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Fáilte, Welcome

to the website for the Catholic Diocese of Cloyne, Ireland

Bishop William Crean

15 December 2025

Eucharistic Adoration Cloyne Diocese

Day of Prayer led by Fr. John Keane - Diocesan Director of Eucharistic Adoration

Tuesday 30th December from 10:45am - 5pm, in Shalom Retreat Centre, Charleville (former Convent of Mercy)

Testimony of the power of eucharistic adoration - Mary Lehane, Macroom, prayer and praise, holy Mass, guided eucharistic adoration and eucharistic blessing

Booking is essential please email This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. or call 083-4405359

Please bring a packed lunch. Tea and coffe will be provided

Fr. John Keane - Diocesan Director of Eucharistic Adoration

04 October 2025

Bishop William Crean meets Pope Leo on recent pilgrimage to Rome

Watch this short video clip

Bishop Crean meets Pope Leo

Pastoral letter from Bishop William Crean

on pastoral planning for the future

My dear people,

To live is to change, is a pearl of wisdom from St. John Henry Newman, a convert to the Catholic faith in the 19th Century. To live in the 21st Century is an experience of constant change, social, cultural and technological. Viewing “Reeling in the Years,” the television series depicting life in former times is a dramatic reminder of the extent of the change we have experienced.

The Church whose life and presence within our communities and parish has had to adjust to and
manage the change taking place in society. One particular pattern has been evident for some years
now is the decline both in profession of Christian faith and its practice through the attendance at Holy Mass,
which, for the believer, is an obligation in faith. The consequence of this generational shift from family and
parish community attendance has seen a similar decline in responding to the call to Priesthood and Religious life. Despite this pattern in the Diocese of Cloyne, in all the parishes there are faithful practicing prayer congregations who witness to and support one another in faith.

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5 Dec 2025 - "Do as he tells you"

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December 2025
- Eucharistic Adoration - Fr. John Keane 30th December 2025
October 2025
- Bishop Crean meets Pope Leo
September 2025
- "Behold I'm doing a new thing" says the Lord (Isaiah 43)
February 2025
- Recent picture of St. Colman's Cathedral, Cobh. Co. Cork
October 2024
- Light a Candle at St. Colman's Cathedral

Coram Fratribus

Brother Lawrence

In a recent interview, Pope Leo spoke of the importance in his life of Brother Lawrence’s writings on the practice of the presence of God. Brother Lawrence, born as Nicolas Herman in Hériménil in Lorraine in 1614, is known as Read More

Coram Fratribus

3 Sunday of Advent A

Isaiah 35:1-6a, 10: Those the Lord has ransomed shall return.
James 5:7-10: Think of a farmer!
Matthew 11:2-11: Are you the one who is to come?
The man whom we in the Western, Latin Christian tradition call John the Baptist is normally invoked Read More

Coram Fratribus

Conversation with Ana Zarzalejos Vicens

Below is an English version of a conversation you can read in Spanish here.
Are we living, right now, in a post-secular era?
I think so. I’ve said this in a couple of interviews over the last year. I think we see Read More

