The Marshall Review

A press release landed in my inbox this week about the Marine Institute's research vessel Tom Crean. It was full of the expected details. Days at sea. Scientific surveys. Fisheries research. Seabed mapping. Climate studies. The vessel travelled more than 31,000 nautical miles last year and is now one of Ireland's most important scientific assets.

But it was not the statistics that caught my attention. It was the name.

Years ago, when I wrote about Tom Crean, there was often a need to explain who he was. He was known in parts of Kerry and among Antarctic enthusiasts, but he had not yet become a household figure. Mention his name and many people would look puzzled. Back then, from time to time I would stop by Tom Crean's pub in Annascaul. Visitors liked to joke that they had made it to the South Pole, albeit by a somewhat easier route than Crean himself. Today the pub is a destination on the tourist map. Then, it felt more like a quiet local reminder of a largely forgotten man.

Now, things are different. A state-of-the-art research ship carries his name. Schoolchildren learn about him. His story has entered the fabric of Irish public life. The remarkable thing is not that Tom Crean has changed. The remarkable thing is that we have.

Names are curious things. We tend not to notice them until we stop and ask why they are there. Every nation reveals something about itself through the names it gives to ships, bridges, buildings and institutions.

The choice of Tom Crean is an interesting one. He was not a politician. He was not a military leader. He left no manifesto behind him and founded no movement. By most conventional measures, he was an unlikely candidate for national recognition.

What he possessed was something quieter. Endurance. Reliability. Courage. A willingness to keep going when circumstances became difficult. In the great Antarctic expeditions of the early twentieth century, he was rarely the man making the speeches or standing in the spotlight. More often he was the man pulling the sledge.

Perhaps that is precisely why he speaks to modern Ireland. There was a time when Irish history concentrated heavily on conflict and politics. Increasingly, however, we seem drawn to different kinds of figures. People who built things. People who explored. People who persisted. People whose achievements emerged not from ideology but from character.

The research vessel Tom Crean seems an almost perfect symbol of that shift. The original Tom Crean ventured towards the unknown edges of the map. The modern Tom Crean explores a different frontier. It studies the oceans around us, gathers evidence, maps the seabed and helps us understand our place in a changing world. Both are engaged in exploration. One travelled into physical darkness. The other seeks to illuminate what lies beneath familiar waters.

I found myself smiling at the thought. Somewhere between the quiet pub in Annascaul and the research vessel sailing out of Galway Harbour lies a story about Ireland itself. Not about how Tom Crean became famous. About how we finally learned to recognise him.

David Marshall Costa Coffee Omni Park Shopping Centre Swords, Co. Dublin

Ireland’s public policy challenges are becoming more complex. They cross domains. Housing affects transport. Transport affects energy. Energy affects climate and the cost of living. These systems cannot be understood in isolation. They need clarity. They need structure. They need explanation.

Marshall on Policy has always tried to make public policy understandable. But essays alone cannot carry the weight of a changing system. Essays explore ideas. They test arguments. They follow a line of thought. They are valuable, but they are not enough. A more structured form is needed. Something that explains how a system works and why it matters. Something that shows the choices ahead without turning into advocacy. Something that is calm, clear, and constructive.This is where policy briefings come in.

A policy briefing is not an opinion piece. It is not a reaction to the news cycle. It is not a polemic. It is a way to explain a public policy system in a structured way. It sets out the landscape. It defines the forces at play. It outlines the choices. It shows the consequences of those choices. It gives readers a clear picture of how a system works and where it is going.

Ireland needs this. The public conversation often jumps from headline to headline without explaining the system underneath. We talk about housing without talking about land. We talk about transport without talking about demand. We talk about energy without talking about storage, tariffs, or spilled electricity. The result is confusion.

People know the symptoms but not the structure. They know the problems but not the system that produces them.Policy briefings are a way to fix this.They are slow. They are deliberate. They are structured. They build understanding over time. They give readers a clear foundation so that later debates make sense. They are not about winning arguments. They are about explaining the system so that arguments can be made on solid ground.

This is a new direction for Marshall on Policy. It is a shift from essays to architecture. The briefings will sit alongside the essays, but they will do a different job. They will build a coherent picture of Ireland’s public policy systems. They will unfold slowly. They will be supported by technical notes at insights.marshall.ie. They will form the backbone of a larger project to explain Ireland’s energy system clearly and constructively.

