The Lowell Courtney Travel Blog

Silence of the Rams

No, this is not a piece about football or movies - or even sheep prices.  It's about the reaction yesterday to the death of the severely disabled son of David and Samantha Cameron. 

My US friends and readers, being well-informed, will know that David Cameron is the leader of the British Conservative party and therefore Leader of Her Majesty's Opposition at Westminster. Despite his Scottish surname, he is English through and through. attended Eton and Oxford, is comfortably off and is on track to become our next Prime Minister.

Often described as a "toff" - a term of abuse for the rich and privileged - he was not afraid in his early career to show his contempt for those whom he perceived as of lesser ability and determination. Then he married Samantha. Six years ago, their first born child Ivan was born. Ivan suffered from cerebral palsy and Ohtahara's disease, a severe form of epilepsy. He was unable to speak.

But the Camerons and their two subsequent healthy children did not cut Ivan off from family life. They did their very best for him, even if it meant spending long days in clinics and longer nights in hospital. And during this process, David Cameron met many other parents of disabled children.  He experienced their frustrations with the bureaucracy of the National Health Service and he shared their unstinting admiration of those who actually did the work and did all they could for his lovely child.

Ivan never spoke a word in his six years but his eyes did all the talking he would ever need - and in the process, he made his father a man.

Wednesday morning in the House of Commons is normally the time for PMQ - Prime Minister's Questions: the high theatre of the parliamentary week, the knockabout mixture of warfare, vitriol, sabotage and farce which, as I understand, is pretty popular with you folk.  Yesterday morning Gordon Brown, who lost his own first child seven years ago, spoke just four sentences of sympathy.  Pure golden eloquence showing the rainbow of humanity which soars above politics. A brief and sincere response from the Tories, a word from the Lib Dems. And that was that.

PMQ was put off for another day and the House rose in silence for 25 minutes. On a day when the world was bleating about the loss of vast amounts of money in banks and insurance companies, the silence of the parliamentary rams spoke of loss and sorrow; and of immeasurable gain.

When I survey the wondrous cross, On which the Prince of Glory died,

My richest gain I count but loss, And pour contempt on all my pride.

Isaac Watts (1674-1748)

I Claudius; You Tube

Good afternoon from a bright and breezy (for which read 35 mph from the general direction of Greenland) Northern Ireland.  It has come to our attention - that's "our" as in Lynchpin, not "our" as in Margaret Thatcher's "We are a grandmother" - that a moving (as in "moving pictures") memento of a day in this fine province has been posted on youtube.

If you'll spare me the embarrassment, as I am a self-conscious and painfully shy individual, totally devoid of personality and any lust for PR, you'll skip over my appearances in this little clip.  However, you will find it at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WqgpEStcZZY and it gives an extraordinary rendering of a day trip from Belfast to the Giant's Causeway.

Leaving aside for a second that our good friend's cruise ship is docked just across the river from the graving yard where the Titanic was fitted out (34 inside leg, sir?), the power of the moving image struck home when, within a week of the clip being posted on the Net, we received three or four inquiries about cruise excursions, apparently out of the ether.

Only when we pursed the sort of rigorous, detailed and exhaustive inquiries which the SEC conducted on Madoff Securities (and the FSA on the Royal Bank of Scotland) did we finally remember that Mr Ron Stowe of Georgia, USA had kindly asked  permission to add our details and display his handiwork to the world. "Sure" we said with the carefree insouciance of the technologically illiterate, having no idea of the impact which his work would bring about.

The title of this piece reflects the fact that "You tube!" is a local term of insult - and I thought that it contrasted nicely with Robert Graves' magnum opus.  In the light of recent events however, it seems that at least as far as the intricacies of the web are concerned, 'tis I who is the tube and it's Ron and his ilk who are the emperors.

As they also say in these parts: It's a bad day when you learn nothing new.

Golf au naturale

In the momentous week when Woods/T makes his return to competition (You mean we do this for money - right? No kidding!), I just thought that I would entertain all my US golfing chums with a brief and modest description of our winter training.  After all, if your baseball teams are foregathering in distressed and rundown areas of your fine country (generally known as Florida), why shouldn't we Irish golfers be limbering up for the imminent first cut of grass - ah, the scent of spring!