Coram Fratribus

Brother Lawrence In a recent interview, Pope Leo spoke of the importance in his life of Brother Lawrence’s writings on the practice of the presence of God. Brother Lawrence, born as Nicolas Herman in Hériménil in Lorraine in 1614, is known as the devout Carmelite lay-brother who sought and found God through manual labour. He was a soldier in early life and knew the horrors of the Thirty Years War. He was held captive by German forces, who thought him a spy; later he was wounded by Swedish soldiers. Brother Lawrence, then, was a man who knew a thing or two about life. Below is a conversation conducted with Edgar Beltrán of The Pillar about his work. You can find the interview online here.
What is meant by the phrase “the presence of God”?
The quintessential epiphany of God to Moses at the burning bush revealed a name which signifies “I Am Present.” The ineffable Divine Name is more than a metaphysical statement; it assures Israel in exile that the Lord is with them. In Isaiah, which provides many of our Advent texts and refrains, the fulfilment of God’s redemptive promise is indicated in the image of Emmanuel, which means “God-with-us.”
After his holy resurrection, Jesus who, during his public ministry had taught his disciples to abide with him, in him, assured them: “Behold I am with you always.” The presence of God, then, is a motif that runs through Scripture. It makes sense. If God is truly the Origin of all there is and Master of the universe, he will be omnipresent to it, the founding Reality in which “we live and move and have our being.”
God’s presence is something we can take for granted. We are the absent ones! Brother Lawrence teaches us to return from our own estrangement, to seek communion with God, to learn to be reverently alert to him who is in us and about us.
What concrete advice does Brother Lawrence offer to “practice” the presence of God? What advice would you give?
We do well to practice attentiveness; to nurture silence when we can; to avoid getting stuck in self-centered mental patterns, constantly rehearsing our plans, wounds, and cravings, projecting our lives into some hypothetical, virtual future instead of living in the present.
To learn to pray is to learn to opt for what is real. At the human, natural level I think it’s good advice to spend some time each day doing nothing, simply being still and alert: this is more difficult than it sounds, given the distractions that surround us on all sides, claiming us. Wouldn’t it be good to affirm our personal freedom in their regard?
At the spiritual level I’d advise reading Scripture daily. Not too much — if we make too ambitious plans the chances are we shall not realize them; but a chunk substantial enough to nurture us and to assist an encounter with God who is present, not least, in his Word. Of course it is important to frequent the sacraments, Confession and the Eucharist above all; and to pray before the Blessed Sacrament, a Sacrament of Presence.
What do you think this book says about Pope Leo’s own way of leading the Church?
It is heartening to have a pope who puts the search for God first, and exhorts us to do the same.
How should people approach this book? Is it better to read it in one sitting or use it as a book to inspire us in prayer?
Given its variegated origin, proposing a reflection matured over a lifetime, it makes sense to give it time. Brother Lawrence writes simply and briefly, but let’s beware of mistaking his texts for casual blog posts to be raced through.
In a way, Brother Lawrence seems to be a precursor of an increasingly common idea in contemporary Catholic spirituality, which is that of ordinary holiness, namely, that we can sanctify every circumstance in life. What does Brother Lawrence say about this?
It is really an ancient idea, and a true one. Brother Lawrence is a credible mouthpiece. Much is often made about the fact that he worked in the kitchen, and made of it a place of prayer. This is admirable, but not new. The great Saint Teresa, a Doctor of the Church, told her sisters in her “Book of the Foundations”: “God walks among pots and pans.”
The book mentions many times the fact that we can do “little things for the love of God.” Is Brother Lawrence a precursor to St. Thérèse’s “little way”?
Again, I’d say that both are part of a continuous tradition they were graced to express in characteristic ways. Most of our lives are made up of “little things.” The challenge is to make them great by infusing them with love, even making them into acts of worship.
A Romanian Orthodox monk of the last century, cited in Nicholas Stebbing’s precious book “Bearers of The Spirit,” said something I think of often. The remark occurs in a reflection on obedience. In a monastic setting, “obedience” refers to things decreed by the rule or my superiors, but it basically means stuff I have to do, which I haven’t spontaneously chosen, so can equally well refer to making the kids’ breakfast or turning up to work on time.
Now, on this subject the monk said: “Obedience without prayer is servitude; obedience with prayer becomes liturgy.” That’s what it is all about. It is what both Brother Lawrence and Saint Thérèse teach: the art of making every aspect of existence an act of worship by consciously, trustfully living it before the face of God, in his presence, for love of him.
Back in the day, the book was accused of encouraging Quietism, seeking to achieve sanctity through an inactive mind and will. Do you think this is a fair assessment?
No. A key aspect of Brother Lawrence’s teaching is his emphasis on praxis, on translating ideals into concrete living. In general, Quietism (rather like Jansenism) is a term bandied about too easily. It refers to a subtly disordered trend in theology. To understand it, we must have clear notions and a deep knowledge of an intellectual context marked by rhetoric and — it has to be said — rather acrimonious Church politics.
The key to understanding Brother Lawrence is given in something he declared at the end of his life, when subject to great pain: “Come what may, I will, for the entire rest of my life, do everything for love of God.”
How can Brother Lawrence’s writings advise those with wandering minds during prayer?
If our mind wanders in prayer, the first thing to do is to ask: what paths have I opened? It is an illusion to think I can spend 95% of my waking hours in a state of frenzy — running after people, doing chores, scrolling on the phone — then dive into contemplative ecstasy the moment I set aside seven minutes to pray. We prepare our time of prayer by the way we live the rest of the time. That’s where to start the inner work of sorting, tidying, stilling.
The book consistently calls readers to place themselves in the hands of God, but it is not always clear how to achieve this. How specifically would you advise readers of the book to practice abandonment in God as suggested by Br. Lawrence?
By determinedly trusting in God’s providence; by doing what we have to do peacefully; by not allowing into our hearts thoughts of murmuring and anger; by being conscious that we are called to bring Christ into the world by credible testimony. That testimony needs to find expression in what we happen to be doing right now.

