An Irish Country Childhood. Marie Walsh
were allowed to walk along the river when it ran shallow and would feast on the wild raspberries that grew on the banks. They would drop into the water and our ducks would devour them with relish.
In scorching hot weather, when the sun deprived the bogs of moisture, the skeletons of the trees of centuries past presented themselves. They stood like sentries with their jagged stumps bleached white and ghostly, as if trying to reveal the glory that was once theirs before they were indiscriminately burned down. Their roots resembled long, bony fingers reaching out to touch and console each other in remembrance of their majestic past. In the moonlight they looked like shrouded spectres rising from the bog, trying to convey their former greatness, when they covered the land and held in their arms the birds of the air and harboured the many wild animals which roamed without hindrance through the Ireland of old. In winter they would again disappear into their watery grave, to be lulled to sleep by the moaning winds that roved through the bogs as if searching for the trees where they once played hide-and-seek.
We were not encouraged to dilly-dally on our way from school as there was always plenty of work awaiting us, but we would prolong the journey until the pangs of hunger overcame us. We did not have the benefit of school dinners in those times: only a few slices of soda bread which never lasted until lunchtime anyway. We would race across the last few fields home and devour everything in sight. We never asked what was on the menu, as hunger is good sauce. We would then change from our school-clothes into our giobals – worn, raggy garments – and would help around the farm. Everyone had their share to do and oftentimes there was no time for homework. That had to wait for next morning, to be hurriedly done sitting on the school steps before the teachers arrived. In winter, before bed, we would be scrubbed clean in a big tub of warm water at the end of the kitchen, but in summer we washed in the river. Bed would be welcome, then all too soon morning would come and we would set off for school once more.
THE EXCITEMENT THAT preceded our visit to my grandparents was enormous. This visit would be the first night of the full moon, and our parents would bring the usual gifts: home-made butter carefully patterned and wrapped in muslin; apple, blackberry or rhubarb tart, currant-bread and any other delicacy we could afford. My father would strap the melodion on his shoulders and we would set out across the fields at dusk, eagerly looking forward to a night of excitement.
The distance was about four miles and we had to pass through several villages, exchanging pleasantries with one and all. We took the old familiar path on these excursions: across the river, jumping from stepping stone to stepping stone with our shoes in our hands and our hearts in our mouths, then down the bog road until we came to the school. We children would then gallop up the hill to where the little church snuggled into the hillside. We would push open the side gate near the great tombstones that marked the resting place of past shepherds of the faithful, who had earned their rest in this peaceful setting. We would hastily pay our respects to the Blessed Sacrament as our parents bowed their heads in fervent prayer. Then we would tip-toe around the church admiring the lovely stained-glass windows portraying all the familiar saints. We would read aloud to each other the names of the donors of these memorials, long since departed from our mortal world. After this little sojourn we would again continue our journey.
At this point we could follow a scenic road by the lake but we preferred the old, well-trodden path used for centuries by the locals. It wound its way along the foot of Cnoc-na-Haltoir (the Hill of the Altar), so named because in penal times (the period from 1695–1829 when the Penal Laws placed many harsh restrictions on the native Catholic population of Ireland) the practice of our religion was forbidden, so priests had to say mass in the open. This was usually in the hills, with the altar hidden from view, but with good vantage points for the sentries who were posted to sound the alarm. The flat stone that formed the altar was still there, a sacred reminder of the troubled past. Our teachers would take us into this hallowed place as part of our local history lesson and we would reverently kiss the ancient monument and pray for the souls of the departed.
My father used to tell us that a tunnel ran underneath the hill near the path where we were walking, and that the entrance was opposite the church, close to the sliding-stone which all the children in the vicinity had used for generations. The smell of the wild flowers that grew in abundance everywhere tickled our nostrils, and the wild ling heather each side of the path scratched our bare legs as we passed in single file through the rugged but beautiful landscape.
We would gather bunches of wild hyacinths to take to our grandparents and would sometimes scare our parents by pretending to be lost as we hid in the long ferns. The birds would flutter and complain about being disturbed from their nightly shelter. Hares would bound across our path and disappear and my mother would say, ‘Did ye see the fairy riding on his back?’ and as we wondered why we never saw the fairy she would say to my father, Jim, ‘Our kids need glasses,’ and the hills would ring with their laughter.
Now we were crossing the mayren, or perimeter fence, and leaving the protection of the hill behind. The open road seemed to stretch for miles into a barren wilderness with no house in sight. It was a rough, stony road and we always walked to the side as rivulets of water flowing down the hills made channels through it. They used to say in that locality that the asses had stone-bruises. Eventually we would come within view of my father’s village and our hearts would be beating like drums as we raced ahead, eager to meet all our relatives. The village of Cullane, where my father was born, was close to the Ox Mountains. It seemed to me when I was young to be a desolate place with stones and rocks everywhere. My grandparents’ house was on the edge of the bog and the family must have been the last people to arrive there in centuries past. My father once told me that in times gone by his ancestors had lost their land. He did not explain how, but many people were dispossessed during penal times. In order to find somewhere to live they had to flee into the hills and mountains, where they cleared the stones and rocks with their bare hands to make fields. To this day the area bears testimony to the perseverance of a sturdy people who survived in the face of adversity.
My grandfather, Tom, was born in Cullane in 1857. Eventually he inherited the little farm and married a local girl, Ann Durkin, who was born in 1868. They had nine children, six boys and three girls, five of the family emigrated to the USA at the beginning of the twentieth century and never returned. My youngest aunt stayed to care for her parents and eventually she and her family inherited the farm.
We would be greeted with ‘Cead mile failtes go lear’ – ‘A hundred thousand welcomes’ in Irish – and be paraded by our proud parents for all to comment on our development. There would be good-natured discussions as to whom we resembled and the usual banter exchanged. Then the night’s enjoyment would begin. My father would play the melodion and we would sing songs passed down from generations past.
We children would dance around the big kitchen with our young cousins, and the children next door would join in the fun. Stories would be told and the grown-ups would gossip. The tea would be made and there would always be a special treat for the visitors. The night would be enjoyed by all, old and young, and all too soon it would be home time. As we took our leave, tears would be shed and promises made for a return visit the next full moon.
After visiting our grandparents, our parents always took the long way home by road. My brothers and I would be exhausted and it would be around midnight and well past bedtime. It was also the hour when all the spooks and spirits who were earthbound returned to do their hauntings. We were weaned on such stories and our childish minds conjured up all sorts of unearthly encounters.
We had to pass the field of the Hanging Tree – a tree that witnessed the death throes of the holy priests hanged for saying mass or of young men whose only sin was to be patriots. The graveyard was further on and we would hasten