Hello and welcome to this week’s Ireland’s Own. This week, on the 100th anniversary of his death, John Donohoe brings us the story of Francis Ledwidge, the Soldier Poet from Slane in Co. Meath who was killed in World War I.
Mary Sheerin pays tribute to the environmentalist and broadcaster, Dick Warner, following his recent death. Bill McStay recalls the ‘Last Flight of an American Heroine’. Read about the disappearance of the legendary pilot, Amelia Earhart.
Paula Redmond recalls the role the convict transport ship, The Phoebe Dunbar, played in ferrying Irish prisoners to the Swan River Colony in Western Australia, while in his Role of the Irish in WW2 series Con McGrath tells us the story of Nurse Ellen Savage, of Donegal descent, who received the George Medal for bravery.
‘Sgt. Stubby’, the most decorated dog of WW1 is remembered by Tom Murphy while Patrick P. Rowan pays tribute to the work of Dr. Jack, known as ‘Dr. Preger’, the ‘barefoot doctor of Calcutta’.
We have more gardening tips from our resident expert, Aileen Atcheson and Jim Rees profiles the swash-buckler, sleuth and all-round class act, Basil Rathbone.
From Waterford to Hollywood, Eugene Doyle recalls the career of the novelist Raymond Chandler, creator of ‘Inspector Marlowe’ and Melanie Ward continues her Islands of the Erne series.
The Connemara Mine Disaster 1917 is remembered by Ray Cleere when a WWl mine exploded, killing nine people. The book under review this month is The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce.
We have all this for you to enjoy alongside your weekly favourites. So whether you are relaxing in the sunshine or more content to sit in the shade, enjoy this week’s Ireland’s Own and I look forward to catching up with you again next week.
Seán Nolan, Editor, Ireland’s Own
Sing along with your favourite Irish songs – The Jug of Punch Being on the twenty-third of June, Oh as I sat weaving all at my loom, Being on the twenty-third of June, Oh as I sat weaving all at my loom, I heard a thrush singing on yon bush…And the song she sang was the jug of punch, What more pleasure can a boy desire, Than sitting down, oh beside the fire, What more pleasure can a boy desire, Than sitting down, oh beside the fire, And in his hand, oh a jug of punch, And on his knee a tidy wench