Coram Fratribus

3 Sunday of Advent A Isaiah 35:1-6a, 10: Those the Lord has ransomed shall return.
James 5:7-10: Think of a farmer!
Matthew 11:2-11: Are you the one who is to come?
The man whom we in the Western, Latin Christian tradition call John the Baptist is normally invoked in the East as προδρόμος, the ‘Forerunner’. And that, after all, is exactly what he did: he ran, ran on ahead to make paths, hearts, and minds ready for the appearance of the Lord. While the Word who became flesh was still hidden, an anonymous presence in a crowd, John saw clearly who he was: ‘See, the Lamb of God, who bears the sin of the world’ — for it is by bearing it that Jesus takes it away.
John seems to have grasped all this from the beginning. Among the Christmas card we exchange these days, we may find a painting by Murillo, the Spanish Baroque master, that represents John as an amiable, slightly chubby lad radiant with joy as he stands hugging a snow-white, gentle lamb as if it were a playmate. ‘Behold the Lamb of God!’ Perhaps we’d wish for a similarly peaceful outlook on the mystery of salvation.
Let us not be taken in, though, by facile tricks trying to make the Biblical drama into a fairytale. The real story of salvation is dense, complex, often dark, the way our lives are; that is why the Bible speaks with authority, about real, lived-through things. Today’s Gospel is a good example. It is tragic, full of pathos.
The Forerunner runs no more. He is languishing in captivity after a shoddy arrest prompted by a weak man and an angry women. Soon he will be cruelly executed on a whim of an irresponsible child. The voice that resounded in waste places, awakening people’s half-dead consciences, has long been quiet. A few disciples remain attached to John. But he is now largely forgotten, the way prophets are. And life goes on.
John the Baptist’s voice was not an accidental part of him, an expression he was free to engage in or not. The voice was who he was, his essential identity. When some Levites asked, ‘Who are you?’, John answered: ‘I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness’ (Jn 1.23). We only need to think of some things Jesus says about himself, ‘I am the life, the resurrection, the vine’, to sense the strength of the words, ‘I am the voice.’
So what does an embodied voice, made to proclaim, do when forced to silence? It examines itself with furious intensity. John’s whole existence from when he lay in his mother’s womb had been focused on Jesus. For Jesus’s sake he had left everything. In order for Jesus to increase, he had been pleased to decrease, to become, quite simple, voice (cf. 3.30). Held by Herod’s chains he asks himself: ‘Have I then been wrong? Have I wasted my life for nothing? Was the choice that has directed my existence an illusion?’
Dear brothers and sisters, who among us has not at times asked themselves these sorts of questions when life is against us, especially at night, perhaps, when we toss and turn unable to sleep, at about 3 or 4 a.m., that hour which Ingmar Bergman called ‘the hour of the wolf’, when a Lamb seems a poor, even a ridiculous ally.
The questions John asks do not, though, go unanswered. And what he gets to hear is more than bleating. It is the Lion of the Tribe of Judah who declares his purpose to him, assuring him of victory. Notice how Jesus comforts John. Not with tender tappings on the shoulder and sentimental talk of ‘It’ll be alright’. Jesus’s answer can seem brusque, as if he said: ‘But open yours eyes, man, and look around! Step out of your inner prison, to which you alone have keys, and face reality: the blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the dead are raised. What then do you think all this really means?’
The Gospel does not take us back to John’s dungeon to tell us how he received and experienced the answers he got. But we know him well enough to risk a responsible conjecture. The Forerunner had, after all, foreseen all this somehow. At Aenon by Salim, where there was much water, John had exclaimed to the crowd (Jn 3.29):
He who has the bride is the bridegroom; the friend of the bridegroom, who stands and hears him, rejoices greatly at the bridegroom’s voice; therefore this joy of mine is now full.
John did understand at the end that, no, he had not been wrong. He had done what he had to do. He was no mere reed shaken by the wind; he was the Bridegroom’s friend, dressed for the wedding feast, possessed of an inner freedom no idiotic ruler could compromise.
This third Sunday of Advent bids us rejoice. It is good to have John as our example, to see him ahead of us showing how joy can be kept and made to grow even in darkness, how it can bear fruit. We must step out of our myopia, see beyond our wounds and scars, not surrender to sadness. Let us train our ears to hear the Lord’s voice, not always loud; our ears to discern the signs of his nearness. For the kingdom of God is secretly growing in our midst. Joy is within reach. Dawn is calling out to us, if only we would turn our back on the night’s darkness. The pilgrims Isaiah saw return to Zion with shouts of joy were the same people who had suffered in servitude and exile. They were glad because the Lord had set them free. And this reminds us: any experience of unfreedom or confinement is potentially the first act in a joyful work of salvation, if only we let the Lord act freely. Let’s do that, then, and practise our songs of joy. Amen.

