An Irish Country Childhood. Marie Walsh
An Irish Country Childhood
we were so young back then and every day was a wonderful new adventure
Marrie Walsh
I dedicate this book to the memory of my late husband, Tom, for his encouragement and support while I was writing it, and also to the late Peter Barrington, my friend and mentor.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
PREFACE
CHAPTER 1 HOME
MAP OF MY VILLAGE
CHAPTER 2 OUR SCHOOL
CHAPTER 3 THE VISIT TO MY GRANDPARENTS
CHAPTER 4 GREAT-AUNT ELLEN
CHAPTER 5 SUNDAYS AND HOLY DAYS
CHAPTER 6 THE MISSION
CHAPTER 7 PAT AND MARY
CHAPTER 8 THE SISTERS
CHAPTER 9 DENNIS AND HIS MOUNTAIN DEW
CHAPTER 10 THE CAPTAIN
CHAPTER 11 THE BOGEY MAN
CHAPTER 12 THE HERMIT
CHAPTER 13 TOM AND SLIPPY
CHAPTER 14 KITTY AND LARRY
CHAPTER 15 THE TOFF
CHAPTER 16 GREAT-UNCLE HAMISH
CHAPTER 17 THE BRIDEOGS
CHAPTER 18 LENT AND ST PATRICK’S DAY
CHAPTER 19 THE NEIGHBOURS
CHAPTER 20 THE THRESHING
CHAPTER 21 TOPSY AND POLLY
CHAPTER 22 TINKERS
CHAPTER 23 THE TRAMP
CHAPTER 24 COUSIN JOHN
CHAPTER 25 AEROPLANE
CHAPTER 26 MARCH-MAKING AND WATTLING
CHAPTER 27 THE WAKE
CHAPTER 28 THE O’FLYNNS
Copyright
I WAS BORN in 1929, so the period I write about in this book is the 1930s and early 1940s. I left Ireland in October 1946. Our village is situated about seven miles from Ballina, a town on the River Moy near Killala Bay, County Mayo. In my youth our village was a thriving community of many families. People relied on each other as money was scarce and everyone had to work hard to survive. The land was poor and little of it was suitable for growing crops, surrounded as we were by bogs, hills and water. Luxury was a full stomach and being clothed. We had no modern conveniences and the ass and cart was the only mode of transport for many of us. Yet people were happy with their lot and a wonderful community spirit prevailed.
When I wrote this narrative in 1988, my village was a ghost village. Only two families still lived there, my own family home was unoccupied and most of the other houses were in ruins. On visits to Ireland for holidays I would revisit the scenes of my childhood. When I walked through the deserted village tears would stream down my face as I bade those kindly neighbours, long-since dead, a fond greeting. In my mind I would restore them to their rightful places and tell them who I was and that I had not forgotten them. Eventually I decided that I could not let the village die and started to write down my memories of childhood and especially of those wonderful people who so enriched my young life.
Now, the village has happily been restored to life again as people from all over Europe vie with each other to purchase those ruins and convert them to their former glory. Children are again using the bog road to schools, and cars and jeeps have replaced the bicycle and the ass and cart. The farm-houses have all the modern conveniences and a personalized German postbox now stands at the end of the boreen.
If the spirits of the long-since dead revisit their old homes, I hope that they will not be envious of the new occupants’ more relaxed lifestyle. In turn, I hope that the newcomers will be worthy trustees of homes and lands that were once wrested from the wilds by people whose harsh rulers forced them to survive in the wilderness. May all live together peacefully in the future and be as content as we were in my childhood.
I N 1868, WHEN my grandfather decided to build his house of local stone and mortar with a roof of thatch, he first of all sent for the parish priest, as was the custom, to bless the site and advise on where the dwelling was to be constructed.
A site had already been chosen by the family on the opposite side of the road, which was then a pathway. The priest forbade my grandfather, Shaun, from building his home on this proposed site, giving no explanation, save to add that on no account was he ever to house either man, beast or fowl beyond the pathway, The priest then pointed out a suitable location and duly blessed the piece of ground and the chosen builders.
Then began the process of digging out the foundations, removing tons of earth and rock as the chosen site happened to be a hillock. However, when the house was finished, the surrounding ground levelled and stone walls built to shore up the loose soil, it fitted snugly into the remainder of the hillock, protected from the inclement weather and the chilling high winds which were prevalent in winter in our part of the country.
This house my mother eventually inherited with a few acres of land, and this was where I was born, the ninth child in a family of fourteen.
The windows were situated at the south side of the house, and looking out of any of them you were at eye level with a field which was called Garrai Ban or White Garden. Lifting the eyes to the distance, you beheld the hills known locally as Cnoc-na-Suile (Hill of the Eyes), as the two bumps gave the impression of two eyes peering down on the village. Standing at the front door and looking right, about half a mile as the crow flies, lay the Trassey Hills, where the gentle breezes flitted along the hillside, caressing the wild grass and heather, throwing up shadows that moved like waves on a seashore, and changing colour as they sailed along before being lost in the distance.
To the back of those hills stretched the majestic range of the Ox Mountains, like a nursemaid protecting her charges. The unusual colour of this quartz formation seemed to be navy blue, but the weather was constantly playing games, mixing the colours according to its mood.
This was the glorious sight I first saw from the safety of my mother’s arms and which is imprinted on my memory. They were our roots, always there, always reliable, almost an extension of the family. As a child, I would sit on the stone wall as if hypnotised, imagining that the world ended where the mountains and the sky met and wishing I could stand at the top and touch the heavens.
In the opposite direction, away in the distance, could be seen Nephin Beog and Nephin Mor (Big and Small), or the Bean and the Babog (Woman and Child) as they were affectionately called. These acted as weather barometers, as the first snows were visible on the Bean days before they fell to the ground. When the clouds covered the top of the peak, then rain could be expected. There were streams and rivers galore for us to play and splash in, with plenty of lakes where otters and water hens abounded.
As