through a hole at the top which was then bunged with a wooden plug. The tap for drawing off the drink was inserted into the barrel in place of the wooden plug which was knocked into the barrel.These wooden barrels were returned to the brewery for cleaning which involved scouring out the inside of the barrel by flaying the wood with chains. Over a period of time this scouring increased the carrying capacity of the barrel. A new barrel would hold eighteen dozen half pint bottles, but a well washed barrel would hold twenty four dozen half pints. The boatmen knew this and would use selected barrels to draw off their Tilly – a word used for the extra drop of milk the door-to-door milk seller would add to the pint already poured into the jug. The result of this was that many farmers along the canal side exchanged vegetables or potatoes for porter with the Tilly Men. The publican who received the barrel with the regulation amount of Porter in it could have no real complaint with the brewery.
We used to go and watch the sunburned red faced men move the boats through the lock, or moor and unload at the Canal side storage depot. The locks were to me an ingenious device for lifting the boats up from the lower canal level to the higher level. The boats entered the lock through the big wooden gates and when the gates were closed water was let in through trap-doors in the gates which the keeper opened to flood the chamber and lift the boat.The sight of the boat and men raising silently and without effort past the granite kerb stones that formed the top of the chamber was like some magic trick in the circus When boats were travelling down through the lock coming in at high tide and moving away at the low level the magic never appeared as awesome or amazing.
My memories of the canal are of a time when it was used by Odlum's Mills to transport grain and flour between their Mills at Dublin, Sallins and Portarlington. The large black canal boats were power driven although I have some memories of seeing horses pulling canal boats, where the horse and a man walked along the tow-path.During the Emergency, when petrol was scarce, the canal was used to ferry turf from the bogs near the town to Dublin and to ferry the provisions for the town back down.The canals also helped to build up the distribution and popularity of Guinness which from the turn of the century was transported from St. James's Gate Brewery by canal because in those days the porter was not a good traveller over roads. Rural areas would have a better pint if the brew could be transported under gentle conditions. Canals were ideal, because the brew was cushioned against bumps or knocks or rolling about. The porter was carried in wooden barrels which were filled through a hole at the top which was then bunged with a wooden plug. The tap for drawing off the drink was inserted into the barrel in place of the wooden plug which was knocked into the barrel.These wooden barrels were returned to the brewery for cleaning which involved scouring out the inside of the barrel by flaying the wood with chains. Over a period of time this scouring increased the carrying capacity of the barrel. A new barrel would hold eighteen dozen half pint bottles, but a well washed barrel would hold twenty four dozen half pints. The boatmen knew this and would use selected barrels to draw off their Tilly – a word used for the extra drop of milk the door-to-door milk seller would add to the pint already poured into the jug. The result of this was that many farmers along the canal side exchanged vegetables or potatoes for porter with the Tilly Men. The publican who received the barrel with the regulation amount of Porter in it could have no real complaint with the brewery.
We used to go and watch the sunburned red faced men move the boats through the lock, or moor and unload at the Canal side storage depot. The locks were to me an ingenious device for lifting the boats up from the lower canal level to the higher level. The boats entered the lock through the big wooden gates and when the gates were closed water was let in through trap-doors in the gates which the keeper opened to flood the chamber and lift the boat.The sight of the boat and men raising silently and without effort past the granite kerb stones that formed the top of the chamber was like some magic trick in the circus When boats were travelling down through the lock coming in at high tide and moving away at the low level the magic never appeared as awesome or amazing.
