Daonáireamh 1926

1926 Census

by | 2026/04/29 | Current Affairs, National News, Personal, History, Opinion

1926 Census

When the 1926 Irish Census was put online recently, it opened up new possibilities for genealogical research.

My wife drew my attention to it after she saw the news. Since then, the two of us have spent many hours researching our family history.

For anyone with Irish roots, this is a treasure trove. The information is limited, but it is enough to give a glimpse of that time, and of the lives our ancestors lived.

The census was taken on April 18, 1926, under the administration of the Irish Free State. Unlike the 1901 and 1911 censuses, which covered all 32 counties, this one covered the 26 counties of the new State.

What makes it powerful is what you can do with it. The 1926 census acts as a bridge back to 1911. From there, you can go back to 1901, and then into Griffith’s Valuation—a mid-19th-century property tax record that serves as a vital substitute for missing census data from that era. After that, you can find further information in the birth, marriage, and death records available on IrishGenealogy.ie.

The Mayo Connection

In this article, I will focus on part of my own family line as an example of what can be done. There is much more still for me to explore.

I began with my father’s side. That was easier. My father was born in 1925, so there he was in the 1926 census, a nine-month-old baby. His older brothers and sisters were there too, along with my grandparents, all on a single handwritten page.

Seven of them were living in a two-room thatched cottage on 16 acres in Drumreagh, on the Mullet Peninsula in County Mayo. Later, when Sheila was born, there would be eight.

Using that information, I stepped back to 1911. There I found my great-grandfather, Michael Barrett, a widower, living in the same house with my grandfather and some of his adult siblings and a cousin. Going back again to 1901, he was there with his wife Julia and their nine children.

A Sad Story

My father gave me a hand-drawn family tree some years ago, which he had put together with his brother John. Although not complete, it proved invaluable. It confirmed the research I was doing and gave me important clues for where to look next.

There was sadness in that family tree that was not immediately visible in the census records. My father’s records showed that three children in the previous generation—Ellen, Mary, and William—had died young. I found records online for two of them. Mary died at six days old. Ellen died at four months. I have not yet found William. It must have been devastating for the family to lose three out of nine children so young.

I searched the birth, marriage, and death records on IrishGenealogy.ie and was pleased to see that the civil records and census records matched. The civil records also provided new information. I discovered that my great-grandmother Ellen Monaghan’s father was named Richard Barrett. My father had written “Dick” in the relevant box on his family chart. Things were lining up again.

The Poet of Erris

My father told me that the connection back to the well-known Dick Barrett came through his mother’s side. Since my great-great-grandfather on my father’s mother’s side was named Richard Barrett, that strengthened the case.

Riocard (Dick) Bairéad was an Irish-language poet, satirist, and schoolteacher. He was involved with the United Irishmen and the 1798 Rebellion. He is best remembered as a poet. Among his works are “Eoghan Cóir” and “Preab san Ól.”

Another interesting name on my father’s chart was my great-great-grandfather, Éamon Barrett. I searched Griffith’s Valuation and found nothing under Éamon. Then I tried Edward Barrett.

There he was. On the same sixteen acres in Drumreagh. A tenant farmer. His landlord was Tobias Kirkwood. By 1901, it appears that Michael Barrett was no longer a tenant farmer but owned the land.

Heritage and Meaning

According to my father, Edward was the first Barrett to settle in Drumreagh as a tenant farmer. By 1901, eleven people were living in the same two-room thatched house. Seven in 1911. Seven again in 1926, including my father.

Life was hard in those days. In the mid-19th century, it must have been especially difficult for Edward Barrett and his family to survive. It is likely that he was farming that land during the time of the Great Famine. In June 1847, hundreds of starving people from Erris reached the workhouse in Ballina, only to be turned away because it was already full. People were living from hand to mouth, in conditions that are hard to imagine today.

I know from my father’s records that two of his uncles emigrated to Chicago in the 1910s. That is another line to follow later. There is a good chance I have relatives here in the United States.

When I look at all those names on the census pages, it strikes me that each one was a person, with a life and a story. Now, only the name remains on paper. Everything else is lost in the mist of time.

It is a sobering thought to see my uncle, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather there in the records, all sharing the same name as me—Michael Barrett. They give me context. They give me meaning.

I am sure many who read this are carrying out their own research using the 1926 census, tracing their families, and learning more about where they came from and how they lived.

I have only followed one line so far. There are many more to explore, and it will take time.

If you have not had the chance yet, I hope my story encourages you to explore your own family roots in the 1926 census.

 

Comhaltas Barry Cogan

Comhaltas Barry Cogan

by | 2026/04/22 | Personal

Comhaltas Barry Cogan

At one point in the evening, Sinéad and I looked around the room, then at each other, and realized that almost everyone else there had an instrument except us.

