Tales are emerging form Brazil that Edson Arantes de Nascimento, better known to most of us as Pele, may have derived his famous name from where other than the influence of an Irish Christian Brother from Kerry.

Pele was born in Três Corações, Brazil, the son of a Fluminense footballer Dondinho. His initial nickname was Dico. Thankfully that didn’t stick. Just doesn’t have the same ring about it, does it? Carlos Alberto, to Gerson, to Jairzinho. Goooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaalllllll.

A Dico header.

Brother Ambrosius O Se from Kerry was stationed in the Mission in Três Corações. A keen scholar of Irish and naturally a follower of gaelic football, he was fascinated with the skill levels of the local Brazilian youth. One such player was the boy wonder Edson. He approached Br Ambrosius one day and asked him could he play with the ball that the good Christian Brother was kicking nonchalantly against the wall of the school and catching as it flew back to him.

‘Futebol’, shouted the young Edson.

‘Peile’ replied Br Ambrosius.

‘Futebol’, shouted the young Edson again.

‘Peile’ again replied Br Ambrosius in great humour altogether. This went on.

A passing group of the village’s young girls giggling, pointed at Edson and hearing what they thought was his new nickname shouted repeatedly at him “Peile, Peile, Peile.’

From there the name Peile stuck. Edson was happy he was no longer called Dico, of course he was, and he has made his name as the greatest foreign games player ever. It was eventually shortened to the more familiar Pele.

Br Ambrosius? He was last seen coaching sailing up the Amazon on a Steamboat, smoking a large cigar and sipping a Caipirinha. His fame made as the man who named Pele, however accidentally. He is the toast of Brazilians who wax lyrical whenever his name is mentioned.

Overlooking Teampall Chaomháin in Inis Oírr. The sunken church in the graveyard is beside the grave of Saint Caomhán, who legend has it was the elder brother of St Kevin of Glendalough.

The Saint is referenced in Seamus Heaney’s beautiful poem St Kevin and the Blackbird.

Inis Oírr remains one of my favourite places in Ireland, the peacefulness of wandering a bóithrín between high stone walls, drifting off the beaten track. The sound of birds & the nearby roar of the sea pounding Ireland’s exposed western shore.

It’s a different world & even a few short days can sustain you & clear the mind.The roads radiate outwards from the West Village, whether you head past Cill Ghobnait [St Gobnait’s Church] towards Tobair Éanna [St Enda’s Well] or by an Bothar Nua to view the Plassy & the lighthouse, it’s a contemplative place to walk & be alone.

In the summer the air is a-buzz & a-flutter with butterflies & hoverflies. Occasionally a cow might peer between the gaps in the limestone wall bordering small the fields of soil made from sand & seaweed an age ago.

We visited when the electricity was out & the lack of power shocked the system in an even better way. No wifi, pints by candlelight & an imagining of a simpler island life.

Inis Oírr, a place to sample & return. To immerse if possible in the language & a slower simpler rhythm of life.

It is beautifully bleak & that is the charm. Time to plan a return visit again.

#Inisheer #InisOirr #AranIsands #WildAtlanticWay #TourismIreland #Failte

Like cockroaches I firmly believe Tesco bagels could survive a nuclear holocaust.

Found this in the bread drawer more than a few days lurking there, but once in the toaster it sprung to life.

Angela & I were in Boston in ‘99 & went into one of the usual Finagle a Bagel or whatever the joint was called. Never heard of or seen a bagel before, AP speaks up and asks for what sounded like a ‘bagelle’. The Bostonion Bagel seller was confused, perturbed, uncertain. ‘Pardon me ma’m?’ •

You can take the Derry Girls out of Derry for sure. •

Feeling smug I asked what was ‘nish’, with a silent ‘k’.

Cue further furrowed brows & perplexed looks. ‘Knish sir?’

‘Ehh, yes that’s what I meant…’ mumbled I.

We stood corrected & enjoyed the food.

It was different, now of course the bagel is ubiquitous.

I wonder how the Bostonian Finagle a Bagellers would have fared in Jack’s chippy in Omagh or even Fiorentini’s in Derry.

Wherever you are in Portstewart you can hear the sound of the sea. Most noticeable in the late evening when the ambient sounds of life have died away & there is a deep sustained quiet roar in the background.

Sometimes you can’t hear it until you listen for it, but rest assured it is there. It’s the noise of water rolling rocks, crashing pebbles, shifting sand, colliding with cliffs & stones that won’t move. Occasionally there’s a big shift & something happens.

This week the tide swept right up the beach wreaking havoc among the National Trust constructions, toppling & floating away their wardens’ shed. It sits now with a hole in the roof offering shelter no more.

The waves don’t care, their incessant roar fills the airwaves & hangs there waiting to be heard. Even when it is quiet, listen & you will hear.