The first briefing looks at Ireland’s spilled energy problem. Later briefings will explore flexible demand, storage, tariffs, infrastructure, and the longer‑term question of export potential. Each briefing will be supported by detailed notes. Over time these notes will grow into a full index of insights. This will become a reference layer for the entire project.

This is the beginning of a new phase for Marshall on Policy. A shift toward clarity. A shift toward structure. A shift toward explaining the systems that shape Ireland’s future. David Marshall Dublin

Marshall on Policy https://policy.marshall.ie

The Marshall Review can now be found directly at https://rvw.ie.

The new address is shorter, easier to type and easier to share, but nothing else has changed. The journal's essays, reviews and ongoing series will continue to appear as before.

Existing links to review.marshall.ie will continue to work and will redirect automatically to the current site.

I write for readers. Whether you arrive regularly or happen upon an article by chance, your visit is appreciated. I hope you'll find a reason to return to rvw.ie from time to time. You're always welcome here.

David Marshall Dublin

From a village bypass to a €900 million energy bill, the pattern is the same: commitments made first, questions asked later. Ireland has lived through this logic before.

Not far from my home in north county Dublin is a road. It began life as an arterial road, purpose‑built to carry considerable commuter traffic in and out of Dublin, with increased safety.

But built as a bypass around a small village, it facilitated new homes, new shops, new schools on both sides of the road; the inevitable (or is it?) ribbon development. So now we have school students, mums with pushchairs, people out walking dogs, joggers, and village cyclists using and crossing the road daily. That’s a dangerous mix of village life and commuter traffic. I’m not pointing the finger here, but a little planning would have avoided this disturbing combination.

I’m simply saying sequencing is substance. The development that has unfolded in that area over the last decade needed a little more forethought, a little more analysis in context. Yes, we want the homes, the shops, the schools and the like. But we want them assembled into new communities, safely.

When the order of decisions is not thought through, outcomes drift. And the same pattern is visible far beyond local roads. The Strategic Emergency Reserve Bill is simply the latest example. The State is advancing a €900 million infrastructure commitment before the cost analysis, the alternatives assessment, the emissions modelling, the operating rules, or the governance framework have been published. Let’s cut through the fog and the rhetoric and look at what is actually being said: “Let’s spend €900 million and see what happens — the Minister can field the problems.”

Let’s not mince words. This is the worst kind of government. And the Irish people deserve better. This is not about political stance or political preference or one party being superior to another. It’s about the basic skill set required to govern: understand the problem, consult those affected, evaluate the options, then act. The Strategic Emergency Reserve Bill reverses that order. And with no expressed justification or legitimacy for the order of decisions, the State has weakened its own case before it has even made it.

Across the NGO sector, the expressed concerns are consistent. Planning law has been set aside. Environmental safeguards have been narrowed. Judicial review has been restricted. Costs remain unclear. And the long‑term system effects have not been assessed. Ireland has lived through this kind of decision‑making before. The government is repeating the mistakes of the 19th‑century British, who panicked into building unnecessary barracks across Ireland. And it is a strange place for an independent State to find itself, after all we’ve come through.

Sequencing is not a procedural detail. It is the substance of good governance. When analysis follows commitment, it becomes justification rather than guidance. When exceptional powers are used without exceptional explanation, scrutiny thins. And when infrastructure is approved before its operating rules exist, the system begins to shape itself around the gap.

Ireland’s energy system is entering a decade of structural change. Decisions made quickly will be lived with slowly. The question is not speed. It is sequence.

Sequencing is substance.

The full LNG analysis can be found here: https://go.marshall.ie/LNG-bill-analysis

I was educated in a school founded eight centuries ago, given its Royal Charter by Elizabeth I, and governed, in spirit. and often in daily practice, by Oxford and Cambridge dons. It was the kind of place where language arrived not as a living medium but as a set of obligations. You did not “learn English”; you inherited it. You spelled organize with a Z because that was the proper, etymological form. You cast your sentences in the passive because it was dignified. And in sixth form classrooms, you spoke a kind of Middle English that had never quite admitted the existence of the twentieth century.

It was a beautiful education in many ways. But it left me with the sense that language was something to be obeyed rather than understood.

I’ve spent years unlearning that stance. Not rejecting it, there is value in precision, in etymology, in the long continuity of English thought. But loosening its grip. A writer cannot live by rules alone. A writer must live by judgement.

