The Unforgettable Fire

 The Unforgettable Fire

 

A weird type of comparison exists between Parícutin, the volcano that began life outside a small Mexican village in 1943, and the story of our local St. Joseph’s Church going up in flames one April afternoon in 1977.  Each of them started as a harmless-looking curl of smoke rising almost from nowhere into the heavens. The home event caught the attention of our Church’s nearest neighbour Mrs. Tess Flaherty, proprietor of the Abbey Garage. Tess, as her many friends knew her by, became immediately suspicious. T’was an early afternoon of a Tuesday, a time when things would normally be quiet in the grounds around the Church and the nearby Convent of Mercy School. Recalling an event that ushered in such a radical change to many a lifestyle, I have decided to use the names of those few people who were prominent from the beginning and witnessed St. Joseph’s Church becoming a towering inferno. Most have since departed this world and gone to their eternal reward.

For me, that Tuesday morning was no different from any other in a newsagent’s shop selling newspapers, cigarettes, sweets, and miscellaneous items. Teresa, my wife, was helping out and taking part in the little outbursts of conversation common to any family shop in the morning, and, of course, never forgetting the weather prospects. The morning was bright with a fresh wind blowing that had potential in it. Periodic bursts of sunshine gave one the feeling that winter was nearing an end and spring was about to burst forth.

That great conversationalist and customer Michael (Mickey) Morris from Abbeytown, my local barber, had just dropped in to pick up his morning Irish Press and for some unknown reason began talking about a heavy shower of snow he remembered on a fair day morning in Boyle in early May. I thought the remark was a little bit out of place, not being related to any topic already being discussed, but that could be Mickey at his most interesting. In hindsight, I often wondered might it just have been a harbinger of something strange to follow!  

Mrs. Flaherty (Tess) came in a rush for her paper and enquired if Paddy Leonard, our Sacristan, had been in for his Irish Independent? Paddy was in and gone, I told her. She had noticed a large curl of smoke rising at the rear of the Church as she passed, and thought it rather strange - it looked more than a mound of twigs or a few cardboard boxes alight in some isolated corner. John Gallagher, the quiet and seasoned warrior from The Warren, said he too saw what looked like a “wisp” of smoke in the distance and had him wondering!

My wife Teresa drove to Paddy’s home at Tidy Terrace (our wonderful next-door neighbours at the time) to tell him the news. Paddy’s wife May brought her into the kitchen where he was sitting down to a bowl of soup. When she gave him the news all heaven broke loose. The soup was left untouched and she drove him immediately back to the Church to see what was unfolding.

Canon Mahon and his two curates, Fr. Jones and Fr. Breslin, were hurrying in and out the sacristy door to the high altar and side altars trying to save whatever they could. Foremost was the removal of the Blessed Sacrament from the tabernacle to the safety of The Presbytery. The fire, still in its very early stages, appeared to have its beginnings at the top end of the church near the high altar. The great timber beams underpinning the church roof were catching fire at high speed due to the strong wind, and a number of slates exploded reminding one (incongruously) of bangers going off on a Halloween night. The beautiful Rose Window above the high altar, depicting scenes from Christ’s life, was among the first to be badly hit. The Rose Window is quite often the centrepiece of any great Gothic Cathedral, so its demise would be almost as a disaster. Next was the organ on the gallery overlooking the high altar; a new organ installed in 1960 that had enriched many a Sunday Mass, wedding, funeral, and other Church celebrations. It was now in the frontline of the fire. If the late E.C. McGee, Boyle’s renowned organist for upwards on half a century, was there to see its demise it would have broken his heart. Like Paddy the Sacristan, he was a limb of the church. 

Next in the line of fire was the beautiful ornate pulpit made of pure marble, donated by a Major General Luke O’Connor (a one-time native of Boyle) sometime in the 1930s. It was circular in shape, a masterpiece adorned all around with religious emblems of saints, each one inset in his own niche. Thinking back to the number of preachers that mounted those steps to preach a sermon, I thought for a moment that if the same pulpit had had the technology of today to record the fiery sermons delivered by Jesuits, Redemptorists, and other Missionary Orders during an annual church mission, they might have been kept for future study or analysis. To forget the masterpieces of rhetoric from our own Dr. Seamus McLoughlin on a Men’s Sodality night would be a serious oversight. His were classics in their own right; loud perhaps, full of wit, subtle humour, a sprinkle of sarcasm, and his summing upended as “the ultimate analysis”. In those times there was little room for the free thinker or the personal opinion. It was a clear-cut message; listen and obey! The Second Vatican Council (1962) opened windows that had been closed and shuttered for 350 years, to give a new meaning to old church rules and change many of them.

The next jewel to bite the dust was the beautiful marble baptismal font at the bottom of the Church, also donated by the same military gentleman. As I looked long and hard at it blackened and broken, I couldn’t but ponder back to the morning my own fragile little cranium would have felt the chill of its icy water at Baptism. My Dad, on reliable authority, enjoys the record (or distinction if you like) of being the first child to be christened in the new St. Joseph’s opened in late-1883 (obviously not the same font). That same little nugget of history added an extra dimension for me, as I pondered on the myriad of events that had taken place in the same sacred surrounding over the previous hundred years.  