The host already had a mandolin in his hands. Someone else pulled a banjo from its case. Another person came in with uilleann pipes. After that came a flute, tin whistle, guitar, bodhrán, and more than one fiddle. The musicians sat down in a circle.

We had come to a house concert in La Jolla with no idea that a traditional music session would follow.

The evening began with a shared meal, though it was for the concert itself that we had come. The woman of the house gave us a warm welcome and offered us her own place on the couch, where we squeezed in close together. That was the kind of gathering it was: informal, generous, welcoming.

Brian Conway was the main musician that night. He was on the West Coast to promote a new album. Máirtín de Cógáin, a musician and storyteller from Carrigaline in County Cork, who has been living in the United States for the past twenty-three years, helped to organize the concert. He knows Brian and had played with him before. He invited us to attend the concert, and we gladly accepted.

Conway is no ordinary fiddler. He was born in the Bronx, and is widely regarded as one of the leading exponents of the Sligo style in America. He first learned from Martin Mulvihill and Martin Wynne, and Andy McGann also had a major influence on him. He spent his working life as a prosecutor. Now, in retirement, he devotes himself completely to the fiddle, as a teacher and musician.

In the first half of the concert, it was just Brian and his fiddle before us. He played in the Sligo style handed down from Michael Coleman. He drew beautiful tunes from the instrument, some lively and spirited, others quiet, almost wistful. He moved between tunes from his teachers and pieces he had composed himself.

Between tunes, he spoke about his life, about the Irish-American tradition, and about the musicians who shaped him. It was clear how deeply he respected his teachers.

In the second half of the program, the New York fiddler Cate Sandstrom joined him. Their playing was so close that at times it felt as though a single instrument, stronger and sweeter than any one instrument, was playing in the room.

After their music, as we were getting ready to head home, we heard talk of a session that was about to begin.

Anyone who wanted to play was welcome. We thought a few musicians might stay. Instead, the room changed before our eyes. People went out and came back with their instruments. Máirtín sat down and began to sing.

The music gathered around him naturally. After that he took up the bodhrán and played it softly, keeping the rhythm steady without overpowering the other instruments. These were not casual musicians. They had the tunes at their fingertips. This was Comhaltas Barry Cogan, the San Diego branch of Comhaltas Ceoltóirí Éireann, named in honor of Barry Cogan, a prominent figure in Comhaltas, who inspired the founding of the branch through his son, Máirtín. They meet every week for classes and sessions. It was a performance that was tight, confident, and alive. Even the host himself was a strong mandolin player.

A thought struck me. There before us, thousands of miles from home, Irish culture was in full flow. It was there not as a relic, but as something vividly alive.

We came to hear a concert and got far more than that. It was a real pleasure to listen to the session, but better still to take part in it. I will have to attend one of the Comhaltas weekly sessions. Perhaps I will bring a tin whistle or a guitar with me next time.

 

Dearcadh Trump agus Leo ag teacht glan salach ar a chéile

Trump and Leo in Direct Conflict

by | 2026/04/15 | Current Affairs, International News, Politics, Opinion

Trump and Leo in Direct Conflict

As Pope Leo XIV flew to Algeria on April 13, he was asked about the latest attack Donald Trump had made on him. The Pope said he had no fear of Trump and would continue to speak out against the war.

On April 7, Leo said Trump’s threat against Iran was “completely unacceptable” - extraordinarily direct words for a pope to use when speaking about a sitting American president. He said threats against civilian populations raised serious moral and legal questions, and he urged people to pressure governments to move towards peace. A few days later, at a prayer vigil in St. Peter’s Basilica, he again spoke of the “delusion of omnipotence” that feeds war and warned against using God’s name to bless violence. It was clear who and what he was referring to.

Trump’s reply came in his usual sharp, insulting style. He said Leo was “weak on crime” and “terrible on foreign policy”, and urged him to focus on being pope rather than acting like a politician. Then Trump crossed another line. He posted an AI-generated image of himself online in a pose that evoked Jesus, and later took it down after an angry public backlash. He said he had intended to portray himself as a doctor, not as Christ, but by then the damage had been done.

Leo did not raise the tension, though he responded wisely and firmly. He said his message was rooted in the Gospel, not in politics. He said the Church had a duty to speak for peace, dialogue and reconciliation. While in Algeria, he condemned “neocolonial” conflicts and violations of international law. The Pope made it clear that he had every right to speak on ethical and moral questions concerning war and peace.

This clash has been building for some time. Even before he was elected Pope, Robert Prevost criticised Trump’s politics, especially on the issue of immigration. In his first address as Pope to diplomats in May 2025, he said the dignity of immigrants had to be respected. In September 2025 he went even further, saying that someone who opposes abortion while accepting the “inhuman” treatment of immigrants cannot so easily claim to be “fully pro-life”.

