An Irish Country Childhood. Marie Walsh
eyes shut tight, gripping our parents’ hands, our rosaries in our pockets; our hearts beating like drums, hoping the dead would let us pass unmolested.
These obstacles safely negotiated, we relaxed a little and told each other of imaginary sightings. Now we were on the stretch of road overlooking the haunted lake. The water lay shimmering in the moonlight in its idyllic setting and seeming to cast a spell on us. Twin emotions of fear and fascination would grip us – it was a kind of ecstasy, enticing us to look into its soul, daring us to unfathom its dreaded secrets. Would we behold the apparition of the spirits of the dead monks once more unbound to row across their beloved lake; to hear the swish of the oars as they skimmed over its surface – the boat caressing the waters as it did long ago?
The story goes that the monks were returning from the opposite shore with the last boatload of stones to finish the church they were building on the peninsula. Their hearts must have been bursting with joy as they rowed across to their little thatched hut on the other side, chanting their psalms. But, alas, fate had ordained otherwise. The boat was overloaded and it sank into its watery grave with all hands lost. How could this enchanting stretch of water be involved in a tragedy that was to haunt people for centuries? It was told that on the anniversary of this tragic occurrence, the lake released from its depths those it had claimed so prematurely long ago. On this night also the woods and fields and stone fences would re-echo the lamentations of a people long departed mourning their beloved monks.
To the mortal who beheld this apparition, especially on its homeward journey, it was a dire warning of some calamity befalling them or their family, or a disaster in the area. To witness the outward journey was a good omen. As we children gazed in awe as this peaceful lough, perhaps setting its stage for the re-enactment of its gruesome play, we were half-longing and yet fearful of it unfolding before us.
The ruins of the uncompleted church could be seen in the distance, gaunt and mocking in the moonlight as if waiting for the ghostly spectres to invade its walls and resume the task left unfinished. This was a building that had been denied its soul; deprived of the voices of the people praying in their flowery language; deprived of the holy mass being offered within its wall. Never again would it resound to the happy voices of the monks as they lovingly worked on their church.
Locals told the story that a church site had been sanctioned near where our present church now stood – it would be in a more central position for most people. But a wealthy landowner wanted the church built near his home so as not to inconvenience his family with a long journey to mass. He promised financial help and free land to the monks and his offer was accepted, with tragic consequence.
We were now in sight of St Joseph’s Church and felt relieved to be back at this sanctuary of the Lord. We blessed ourselves reverently and thanked Him for a safe journey. As we passed on our way towards the river, we crossed a footbridge and climbed the steps leading to the road which was bringing us nearer home.
It was comforting to see the lights of our village in the distance and hear the dogs barking. We would cross the fields home and our dog would come bounding towards us, jumping with delight, welcoming us back. It was lovely to be home.
MY GREAT-AUNT ELLEN lived alone in the village of Carrowkerribla, about three miles from where we lived. She was the spinster aunt of my mother, and an old lady by the time I was born. She was unable to cope with the everyday chores and had to have the company and help of us children most of the time. Those three miles that I, on my own or with a brother or sister, had to walk, were fraught with danger, or so we thought. First we had to get past Ted Lynch’s mule. Then a mile further on there was Connor’s bull, grazing peacefully until he spotted us, when he would half-raise his head, as if deciding if we were worth a scare. He would then charge, frothing from the mouth, his hoofs pounding the earth. We used to imagine that he would scale the fence but his massive bulk prevented his doing so. We would run for cover, thankful that we had escaped.
Then, further along the same road, there was an empty house where the men o’ the road (tramps) took temporary refuge. We would tiptoe past, scared in case they might do us some harm. Now we were leaving the boreen behind and coming on to the main road into another village, with a lake on one side and Dodd’s farm on the other. This farm stocked a bull and a stallion. We could hear the bellowing of the bull before we came in sight of the farm. If those animals happened to be grazing in the fields bordering the road our lives were again threatened. The bull was fettered but he still pawed the ground and made deep rumbling noises, letting us know that he would make short work of us if given the chance.
The stallion would stand and toss his proud head in the air, neighing and showing his teeth. Sometimes we would watch from a distance as his handler exercised him. This was done by giving him enough rope, tied to a bit in his mouth, to gallop around in a circle. Then he would be led into his stable and we would continue on our way.
These obstacles safely negotiated, we still had some unfriendly dogs to contend with, but at last the journey to my great-aunt’s was completed. We would tell her of the difficulties we encountered, but she would laugh and say that the animals sensed our fear and that was why they seemed threatening.
Her house was the last one in the village. On a fair-sized farm with good, arable land, this comfortable house with its thatched roof, lay snuggled among trees. These protected it from the fierce winds that in winter blew across the bogs that stretched as far as the eye could see. The purple heather grew in abundance on every sod-ditch that surrounded the north side of this dwelling, blooming everywhere it could find a foothold. Wild grass and rushes, plus myriads of wild flowers, all found space to flourish here. White cotton tips looked like bits of cotton-wool stuck on reeds, and in between there were little pools of water. This presented a spectacle beautiful to behold and was an ideal habitat for all kinds of wildlife: duck, pheasant, partridge, grouse, hares and rabbits, foxes, badgers and weasels. I used to hide on top of the sod-ditches, concealed by the heather and watch nature at work.
At nesting time, the parent birds would be seen scuttling through the undergrowth so as not to betray their nesting site. I would sneak a look at the various nests with the different-coloured eggs, my hand over my mouth in case the mother bird should catch a whiff of my breath. We were told that if we breathed on the eggs or on the fledglings, the mother would abandon them and that the parent birds would fly over the bogs and moors wailing for their little ones and cursing the humans who had robbed them of their family.
I once found a wild duck’s nest built on one of these sodditches which was several feet high. I informed my great-aunt of this and was scolded for telling lies. A wild duck always builds on the ground she said, so I took her to see this beautifully constructed nest with the down plucked from the breast of the mother bird covering the eggs to keep them warm while she foraged for food.
My great-aunt was amazed. She said she had never seen the like and wondered how the duck would get the little ones to water. But mother duck had craftily built near a pond and eventually there was the family of golden-coloured, fluffy ducklings bobbing on the water with their proud parents.
Another day I was walking past a field of potatoes, daydreaming as usual, when I heard a commotion in and among the stalks, followed by a screech of terror. It was a weasel which had stalked a rabbit and had pounced with deadly precision. Afterwards I found the body of the rabbit. The weasel only drinks the blood. His trade-mark is a clean-cut hole at the base of the neck, much like a bullet hole. Ellen said that the meat is contaminated afterwards and is poisonous to humans. In Ireland, people had a fear of weasels. In olden times it was supposed that witches took this form. This animal was considered spiteful and malignant so people kept their respectful distance.
My aunt told me a story about three men who were once widening a road in the area and had to rebuild the stone fences knocked down whilst doing