Now, whilst you northerners have been labouring under three feet of snow, ice storms, minus fifty and other climatic niceties, we hardy souls have been braving a few hazards of our own, thank you very much.  All you lot do is hop on a plane to Vegas or Phoenix or Palm Springs (on second thoughts, scrap that last one) and go play golf in your shirtsleeves while we poor hobbits face frozen ground, screaming gales, winter greens (WinterGreen is a fine embrocation, much beloved of rugby players and strictly for external application only) and barmen of the Arctic sun i.e. they never appear in winter.

Ever hit a three iron thinner than a profit margin on a January morning and wonder why Ireland doesn't take gold at ice hockey?  Ever disappear into a bunker and break your wrist trying to hit down two inches behind the ball, only to meet pre-mix concrete? Ever try to swing a golf club wearing more layers than the Federal bureaucracy?  You haven't lived. 

Try putting on greens which read minus two on the Stimpmeter.  There are times when your hands are so cold it should be the Stumpmeter.  And look -  there goes that brand new Lehman Bros umbrella which you swiped at that tournament last year. How fitting. Up and over the hedges in a gale of - well, just a screaming gale. And you really must tell the makers of your rain gear that even four layers and thermals are not enough to stop hypothermia. Oh look, there's one of their researchers flying by right now.

My friends, if winter golf is character building, then we hardy few are up there with Sir Edmund Hillary, Ben Hogan and John Wayne (for want of a better contemporary example, I'll have you know.)  Insanity is not an option: it's a prerequisite.  And, gentlemen, do you know why we do it? We don't want your plaudits, fellahs, just your stake money.

See you in due course. See you on our course.

Reservoir Underdogs

Yes, you're correct. But this post has very little to do with that rare Brit success at the Oscars - Slumdog Millionaire - than with the fact that even the little guys just occasionally get one over on the monsters.  Cubs fans should either take heart or look away now - rapidly.

If I were to decide that I were the reincarnation of Master Sam Pepys (and were to write in unencoded English), then I suppose my diary entry might read as follows:

Friday of the after noon, to the environs of ye citye of Belfaft (those printers are a disgrace) to meete with my fair wyf. Being joined in an hostelyre by an other couple, we did besport ourselves at gaming in an assemblage of lyke-minded persons who did answer sondrye questions on diverse matters, which be named "a quiz".  To mine hart's delight, we did defete all comers, efpecially a team of buxom and manly young scholars who, being as unlearned as one would suppose, did resort to preffing mony buttons on a strange small tablett which did render sum correct anfwers unto them.

Well, that's enough of "1666 and All That" so to fpeak - damn, speak.  Very gratifying for four wrinklies (it's all a matter of perspective, dear) when all around were texting and googling like mad. And if you think you can do better, here's the last question of the night: "Who delivers the closing lines in 'Romeo and Juliet'?"  No googling allowed.

Saturday was even better: Carol's rugby team i.e her school First XV, comprising mostly her final form class ("my babies"!) hauled themselves back from a 13-0 half time deficit in a crucial quarter final and showed 'Do it for the Gipper' guts to win 15-13. The bad news is that they drew the favourites in the semis but still, it was a remarkable show for an unfancied team.

And it got even better when my unloved and unrated Bannsiders (Coleraine Football Club to the cognoscenti) managed their first win in Belfast in six years against one of the city's two big clubs. And this a team that had mauled them in the Cup one week before.  Oh how we chortled as our lads waltzed home 3-1.  You know how bad things are when you are giving your exiled son a running commentary by phone and text and he gleefully informs you that he has just slaughtered the sacrifical goat to appease the sporting gods. Somehow I think he has confused the various testaments with "I Claudius" but - what the hell?

Just occasionally, just now and then, it's lovely when the little'un gets to poke the big'un where it hurts. Of course there will be retaliation but just for now, I'll stick with the sacificial gloat - er, goat.

Selective Sourcing

Having added one more reader (hello, Susan), I thought I might pen a few words in answer to a very sensible question (thank you, Jane).  We are occasionally asked to recommend one of two types of reading:  a succinct and reliable introduction to Ireland - history, geography and culture - or a sound guide to eating and drinking in these parts.