Coram Fratribus

Seeing Reading Czesław Miłosz’s Nobel Prize Lecture from 1980, I am struck by this paragraph: ‘One of the Nobel laureates whom I read in childhood influenced to a large extent, I believe, my notions of poetry. That was Selma Lagerlöf. Her Wonderful Adventures of Nils, a book I loved, places the hero in a double role. He is the one who flies above the Earth and looks at it from above but at the same time sees it in every detail. This double vision may be a metaphor of the poet’s vocation. I found a similar metaphor in a Latin ode of a Seventeenth-Century poet, Maciej Sarbiewski, who was once known all over Europe under the pen-name of Casimire. He taught poetics at my university. In that ode he describes his voyage – on the back of Pegasus – from Vilno to Antwerp, where he is going to visit his poet-friends. Like Nils Holgersson he beholds under him rivers, lakes, forests, that is, a map, both distant and yet concrete. Hence, two attributes of the poet: avidity of the eye and the desire to describe that which he sees.’ Our time needs such panoramic seers and careful describers.

Coram Fratribus

Coppélia Coppélia, first performed in 1870, the year of the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War, tends to be advertised as a ‘comic ballet’ set to music by Delibes, of flower-duo fame. Coppélia is on the face of it absurd. A young man called Franz has the world’s loveliest fiancée, Swanilda. Everything is set for the wedding. But then Franz is intoxicated by a strange creature he sees in the village square, a life-like doll made by the local inventor-cum-magician Coppélius, who is untouched by human affections, living only for his designs. The drama of the ballet unfolds as Swanilda tries to win Franz back; yet such is Coppélia’s gracefulness that we are almost tempted to hope that Swanilda will fail and that love might somehow make the virtual real. This might all have seemed outlandish fantasy 150 years ago. Now the sight of a man made to choose between a virtual and an embodied-ensouled love is terribly real. I was struck by the power of this story when I saw it performed by students of the Roman Opera Ballet last week. Those youths showed us that the drama of Coppélia isn’t just some laughable drivel; it is the stuff of contemporary tragedy.