The conflict between Trump and Leo has both political and spiritual significance. Trump succeeded in improving his standing among Catholic voters in the 2024 election. AP VoteCast found that 54% of Catholic voters voted for him, up from the near-even split in 2020. Trump attracts conservative Catholics because of the judges he appointed, his stance on abortion and his anti-liberal position. But Leo’s words on poverty, migration and peace compel every Catholic to look at their own political choices through the lens of their faith and the teachings of the Church.

There was also a strong backlash against Trump because of the fight he started with the Pope, both inside the Church and outside it. Archbishop Paul S. Coakley of Oklahoma City said the Pope was not in political competition with Trump, but was the Vicar of Christ speaking from the Gospel. AP reported that many Catholics in America were upset by the President’s attack on the first American Pope. In Italy, even Giorgia Meloni, who is usually careful in what she says about Trump, called his remarks “unacceptable”. That was significant because Meloni is one of the European leaders closest to Trump’s outlook. When even she feels compelled to draw a line, it suggests Trump misread both the office he was attacking and the watching audience around the world.

What makes this conflict so striking is that both men are speaking to Americans, but from very different ideas of strength. We know Trump’s version well: dominance, mockery, force and refusal to yield. Leo’s version is almost the opposite: restraint, moral clarity, care for the weak and suspicion of the powerful. While Trump sees a pope criticising him directly, Leo sees Trump going against the teachings of the Catholic Church.

Pope Leo is not easy for Americans to dismiss. He is American. He speaks in clear moral language. And his standing is exceptionally strong among American Catholics: a Pew Research Center survey published in September 2025 showed that 84% of them viewed him favourably. That does not mean every Catholic will now turn against Trump. But it does mean Trump chose to start a fight with a figure whose moral authority extends far beyond Rome.

There are other warning signs too for the Trump administration. Reuters reported that public confidence in the U.S. economy is at a very low level, driven in part by inflation and rising petrol prices linked to the war in Iran. In Hungary, Viktor Orbán also discovered that strong outside backing cannot simply be taken for granted. Trump endorsed him. JD Vance travelled to Budapest to show support. Reuters also reported that Russian sources, or sources linked to Russia, were boosting pro-Orbán messages before the vote. Even so, Orbán lost heavily to Péter Magyar.

That leaves a real choice before Americans at the ballot box, especially Republican Catholics. Will they heed the Pope’s clear condemnation of war, harsh immigration policies and moral indifference, or will they continue to support policies that conflict with the values they claim to hold? The answer should become clearer after the U.S. midterm elections in November, and it could set the stage for significant long-term change in American politics.

 

Ó Apollo go Artemis

From Apollo to Artemis

by | 2026/04/08 | Current Affairs, Science and Technology, International News, Politics, Opinion

Dírbheathaisnéis 16- ag imeacht ón Tréad

On July 21, 1969, early in the morning, Dad and I sat watching Neil Armstrong step onto the moon. I do not remember if anyone else was with us. I was twelve years old and spellbound by the sight on television. It did not seem possible that such a thing could happen at all, yet there it was before us, taking place in our living room on the black-and-white television. When Neil Armstrong and then Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon, Michael Collins remained in orbit in the command module. All of them were white American men.

Now, many long years later, another American mission has carried astronauts back toward the moon. Artemis II has gone around the far side of the moon and is on its way home as I write this. As I watch this mission, I feel a little of the same wonder that Apollo awakened in me.

Apollo 11 belonged to the Cold War. At that time, the space race was bound up with national pride and rivalry between the great powers. Artemis II belongs to another age. This mission is an international collaboration. Diversity can be seen in the astronaut crew: a woman, Christina Koch, a man of color, Victor Glover, and a Canadian, Jeremy Hansen, along with the American Reid Wiseman.

What struck me most as I thought about these two missions was the length of time between them. In a way, much of my own life is measured between them. When Apollo 11 landed, I had not yet started secondary school. Now I am retired after a full working life as an engineer. By the time people return to the moon again under Artemis IV in 2028, nearly sixty years will have passed between those landings.

Back on Earth, some things have changed enormously. At the same time, much less has changed in other things. The digital world has changed beyond recognition. We have moved from a black-and-white television in one room of the house to a world of internet, mobile phones, instant video, livestreams, and now artificial intelligence, another development that would not have been easy to imagine in 1969. We saw Apollo 11 through television and radio. But Artemis II is always available to us on our phones and screens whenever we want to watch it.

Although digital technology has advanced at blazing speed, the same cannot be said of rocket propulsion. The SLS rocket used for Artemis II produces only 15 percent more thrust than Apollo 11’s Saturn V rocket. That is progress, certainly, but it is not a revolution. Artemis II is more modern, safer, and more sophisticated, but in physical terms it is still doing the same thing Apollo 11 did more than half a century ago.