This is why my style sheet has begun to change. It is no longer a ledger of prohibitions inherited from Hart, Butcher, the ghost of some medieval grammarian, or the Elizabethan drive for a language fit to govern by. It is becoming a record of decisions: small, careful, reader‑facing choices about how thought should appear on the page.

The shift is simple to describe and difficult to practise. I’ve begun to prefer relation before interruption. If secondary material has a clear logical connection – cause, concession, condition, definition – I try to express it through syntax rather than punctuation. Let the reader feel the continuity of thought. Use parenthesis only when the mind genuinely steps aside.

This tendency has changed how I see the page. A style sheet is no longer a set of instructions; it is a companion in editorial judgement. It asks: what does the reader need at this moment? How do I help them enter, follow, trust, and remain with the essay? And how do I make my thinking visible without making it burdensome?

In a way, the work feels like reclaiming the language I was given; not rejecting its history, but choosing its future. Not Middle English in a sixth form classroom, but a living English shaped by the needs of the reader and the movement of thought.

I’ve written a short note about this evolution on write.as here in my essayist’s notebook: esy.ie https://go.marshall.ie/style-sheet-essay-notes

We tend to treat revision as a mechanical step – a tidy afterthought to the “real” work of writing. But in the digital age, revision has become something else entirely: a way of knowing. When the tools of composition allow infinite re‑expression, the act of rewriting becomes a miniature epistemic cycle. A sentence is no longer a declaration; it is a conjecture. Its next version is a refutation. And the movement between them – the quiet, iterative negotiation – is where understanding actually forms.

Montaigne wrote in a world where revision was costly. Ink dried slowly, parchment resisted correction, and every alteration demanded labour. His thought had to be pre‑considered, almost pre‑lived. Today, the writer’s field kit – keyboard, screen, cursor, delete key – makes revision cheap, abundant, and cognitively central. We discover our arguments not by holding them in the mind but by reshaping them on the page. Knowledge emerges through the drift between versions.

This is a dialectic Popper never anticipated. Not the grand clash of hypotheses, but a micro‑dialectic enacted in every paragraph: thesis, antithesis, synthesis, repeated until the sentence feels true enough to stand. Revision is no longer a repair mechanism. It is a method of inquiry – a way of testing the world by testing one’s own phrasing. In this sense, writing has become a form of epistemology conducted in real time, one keystroke at a time.

Tension:| observer vs doer

Shared characteristic: attention

Explore: the essayist attends to a thing the activist attends to a thing attention precedes both description and action

Ending: perhaps this is where the essayist and activist meet not in advocacy in attention

view

This is where I stand.

This is what I can see from here.

Come and look with me.

There is a question that has followed me through trade union education, universities and politics, though it rarely appears directly in policy documents or party manifestos. – How do people come to believe that their own judgement matters?

Over the years I have watched people discover a confidence they did not know they possessed. Sometimes it happened in a union classroom. Sometimes in a seminar room. Often it began when people recognised that their own experiences were not isolated incidents but part of a wider pattern shared by others.

That confidence was never simply personal. It emerged through recognition, conversation and collective understanding. People who had considered themselves spectators began to see themselves differently. They became participants.

The experience has made me increasingly sceptical of political arguments that focus exclusively on leadership. Leadership matters, of course. But politics is also shaped by assumptions about the public itself. Do we imagine people as capable of acting together, or primarily as recipients of decisions made elsewhere?

Much of our political culture is organised around representation. Others will speak. Others will decide. Others will carry the burden. There is a certain comfort in that arrangement, particularly during periods of uncertainty.

Yet there remains another tradition: one that places participation at the centre of public life and assumes that democracy is strongest when people exercise agency rather than merely delegate it. The tension between these traditions runs through many political institutions, including Labour.

I've explored that argument at greater length in a new essay, looking at confidence, participation and the cultural assumptions that shape political life. Read the full essay here: https://go.marshall.ie/acting-for-acting-with-marshall-review

There are places where life is a sequence of tasks. And then there are places where life is a sequence of encounters.

East of Tardets, the world is made of materials and people who care about them.

Oak planks that draw neighbours into conversation. Limestone tiles that teach you how to listen to a house. Workshops where a plane is offered like a handshake. Espadrille machines humming in the hills. Coffee poured as part of the craft. Cheese from La Madeleine, carried down from slopes that know more seasons than most people do.

It’s all one thing.

A culture that doesn’t announce itself – it reveals itself slowly, through wood grain, stone dust, rope fibres, and the way people greet you when you walk into a room.

Montory, France