Straight across from the pulpit, the huge figure of Christ crucified on the cross hung pinned on one of the huge concrete pillars. The massive life-sized sculpture was also in several pieces; Christ had fallen a fourth time. Next to meet their fate were the Stations of the Cross. All of the 14 pictures on canvas, set in their huge frames and depicting Christ’s journey to Calvary, were buried in rubble. Not a single one was saved. Memories again flowed back of the Celebrant and altar boy (with lighted candle) walking The Way of the Cross each Friday evening during the seven weeks of Lent. All gone. Today in their place, there are 14 small elegant hand-carved figures in wood, each telling its story of The Passion. Being of the old school myself, I still have a preference for The Way of the Cross as portrayed on the great old giant canvasses. They certainly conveyed the story of The Passion in sharper detail and a degree more blood-spattered. They carried much more food for thought!

The residents from Abbeytown gathered in little groups looking on in silence as a vital aspect of their life went up in smoke. The local fire brigade was among the first on the spot, with several more arriving at intervals. Nuns from the Convent of Mercy School, along with members of staff, stood looking on - shocked and helpless. Imelda Hunt, the gentle soft-spoken teacher whom I knew personally from calling to our shop, stood on her own quietly shedding tears.

Reminiscing on all this, I would have missed much of what I saw but for Teresa rushing back home to tell me to go and see it all at first hand. Like the rest, I stood for a while frozen in time feeling helpless. Dr. Conway, our late bishop, had just arrived from Sligo and he too was standing transfixed and watching this grand old piece of Gothic Architecture going down in flames. A stubborn man, at the outset he went onto the high altar to see for himself and came out a few minutes later with a number of religious artifacts covered with a white cloth. He then went back a second time and preceded to do the same. His third effort failed when he was strongly persuaded to desist. People ebbed and flowed all afternoon like the tide; watching, praying, pondering on the tomorrow, and wondering perhaps where Mass might take place the next Sunday?

I knew the layout of the old Sacristy like the back of my hand. The interior consisted of a large double-decker press (containing Church records going back probably decades and much further), a wardrobe with the rail of vestments worn by the Celebrant when saying Mass, a writing desk with the day-to-day records of Church business and events, a wall safe with silver cruets and the tray and wine used when saying Mass plus a number of other items. All of these would be a priority for Paddy Leonard, particularly the history of St. Joseph’s Church going back a century. Two priceless Chalices were also saved from the inferno. As an altar boy, I was always fascinated by those two chalices, knowing they were used only on very special occasions. The Sharkey Chalice, unique in design, looked to be of pure silver. The McCormack chalice looked pure gold and was donated by a Miss McCormack, a native of Boyle who had emigrated to America in the early years of the 20th century.

Another noisy outsized feature of Church life was saved due to its location. The bell tower, being higher than the main roof and having little timber content, escaped the inferno. Miko Finneran, a local builder, ensured its safe removal from its old home high up in the old bell tower to a much lower and smaller tower close to the earth and on its own grounds.

Other accounts may yet be written of this unforgettable fire, its aftermath, and the superhuman effort made to ensure Mass and everyday church worship would continue as near to normal as possible. The local Church of Ireland and the Federal Church community generously offered help in every way possible. The gesture was deeply appreciated and showed a wonderful ecumenical spirit. Accommodation was also offered for Catholic ceremonies that might be imminent at the time. The new St. Joseph’s Church would rise from the ashes within three years of the burning. A new era dawned in 1980 with a church of ultramodern design, circular and dome-shaped. The pre-Second Vatican Council worshipper would find it difficult to find that quiet nook or dark corner, (invisible to the human eye, where one might have a confidential chat with The Creator Himself. Life, as we know, is forever changing and we simply have to change with it. There’s no going back!

 

One memory invokes another

I have witnessed five major fires in Boyle town during my considerably long lifetime.  The first, and by far the most tragic, occurred in a low two-storey house in lower Green Street in June 1950. I could see its back roof in flames from my bedroom window. Three lives were lost in that terrible fire - a mother, her little boy of four and the woman’s sister. It left an indelible memory on the community for several years afterwards.

The next fire took place on a September day in 1956. The great mansion that once was Rockingham House went up in flames and smouldered for a further three days. It was the end of the Rockingham dynasty that had been an integral part of the history of Boyle for 300 years.

The next was the old historic Roscommon Herald building on St. Patrick Street that went up in flames in April 1965. Mainly constructed of timber it died quickly and painlessly, giving up the ghost within a matter of hours. The fire began around 9am when printers and office staff were settling into a normal day’s work. The number of staff would be in the region of 30 or 40 people. It was nothing short of miraculous that no life was lost, but the grand old landmark building steeped in the political history of Boyle was completely destroyed.

