An Irish Country Childhood. Marie Walsh
her. She had a wealth of stories, songs, verses and riddles; and willing pupils in ourselves.
My eldest brother inherited the farm when he married at the age of twenty-four and Ellen was now quite happy with the young couple to look after her. When she took ill I was staying at the house, helping to look after the new baby who was so welcome in a house that had not witnessed a birth for nearly ninety years. I was now twelve years old and was going to school from here. By now I had the use of a bicycle. I was sleeping in a makeshift bed beside Ellen, and one night she called me to get her a drink. She said she was dying and began to tell me the names of her family long-since dead who had come to meet her. She was talking to them as if they were in the room.
Before I left for school she gave me her blessing and when I got back that evening my dearest great-aunt was dead. She was my greatest teacher and had an important influence on my young life. She taught me a love of my native language and all it stood for, encouraging me to translate it into English and enjoy both.
The first translation I have never forgotten, although I was punished for solving the riddle and finding the hidden message therein. It was suggestive but at the time I did not realize that. The mere fact that I solved the mystery was enough for me: it was the first word in every sentence.
When stormy winds are passed and gone
Shall quiet calm return.
I often saw in ashes dust
Lie hidden coals of fire
With good attention mark your mind
You will a secret question find
Sweet is the secret; mark it well
Heart for heart, so now farewell.
My great-aunt went to the Hedgerow school, as did my maternal grandmother, Biddy, her sister. Hedgerow schools grew up during the period of the Penal Laws (1695–1829) when the native Catholic population was denied education. The teachers taught in the open air – Irish, Latin and English – and were usually paid in corn or turf. The payment at my great-aunt’s school was two sods of turf or a sheaf of oats. The field where it was held is in the next village by the lake, known as Durkin’s Lisseens (fairy fort).
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