The cult of a seventh-century saint aside, it seems that another possible influence on the popularity of the name Kylian in France is the missionary effects of beer.
I’m indebted for this theory to reader Raymond Keaveney, who although raised near Mullagh, Co Cavan, had been unaware until Tuesday’s column of the original St Kilian’s origins in that area.
What he was aware of, thanks to time spent working in France in the 1970s, was an Irish-inspired beer launched on the French market in that decade under the name “George Killian”.
Its identity had been borrowed from a 19th century brewer in Enniscorthy, George Killian Lett, whose family continued the tradition long afterwards and were especially noted for a product called George Killian’s red ale.
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When they stopped producing this eventually, the French brewing firm Pelforth bought the name and recipe and introduced it in France as “une glorieuse bieré rousse”.
For added authenticity, they acquired the services of one Bill Lett, surviving descendant of the original brewer, who became the drink’s cloth-cap-wearing public image and, in the process, a celebrity in France (and in the US, where George Killian’s Red Ale was also marketed).
Fifty years ago this month, I see from our archives, the beer came to the attention of the Irishman’s Diarist, Quidnunc. Someone had posted him the latest issue of Paris Match, which included a double-page advertorial extolling not just the drink but the Ireland from which it sprang.
As translated by the diarist, the text implied that French drinkers of George Killian’s beer would be consuming part of a country “sometimes smiling and sometimes savage, always proud, unconquered, eternally romantic like its people, with its great lakes and moorlands, where live their beloved fairies. With its mysteries, its legends, and its gods and the smell of the turf fires in the thatched cottages where bread is slowly baked and where hospitality is considered the first of all the virtues”.
Phew. There was eating and drinking in that beer, clearly. Small wonder if some of its French customers named their children after it.
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I’ve noticed in passing recently that the main entrance of Dublin Castle (pictured), now in lockdown for the Irish EU presidency, has acquired signs proclaiming it the “Corke Hill Gate”, or in Irish “Geata Chnoc Corke”.
And the question arises: where did that “e” in “Corke” come from? For, as revealed by existing street signs, the short, dog-legged thoroughfare that leads up past City Hall and then turns into the castle is “Cork Hill” or “Cnoc Chorcaí”.
The name derives from Richard Boyle (1566-1643), 1st Earl of Cork, who built a big house there, long since gone to make way for the widening of Parliament Street.
But even on John Roque’s 1756 map of Dublin, produced in an era when spellings were more variable than today, the “Cork” in Cork Hill does not have an “e”.
So where did the Office of Public Works get the extra vowel? Is it a subliminal “e” for Europe, drawing the attention of VIP visitors to Ireland’s enduring enthusiasm for the EU project? Was it added by an AI programme, helpfully hinting at the Irish pronunciation of “Chorcaí” (in which case, a hyphenated “Cork-e” might have been better)?
Or did somebody just think it looked more upmarket? It’s widely suspected, for example, that in the past certain surnames (Browne/Clarke/Smythe, etc) acquired a silent “e” at the end to hint at higher social status. A more commercial example is the “e” in Irish whiskey, once a mere spelling variant, later formalised to distinguish the then global market leader from supposed inferiors including Scotch.
But as for “Corke”, I’ve never known of even the most egregious social climbers from the southern capital claiming their city to be so spelt. Readers’ guesses as to where the “e” came from may be at least as good as mine.
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I was sorry to see Canada exit the World Cup at the weekend, not least because I watched their game against Morocco at an impromptu garden party hosted by their Irish ambassador, Dennis King.
But at least they went out with good grace, unlike certain other North American countries we could mention. Their typical modesty was reflected even on the drinks menu. Hence a special brew concocted for the occasion billed as the “We’re Just Glad to have Made it this Far Cocktail”.
According to the recipe, also included, this comprised “2 parts Canadian whiskey, 1 part lemon juice, and ¾ part maple syrup”. Suffice to say that, if the Canadian strikers had had as much of a kick as it did, they’d still be in the tournament.
On a side note, while we’re at it, the “whiskey” in the recipe was spelt with an ‘e’. This is not the norm in Scotland, Canada, Australia or Japan: all usually members of the “whisky” camp.
But after only a year in Dublin, clearly, Ambassador King is already on top of all the diplomatic niceties.