Coram Fratribus

Conversation with Ana Zarzalejos Vicens Below is an English version of a conversation you can read in Spanish here.
Are we living, right now, in a post-secular era?
I think so. I’ve said this in a couple of interviews over the last year. I think we see it quite clearly in Northern Europe.
Obviously, we live in a time where cultural trends shift extremely quickly. And Catholics do like to be reassured. So we’re all very keen to say, ‘Oh, it was just a blip, this thing that happened when everyone seemed to be turning their back.’ Well, we might hope it is. But I think everything depends on how we greet the present providential moment, what sort of testimony we give, what sort of teaching we proclaim.
To what do you attribute a growing interest in Catholicism?
I think people feel attracted to it because it’s true. That’s the fundamental reason. And I think they increasingly feel let down by many other options. And, you know, with so much collapsing, in terms of old certainties and old institutions, with the great fragility of our political life, our cultural life, our ecological life, our financial lives, people are looking for parameters that stand some promise of resisting the flood.
Could one then argue that, well, this new curiosity regarding religion or the Catholic Church is like a life-raft for people who fear drowning, without occasioning real conversions?
No, no. I encounter such conversions almost on a daily basis. So I must simply say that such a claim would not correspond to empirical evidence.
In the Catholic Church we also see a search for what is often called a traditionalist movement, closely linked to the liturgy and to young people, causing generational tension in the Church. How do you see this?
This phenomenon occurs in some places, not everywhere. I think of Poland. I think of our own country. I wouldn’t say it is causing a lot of friction there. I think it’s connected with a search for parameters, for form, for a certain beauty. And the Church has all this.
As long as we celebrate the mysteries well, as long as we stick to the simple principle that when we celebrate the liturgy, we ‘do the red and say the black’, observing the rubrics and letting the Church’s words resound, not just our own little words — as long as we stick to this, it is compelling.
At times this is viewed as a retrograde phenomenon, opposed to the Second Vatican Council…
I think it’s time to be a little more relaxed with regard to these parameters, which more often than not don’t correspond to facts.
For instance, a lot was written about this year’s Chartres pilgrimage, a big walking pilgrimage from Paris to Chartres that takes place each Pentecost. It has a traditional, even traditionalist aspect. There were more people participating this year than ever before. Some who were there have remarked that the young taking part were impossible to categorise. They weren’t all rabid, type-cast traditionalists with ties and long skirts. Some of them might go to a charismatic service on a Saturday, then to a Latin Mass on Sunday, then go to feed the poor with Caritas on Monday. As long as we keep insisting on shoving people into narrow boxed categories, we’re just not going to understand what’s going on.
Do you think the narrative of progressive versus conservative is infiltrating the church?
I think it’s infiltrated it for a long time. And I think we must gently, kindly, perhaps even humorously subvert it.
I think of a German Benedictine scholar, a monk of Gerleve called Elmar Salmann. He taught at Sant’Anselmo for many years. I was present at his leave-taking lecture in Rome. He said, with characteristic lucidity: People have been trying for decades to classify me as either conservative or liberal. Then he said, in Italian, ‘I prefer to consider myself classico e liberante’. That’s a great example of how we can take this conversation to a deeper, more fruitful level.
Do you think we see an emergence of Christianity as a political identity?
There are certainly those who want to claim it as such. We need to take great, great care here, when it comes to the instrumentalisation of Christian symbols and of Christian vocabulary, and this whole rhetoric of a civilisational struggle.
The point we have to just keep hammering home is this: it is illicit to instrumentalise faith for any secular purpose. Faith is supposed to illumine and enrich and deepen the secular arena, but it can’t be held hostage to it.
So what would would you say is the responsibility of a Christian today?
I’m inclined to cite the counsel of Saint Antony: ‘Let Christ be the air you breathe!’ Try and live coherent, credible Christian lives; give an account of the hope that is in you; practise hospitality; bear witness to what it is to be a human being, alert both to the painfulness and the glory of the human condition; cultivate humble fascination for the mystery of God.
In a recent lecture you spoke about the linguistic discovery human beings can make when they realise ‘there is more to be said and other ways of saying it’. How can the Catholic Church, after letting many people down on account of abuse scandals, convince them that it is the custodian of eternal truths?
First of all by being truthful, by pursuing the work of reparation in justice and with tears. Perhaps that experience can teach us to be humbler, and thereby more hospitable.
Another great and joyful challenge for the Church now is to, to remain within the linguistic metaphor, to reacquire and be re-enthused by its own specific language
In the last 20 or 30 years, we in the Catholic Church have had the sense that the world has been running away from us. We’ve been trying to catch up with it and to learn to speak the way it speaks, to use the signs the world uses, to get ourselves onto TikTok and Instagram.
As long as we carry on like that, we risk condemning ourselves to irrelevance, because we’re always going to be at least 10 steps behind everyone else. The Church, a big body, moves slowly. By the time we catch up, the world has moved on.
But if we speak our own language, if we speak the language of Scripture, the language of the liturgy, the language of our ritual, the language of the sacraments, we can say astonishingly fresh, original, and beautiful things. People do listen to them.
You have written, among many things, about chastity and redemptive suffering. These aren’t exactly things that first come to mind when one thinks about what people today want to hear. So, do they listen?
I’ve been astounded by the reception of the chastity book, for instance. It’s three years now since it was published. For a long time not a day passed without letters and emails arriving, or even people coming to see me.
It has been moving to find myself standing before audiences of primarily young people in Oslo, in the United States, in Portugal, in Spain. I’ve found such openness and a real desire to engage with these questions.
What do you think that says about the search for the meaning of the body today?
I think it has a lot to do with it. In Portugal The Shattering of Loneliness and Chastity have been published as companion volumes. That makes sense, because the two books are really about the same thing, that is, about what it is to be a human being. The first one is about dealing with remembrance and about spiritual aspirations; the second one is about dealing with the hunger and the desires and the hopes of the body.
In your last book you speak of the Epic of Gilgamesh. You say that the protagonist could be our contemporary. You say he is ‘a megalomaniac, in love with his proficiency but unsure of his purpose, haunted by death, perplexed by his heart’s craving, courageous in the face of the absurd, yet weighed down by sadness’. Are these afflictions of the present moment, you think? Are contemporary men and women like that?
I think so. And I purposely use the Epic of Gilgamesh because it’s one of the earliest manifestations of literature available to us.
There is a little note of irony as well in my choice. Another theme of mine that I try to voice now and again is this: I’m just not convinced by our underlying doctrine of cultural exceptionalism, which seems to presuppose that we are just so different now; that no one can understand us; that we function on totally different terms and have nothing to learn from what anyone has said or experienced before us.
It’s just wonderful, then, to be able to point to this text, almost 3 ,000 years old, and say, well, ‘Look at that fellow. He’s just like you!’
Is that what you mean when you say that literature can save lives?
Partly. But my claim is mainly to do with simply the fact that literature, when it’s worthy of the name literature (because not every book is literature), is an attempt to articulate what life is really like.
I think it can save lives in the sense that it can help me to understand that I’m not alone, that someone’s been here before, that even if in my immediate circle of acquaintances no one may understand, or I may think that no one understands what is going on inside me, I may come upon a contemporary novel, or an eighteenth-century poem, or a page of the Metamorphoses of Ovid, and think, ‘Ah! But that’s me.’
And what about music?
Music takes us as close to eternity as we can come in this life. Music has this marvellous potential to express the ineffable. That which is beyond the reach of words can somehow be conveyed by music.
Still on the subject of culture, you have chosen to do a series on the wisdom of the Desert Fathers. Again I would say: this isn’t the first thing that comes to mind when you think of engaging with contemporary culture. What can they offer us today?
Oh, lots. Realism, wisdom, a firm spirit of faith, quite often a delicious self-irony, and a sense of the proportions of things.
What’s the biggest challenge prevents contemporary man from having an encounter with God.
I think the biggest challenge is that of believing we are loved.
What do you wish man, homo sapiens, would understood better about himself right now?
His potential for eternal life.