Eschewing for a moment (yes, I know - you don't get that quality of pun in your average off the top of the head blog) the impossibility of summarising the madhouse in less pages than your average airport potboiler, I'd have to say that there are now probably more guides to Ireland (or Antarctica, for that matter) than there are pubs. And whilst you may laugh and count the number of bars on the Ross Ice Shelf, let me tell you that Irish country pubs, once the centres of social life, are closing regularly as clockwork.  And is the rate of alcohol consumption declining pro-rata?  Divil the bit of it.  An infernal combination of drink-driving laws (they've only just cottoned on to the fact that most carnages are caused by youngsters coked to the eyeballs) and cheap-ish supermarket booze has done the damage, meaning that all you are left with are modified restaurants or so-called super-pubs where you can't hear yourself think, let alone drink.

To answer the first question: virtually any reputable guide (Lonely Planet etc etc) will give you the basics with more or less detail and more or less spin.  Note of caution, however: if, like one of our competitors, one of your main claims to authority on Ireland is the fact that you have red hair and were born on St Patrick's Day, you might want to reach for the salt cellar before reading.  Whilst we (David and myself) keep a very low profile, the mere fact that we live, travel and work here might just give us a slightly more solid foundation, doncha think?

The second question - food and drink - is equally interesting.  Yes, it is linked to the first by the fact that you, dear reader and intrepid traveller, must be very careful about whom you trust (hence the title of this piece) but any answer is coloured by the fact that pubs and restaurants are as shifting as the light on the hills of Mayo, which is where Mrs C and your humble blogger spent her half term break.

In the course of same, and at the end of the earth, Madame (whose judgement in all things culinary is impeccable) came across a fine pub and seafood bar in Belmullet.  It is called An Cheibh and offers an excellent selection of locally caught fish.  I had the chowder, on which foundation you could build a bungalow, and Carol had the scampi.  The batter was creamier than anything either of us had tasted for years and the chips ("fries" to you) were hand-cut and home-cooked.  In other words, they took us back to real chips eaten off newspapers in our childhood. No pre-packed, half-cooked health hazards.

And the real sign of success was the number of foil wrapped lunch plates which were heading out the door at regular intervals.  I asked the nice lady at the bar for the translation of "An Cheibh" as my Irish is kindergarten standard, I'm sorry to say.  It means "The Quay", which seems pretty logical - and which brings me to the core of this piece.

When it comes to food and drink, the most authoritative source, in my experience, is Georgina Campbell whose print and online guides are A1. Her online guide - www.ireland-guide.com - is accessible, functional, conveys sober judgements and is normally as up to date as any guide to subjective matters can be.  Her assessments of establishments often tallies with our own. Yes, you can nitpick - if you look up her entry for An Cheibh, you will find a different translation and one or two "foody" comments but, by and large, she gets it right.

However, as we constantly remind anyone who will listen - espcially ourselves - you are really only as good as your last show, which is why we never rely on reputation.  Carol and I were at a school function at an allegedly five star establishment near Belfast last week.  Whoever ticked the boxes - or was paid to tick boxes - must be innumerate.  We are old-fashioned; we don't make a song and dance about our reliability; we don't claim to be the source and fount of all knowledge but this we most certainly are: straight.  If it's good, we'll be delighted to tell you so. If it sucks, we'll tell you that, too.

And in these days of foolish vanities and orgies of self-promotion, maybe that's no bad thing.

An excellent restaurant

Those kindy and misguided souls (all two of you) who subscribe to these ramblings will have read in Friday's rant that we were off to see Ireland vs France in Dublin.  Our American friends - and there are many of you who take a kindly interest in goings-on in this supermarket car park cum nature reserve which the Almighty has chosen to append to the European Union - may even be aware that the USA has a half-decent rugby team, of which more later.

The Saturday game was the first in the annual Six Nations tournament in which Ireland, Scotland, Wales, England, France and Italy play each other - a sort of Conference. In the 80s,Ireland used to finish last but the advent of professionalism meant that Ireland suddenly got serious and finished as runners-up in four of the last five series. Always the blasted bridesmaid, which is why the win on Saturday by 30 points to 21 was so sweet.

Now what, I hear you ask, has this to do with an excellent "resto", as the French say. Eveything, mes amis, because as we left with the other 78,000 fans who had enjoyed a magnificent match, my heart was aglow but the rest of me was freezing to death.  I know that you hardy colonials go to things such as "Snow Bowls" and the like; that minus 10 celsius is but as a sunny Acapulco afternoon to you but rest assured that your correspondent, carrying a heavy cold, was chilled to the marrow.