We too have changed as a society, because the same bond no longer exists between us as we watch this astonishing achievement. We all watched Apollo 11 at the same time, and there was a feeling that the whole world was part of it. We felt closer to one another through that shared experience. Everything about Artemis II is available to us now, anywhere, anytime, on our mobile phones. But the shared public moment is much weaker now. Although we are more connected to information through technology, we are more separated from one another socially. We watch the mission in clips, often alone, and on our own schedules, because too many other things are drawing our attention away.

Although we have made enormous progress in technology since 1969, it cannot be said that we have moved forward in the same way in matters of peace for humanity. The wars in Afghanistan and Iraq came and went, carrying a terrible human cost. The war in Gaza has left dreadful destruction and loss of life. Ukraine remains under attack. At present, the conflict with Iran is under way, and fighting words have been heard from President Trump about destruction on a vast scale. A two-week ceasefire is now in place, but no one knows what will happen tomorrow.

Along with everything else, there is climate change, another threat growing before us. Those dangers were not so clear in 1969, but now everyone knows what is at stake, and weather conditions are worsening every year. Although Artemis II shines as a beacon of hope, grave dangers remain, including wars, authoritarian governments, and climate change.

Perhaps, however, that is precisely why this mission matters so much. It reminds us that people are still capable of realising dreams and doing good deeds. I think again of that boy sitting with his father in the middle of the night, staring at the black-and-white screen, spellbound. He could not have imagined the world that was to come. And perhaps we cannot fully imagine the world ahead of us either.

If there is anything to be learned from Artemis II, it is this: there is no strength without unity. And although we have failed again and again, we must still keep pushing forward toward a better world. We have no other choice.

 

Dírbheathaisnéis 14 –Ag imeacht ón Tréad

Autobiography 14 - Leaving the Fold

by | 2026/03/30 | Autobiography

Dírbheathaisnéis 14- ag imeacht ón Tréad

When the student DJ dropped the needle on “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper, the dance floor filled at once. We danced like lunatics, throwing shapes for the girls we hoped were watching. Then came Elton John. The Supremes. The Bay City Rollers. Slade.

Then the music slowed. “Without You” by Harry Nilsson.

The floor emptied in seconds. My heart hammered against my ribs as I caught the eye of one girl. Before I could lose my nerve, I asked her to dance. My first time. I was fifteen. She said yes.

We started dancing, separated at first, but drawing closer together bit by bit. She put her head on my shoulder and I put my arms around her. Halfway through the song I was already imagining the wedding.

Then I felt a sharp tap on my shoulder.

Father O’Toole.

“This is absolutely unacceptable, Michael. You didn’t keep your distance. You’ll be barred from the next dance, and don’t let me catch you doing the like again.”

He split us up as if we were criminals. We never danced together again.

A few minutes later I watched Father O’Toole march back onto the dance floor and grab a boy by the ear. It was Pat Corcoran. The next time I saw Pat, he was like a shorn sheep. On my dormitory cubicle wall, Marc Bolan of T. Rex had long curly hair that would have had Father O’Toole reaching for the scissors.

I let my hair grow a little past my collar, not enough to be caught, just enough to feel I was getting away with something.

An samhradh sin, tar éis dom filleadh abhaile ón scoil chónaithe, d’fhreastail mé ar chúrsa Fraincise sa chathair, a bhí eagraithe ag an Alliance Française. Sa bhoth fuaime chúlaigh an saol taobh amuigh. Chuir mé na cluasáin orm agus labhair guth mná Fraincise isteach i mo chluasa amhail is go raibh sí ansin liom.

“Nos cosmonautes,” she said.

“Nos cosmonautes,” I said back into the microphone.

I listened to myself on playback. Is that really me? My own voice sounded as if it belonged to somebody else. By the end of the six weeks my accent had improved, and I had grown used to the sound of my own voice.

All summer I sang along with the radio hits. I knew every word of “Get It On” by T. Rex and “Starman” by David Bowie.

After the French classes ended, I got work in the bar at the new Springhill Court Hotel. I opened a credit union account with one thing in mind: my first electric guitar. When the rhythm guitarist in a local band decided to move on, I bought his fire-engine red 1965 Fender Mustang.

There was one problem. I had no amplifier.

I tapped into the innards of an old transistor radio and, by trial and error, found a way to make it work. It gave me maybe one watt of tinny, distorted sound, but I loved it. I learned chords from a book because I couldn’t afford lessons. I was convinced I was just months away from being a rock star.

After the holidays, I returned to school as a day student. At weekends I knocked around town. My parents even let me go to Saturday night dances in the Carlton, where there were no priests and no rules about distance.

The following summer, I grew my hair longer and wore denim and cheesecloth. By then I was a regular at the Carlton.

 

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