A guide to Christmas Mass arrangements in the Diocese of Cloyne - Parishes for Christmas 2025 4 Comments

Cloyne Diocese

Parish of Doneraile Parish of Doneraile

Charleville Parish

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Posted: 11 hours ago

Prepare your hearts for Christmas by praying a novena beginning tomorrow until Christmas Eve. Every morning at 10:50am on Radio Maria Ireland.
Pray along at this link https://www.praymorenovenas.com/christmas-novena 1 Likes

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Posted: 2 days ago

Photos from Cloyne Diocese's post TODAY IS THE THIRD SUNDAY OF ADVENT
14th December 2025
(Gaudete Sunday also Bambellini Sunday)
The Third Advent Candle which is lit today is Rose coloured and symbolises Joy . It is called the "Shepherds Candle".
Bambellini means ‘BabyJesus' so on Read More 14 Likes

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Tomorrow night for the Leamlara Choir Carolsby candlelight .
All donations go to Leamlara and Ballincurrig schools
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Eucharistic Adoration - Fr. John Keane 30th December 2025

Eucharistic Adoration Cloyne Diocese

Day of Prayer led by Fr. John Keane - Diocesan Director of Eucharistic Adoration

Tuesday 30th December from 10:45am - 5pm, in Shalom Retreat Centre, Charleville (former Convent of Mercy)

Bishop Crean meets Pope Leo

Bishop William Crean meets Pope Leo on recent pilgrimage to Rome

"Behold I'm doing a new thing" says the Lord (Isaiah 43)

Pastoral letter from Bishop William Crean

Recent picture of St. Colman's Cathedral, Cobh. Co. Cork

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