As we tramped merrily back to the city centre, I popped the question to the Redoubtable Mrs C: "Now where, o light of my life, o morning star of my dawn, o snowdrop of my- " Oh shut up" said she in a moment of levity, "I want a pizza and a bottle of wine."  And off we trotted down O'Connell Street. No point in offering her the finest of Michelin - "Too expensive" - or the beer-laden banter of famous Dublin pubs - "Too smelly". And so, like Baby Bear, I headed off to the establishment that was "just right".  If you read one of my previous posts (Corteisie in the Crowd), you will see that I praised Brooks Hotel.  Now it is the turn of the Boulevard Cafe - and here's why.

Two months ago, we headed out of Brooks on a Friday night and chanced upon the Boulevard at the end of the street. Despite the pre-Xmas Friday night madhouse, we were warmly welcomed by the redoubtable Darragh, who in a trice charmed the socks off the ever wary Mrs C and gave us a prime table with the polite but firm apology that he would be needing it in an hour.  The food was good and reasonably priced for the centre of Dublin; the clientele were civilised but the service - ah, the service - was excellent. 

Just enough time to read and absorb the menu; just long enough to let the first glass of Chardonnay do its work and absolutely no indication whatsoever that the management, unlike the banks, were in any rush to repossess.  And civility personified - The Aul' Dacency, as it is colloquially known.  Which is why we ended up there on Saturday night. And were treated exactly the same way with one further extra.  And no, I know what you're thinking: "they were throwing drink at you, Courtney, you oul' soak, when they found out you were a tour operator"

Au contraire - and you know that I would never solicit nor accept it, anyway.  The bill once paid, Carol then mentioned that we had returned because we had been so well treated in November whereupon owner/manager Fintan O'Reilly introduced himself; we exchanged cards and a few complimentary words and then we got out of their way.

The point being? The point being that "courtesy costs nothing".  Fintan and his front man Darragh run a smooth operation and even in these trying times, they could give Tourism Ireland a masterclass in how to handle people efficiently but yet leave them feeling special.  It is a rare gift, the product of years of hard work being applied in those crucial first few seconds. There are many, many lousy organisations with grandiose mission statements and even more grandiose paraphernalia - brochures, websites, brandings and buildings - who wouldn't begin to deliver what those two gentlemen produce. We wish them every success - 'cos they deserve it.

Oh yes, and by the way, the Irish rugby team still comprises the same lads who constantly failed to deliver under their previous control-freak manager. It's just that the new man knows how to handle people - like the Boulevard Cafe.  And the previous manager? Ah well, he's been tipped as the new coach of your American Eagles.  Enjoy.

The Boulevard Cafe, 27 Exchequer Street, Dublin 2  Tel (011) 353 1 6792131 Fax 6704940

Speech Impaddyment

Our transatlantic readers may not as yet have been apprised of the latest p c lunacy in these septic isles so I thought I would keep you posted.

Carol Thatcher, journalist daughter of our past Prime Minister, was an occasional contributor to a BBC lunchtime show.  You know the sort of "magazine" which exhibits the Reithian intellectual rigour for which the Beeb is rightly world-famous. It would appear that, after a recent edition, she compared a black tennis player to a "golliwog" and was subsequently reported to "higher authority" for racist abuse, quite unfitting to the BBC.  This remark took place in the "green room" where BBC staff and contributors mingle after transmission.

Confronted by the accusation that she had made a racially abusive remark, Thatcher explained that it had been a joke but refused to issue an unconditional public apology.  The BBC have therefore relinquished her services.  The BBC's media correspondent tried to explain the furore on today's lunchtime news.  He said that this term was highly offensive to many black people, which is undoubtedly the case. However, when pressed on the outrage expressed in many morning shows that this was a total over-reaction, he said: "The fact is that many of the older generation just don't get it."

Well, you know, son - you're right.  On the other hand, we also know the difference between what we call "ethnic banter" and a bullet in the back of the head.  I have been called "Paddy" and "a paddy" for longer than you've been an upright human being and do you know what? So what? 

