Tipperary town was different and never lost its soul or identity

I’VE always had a soft spot for Tipperary town and it saddens me more than you can imagine to learn that it now feels left behind.

It’s not the only small town that feels abandoned these days in the onward march of the nation, but Tipperary always marched to its own tune and revelled in its own quaintness, which was a long, long way from other more pretentious urban centres.
All I can say is that the nation’s march must be out of step and things must be really dire when you get an SOS from a town that bears one of the most famous place names in the world. Surely, it behoves all of us to respond.

Now, there were times, back in the glory days of Shannon Development, when I thought it might be a good idea if Limerick – which at the time was trying to push out its own boundaries - would take over Tipperary town, lock, stock and barrel, and make it great again. Treachery or what?

Territorialism aside, the annexation would have suited me admirably. I had been assigned to cover the East Limerick area for the Limerick Leader and it was the only town within reach that boasted an Urban District Council with the prospect of endless headlines from publicity seeking town councillors.

But Limerick wasn’t interested in annexation and Tipperary town, immune to outside influences, was blissfully unaware of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when regional grants were being dished out willy-nilly. Lying in the outer periphery of the South-East region, it missed out on Shannon Development largesse by a few miles of road.

I haven’t been back there since the days when I tried to rescue the Maid of Eireann from being dumped in a corner after she was hit by a passing truck. Unfortunately Limerick people couldn’t care less if they never saw her again as they passed through on the road to Waterford and the statue to the Manchester Martyrs which had stood prominently there for nearly a century was unceremoniously displaced.

Things may have changed since then and, for all I know, the admirable John Kiely may well have succeeded where I failed and the Limerickisation of Tipp town may finally be underway, even as I write. But it’s too late. Shannon Development is no more.
Every small rural town is now experiencing something of the trauma that has hit Tipperary. Except that Tipperary was different and never lost its soul or its identity to the lure of modernity. It continued to present the quintessential Irish face and character long after other towns had started adorning their streetscapes with multi-national neon signs and generic facades, finished off by the token hanging baskets of hybrid petunias

When the writer, Michael Parsons, paid a visit to the town ten years ago, at the start of the recent recession, he found a unique town, the commercial life of which was “solidly, unapologetically and proudly provincial”.

There were lots of lovely old shop fronts, with glimpses of the Galtee Mountains rearing up dramatically through gaps in the streetscape, and there wasn’t a multinational in sight.

One drapery store on the main street had an array of wellington boots displayed on the pavement outside and another store had a large clock painted on the wall over the door, the hand stuck forever at 3 o’clock, with a sign underneath saying ‘on strike.’ You couldn’t buy that kind of urban charm and sheer unpretentiousness. It’s timeless and it’s ingrained in the soul.
Of course, I’m delighted to see that the ‘March4Tipp’ campaign is gathering momentum, but it needs a logo with universal appeal. Ironically, Tipperary has a ready-made marketing asset in the World War One music hall ditty that made it famous the world over. We’ve had our Wild Atlantic Way and our Ancient East, but when is Failte Eireann going to give us ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’ and a taste of a town of genuine charm with a dash of the incomparable Glen of Aherlow thrown in?
This year, of all years, maybe it’s time to drop whatever narrow reservations we may still harbour about that link with the Great War and remind the rest of the world that we’re real.

I say ‘real’ because several years ago while on a Mediterranean Cruise – a gift from my late brother – we struck up an acquaintance with an American who asked us where we came from and when we said Tipperary, he looked pleasantly surprised.

“Surely you’ve heard of the song?” we asked, a bit miffed.

“Of course I have,” he replied, “but I thought the place was made up.”

Time to get real then, isn’t it?