If I really wanted to get uptight, I could make an issue out of the fact that I am a British citizen living in part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.  I could get very excited about the way my son's Geordie pals take the rise out of my sing-song accent.  I could even start the break up of the European Union by taking extreme pleasure in winding up - and being wound up by -  many rugby-mad Frenchmen when Ireland play the first Six Nations match in Dublin on Saturday.  I could reach such high dudgeon about being called a "paddy" that I'd appear on ATC radar. For what? For nothing.

And the "older generation" would also care to inform you that we are the savers who did not go out and run up huge debts; that we are the generation who worked our backsides off to put you through college and that we are the generation who will be living off dogfood while the young masters of the universe, many of whom wouldn't know a cheque from a Czech, concern themselves with political correctness at a time when many of their fellow-citizens are unemployed, hungry, ill or just watching the purchasing power of a lifetime's work vanish into thin air.

It's all a matter of priorities, isn't it?  Get real - get over it.

Beware the Feds of March

Yes, posts are like London busses - nothing for ages and then at least two at once but I will be brief.

Now, many of you are gainfully employed and I would hazard a guess that a higher than average percentage of you work for yourselves or in private industry.  If I'm wrong, please just record me as demographically challenged.  And from the tone of your observations in the past few months - whether red or blue - I would say that many of our friends have a healthy scepticism about the efficiency of any national government to deliver the goods - at least economically.

And while the arguments about various "rescue packages" rage like Siberian snowstorms, I just thought I would console you with our little local difficulties, as Napoleon said at Moscow.  About a year ago, the local council asked, nay begged - oh all right, pleaded with the pair of us to take part in an exporting course.  We were lured - or even seduced, no less - by promises of largesse beyond Montezuma's wildest dreams.  (Yes I know he plays for the L A Aztecs but we're not here to discuss the outrageous salaries of sports stars.)

Without hyperbole, we were promised that we would be refunded our expenses from any exporting trip which we undertook.  So, like the good little boys we are, we attended the classes, consulted with the CEO of the bureau tasked with delivery of said course (he told us that we knew more about marketing to the USA than he did, which was refreshingly honest) and filled in all the forms.  We spent six days at our own expense driving round Scotland like dervishes, genning up on product knowledge so that we could offer both destinations in confidence.

We made application for reimbursement in May 08 and waited. And waited. The leaves fell; the wind blew; darkness descended; Christmas lights came on and off; the old year became the new; a new President entered the White House; Ireland won the rugby Grand Slam (sorry, just wishful thinking) and we have been promised that the local council will release EU funds when all participants sign the final evaluation. And, no doubt, when the Cubs win the World Series.

And all this for what was at the time $400, now $300.  But I shall hang in there till the bitter end. And the moral of this tale: many (but not all) public "servants" care only for public servants.  The nomenklatura rules.  And they say that the market has failed.  No, the market does what it sets out to do - to relieve you of your hard-earned funds.  But at least they don't pretend that they are acting in your best interests.

When you go into a public service office, do you see them tolerating the sort of working conditions that seem like a dream to your entrepreneurial spirit?  Do you, my foot.  Photocopiers that actually work in full technicolour and capable of turning out Mona Lisas that would fool Sothebys. Heat that would allow an acre of marijuana to grow luxuriantly in the canteen - excuse me, "staff dining suite."  Chairs that would do credit to the latest Mercedes S class.

So if you think that you are going to see one red cent of the fabled $800 million, dear reader, I suggest that you make that appointment with the therapist now.  Holding my breath I ain't.

Thank you for listening. There - I feel better already.

Floral Tributes

This blog, as my four regular readers will know, covers a lot more than matters pertaining to travel.  Nor is it an awful promotional blow like the inflated chest of one robin squaring up to another in my backyard.

Today's first post is actually more the Last Post, after a fashion, for there was an item on the local TV news which I thought I should share with you. Those of you who have visited our fair shores will know that the Irish have - at least until recently - devoted more energy to the dead than the living. (This may explain the euologies for the Celtic Tiger but let's keep the bestiary out of this.)  Any visitor to Belfast or Dublin will be shown the cemeteries with great pride. 

To wit - it is a matter of fact that a local bishop insisted upon a subterranean wall to separate the dead catholics from the dead protestants (yes, the lower case just seems more apt, doesn't it?) when the Belfast city graveyard opened in 1869. And the present Lord Mayor , Cllr Tom Hartley, does wonderful tours of the aforesaid cemetery.

However, hackles were raised recently (well, let's hope that was the only thing raised) when floral tributes "of an unusual nature", as the local press would have it, began to be placed on the graves. Those of you who are old enough to remember the Rolling Stones' "Bring me dead flowers" track on the Sticky Fingers Album will see where this is going.  It's not unusual (sorry, Tom) to see teddy bears, rosaries and the occasional memento on graves but of late things appear to have got a bit out of hand.

Now I know what you're thinking - so what if Elvis' tomb has a 10 foot floral guitar on it ?  Fair enough. But a bepoppied horse's head - complete with bridle - on the last resting place of a punter who had amassed so many loyalty points from the local bookmakers that they paid for the funeral meal?  Or the garlanded hubcaps on the grave of a motor racing fan?  And best of all, a most tasteful arrangment of black and cream which resembled a 3 foot pint of Guinness. No prizes for guessing the hobby.

Now far be it from me to extrapolate to the surreal but this could be problematical, don't you think? Large dollar signs - in red of course - for the masters of the universe who have landed us in this mess. Florists could have problems with QWERTY keyboards for computer nerds - and quite how they are going to create drill rigs for oil men is beyond me.

No doubt my resourceful readers will supply much better suggestions - all ideas gratefully received.

Golf Ireland North – a tonic

Rory McIlroy’s win in the Dubai Desert Classic yesterday provided great cheer to his fellow citizens, not the least in the manner of his winning.  From being six strokes ahead with five to play, he had to execute a superb up and down from a bunker to win by one stroke and thereby throw the monkey of two lost play-offs from his back.

But a look down the scoreboards of most European PGA tournaments reveals a curious fact: amongst all the nationalities playing the tour, including Thais, Indians and South Africans as well as bona fide Europeans, there are a disproportionate number of Ulstermen plying their trade, more or less successfully.

The godfather is clearly Darren Clarke, whose genial manner and large cigar have become the stuff of legends.  My own favourite moment of the Big Man’s career to date is not the tearful win at the 2006 Ryder Cup on home turf but the sight of DC and his buddy Davis Love sharing a cigar at the 2004 event, having concluded an epic halved match minutes earlier.  If that isn’t what sport is about, then I’ve lost the plot.

Next best known is Portrush’s own Graeme McDowell, winner of two tournaments last year and one of the better rookie performers in the 2008 European Ryder Cup team.  After a successful college career in the USA, Graeme won the Scandinavian Masters in his fourth outing as a pro and has consolidated his position in the Top 50.

In addition to Rory McIlroy, this small corner of Europe has two new pros on tour, Gareth Maybin and Michael Hoey, both of whom have made promising starts to their careers.

So what is it about Ireland (North) that produces an unlikely number of golfers?  Clearly, the abundance of good courses helps – the top two of Portrush and County Down make anyone’s Top Twenty and Portstewart is not far behind.  Is it the sea air?  Is it the fact that golfers can be seen chugging round the links in weather which would drive everyone else on the planet – bar our cousins the Scots – into the 19^th?

For what it’s worth, I think that one of the factors is the fact that wealth and “privilege” play no part in the moulding of pro golfers. This probably appears worldwide (think Hogan, Palmer and co) but it seems to be particularly strong in these parts.  Nor is golf (despite the fact that we have two “Royal” clubs) a snob sport in any shape, size or fashion.  Golf may be the great leveller on the course but it does much the same for the membership of most of the clubs in these parts.  There’s not much “squirearchy” or “social standing” round here.

In addition, golf (and rugby) were the two popular sports which united both communities during The Troubles.  The Golfing Union of Ireland is an all-Ireland body and golfers played their inter-club competitions throughout.  Of course everyone knew everyone else’s adherence but it was – and remains – a matter of no consequence in club or on course.

And crucially, none of our pros came from well-off families; all had parents who worked hard for their children but made very sure that filial feet were kept firmly on the floor.  All of our pros have grafted incessantly.  Yes, they have great talent and McIlroy’s is a one-off but they all know the necessity of hard, hard work.

This little corner of the world may have had its problems but it may be that we are now seeing the belated fruit of such a hard-won harvest.  If our guys are proving –yet again – that there is no such thing as a free lunch, then mavbe we are doing something right after all.  And for this relief, we offer much thanks.