The last one in my memory was Burke’s Supermarket on Main Street, which took place in 1982. The vast ground floor with its massive array of goods was consumed in flames within hours, extending to a large part of the upstairs area. Two retired sisters who lived in an apartment overhead had a near-death encounter. Manually carried to safety by members of the very alert staff below, they thankfully survived to live another day.

Christy Wynne             

Assylinn: More than a Graveyard

Assylinn: More than a Graveyard 

For many Boyle people the name Assylinn rings of death and the final resting place of a loved one. For an older generation, however, it can trigger memories of a much different kind. Death, the great leveller, brings us all together there lying side-by-side under a headstone bearing a name, date of birth, death and a prayer or little quotation reflecting the person’s philosophy of life. 

Assylinn graveyard is as old as time itself. An historic place, it is mentioned in the annals written sixteen centuries ago by St. Patrick himself when he arrived on the shores of Hibernia with the good news of Christ and his gospel of hope. According to the same annals, St. Patrick is said to have had a little tumble with his horse and chariot when crossing the river ford at Eas-mac-nEirc, the ancient name for Assylinn. The setback is said to have resulted in our National Saint being slow to give old Boyle his unbridled blessing; the jury is still out on that one? The graveyard as we know it today goes back three centuries, having a few headstones recording deaths as far back as the early years of the eighteenth century. She spreads out across a vast sloping hill gazing on the river below, snugly hidden away from the madding crowd and the never-ending traffic. As the river meanders her way down from Lough Gara she builds up steam as she thunders by Bob Stewart’s old sawmill at Glebe, becoming a torrent as she crashes beneath the railway bridge in the shadow of the old graveyard! 

Eas-Mac-nEirc means ‘waterfall of the sons of Erc’. He hailed from the family of Mochanna-Mac-Erc, the first Abbot of the monastery founded there by St. Colmcille around 530 A.D.. That name lasted up to the 12th century when a Flaherty O’Flynn became Warden of the Oratory. He was followed by a kinsman Maolissa O’Flynn, who then became Prior. He died in the year 1223 A.D., so for the next 800 years it would be known as Assylinn or Flynn’s Waterfall. A single wall is all that now remains of the old oratory, half hidden in ivy and still standing. A reminder of a more noble age when Irish Monks carried the faith across central Europe and the known world. Its closest neighbour today happens to be the first ‘recorded’ resident of Assylinn, a James Johnston who died and was buried there in the year 1702 A.D.. The impressive headstone which incorporates a gate and surrounding railings would suggest he was a man of importance in his day, although no record survives to prove or disprove that theory! Many another poor soul lies buried roundabout without a name; little heaps of solid earth heavy with grass without a record to show who they were or whence they came? A line from ‘Greys Elegy’ might be appropriate: “Fame smiled not on their humble birth and Melancholy made them for her own”. Further down river, one comes to Tobar Padraig; not a holy well as such or a place of pilgrimage but a spot remembered and revisited by many an emigrant home after years on foreign soil. They love to visit the spot that was once part of their childhood; memories of the fun and the picnics at Patrick’s Well, catching ‘Cailleogs’ in Bo Peep jam jars in the river nearby, or swimming in the crystal clear waters of The Pound (river) as it feeds into Stewart’s Millrace. 

Assylinn was also a place of worship for the Presbyterian and Church of Ireland communities in the early 17th Century, with the little oratory used as a house of prayer and a small area of the graveyard is still used as a burial ground for some members of old established families of the Presbyterian, Methodist and Church of Ireland communities. Towards the end of the 18th Century they built their new House of Prayer at the top of Green Street at Bellspark, which is used to the present day. Further down river stands the shell of old St. Patrick’s R.C. Church. The edifice, built in the year 1823, was used as a place of worship before, during and after The Great Famine of 1847. Later, a new church of Gothic design was built at Abbeytown and consecrated to St. Joseph in the year 1882. Old St. Patrick’s ceased to be a place of worship and fell into disrepair, but not for long. It became a music hall for concerts, dances, indoor amusements and was used as such for many years. It continued to operate until the year 1957 when it closed its doors we thought (again) for the last time. A new state of the art dancehall had been built on the Crescent and so began a new chapter in the life of Boyle. Old St Patrick’s refused to die, however, and became a factory manufacturing shop windows and fronts, metal shelving and fittings for offices and warehouses and libraries nationwide. Countless stories linger of the great events that took place within the old walls. If they could speak they’d have countless stories to tell of the great dances and ceilidhs that took place there, the musical events and the concerts staged by Miss Nancy O’Connor or E. C. McGee, the dramas and plays produced by Fr. Tiernan C.C. (the local curate), the annual Feis Ceoil, and the never to be forgotten annual winter indoor amusements that ran for a fortnight in December each year. That event was eagerly looked forward to by every man, woman and child in the parish since there was a form of entertainment or a game to suit everyone. To name a few of the renowned entertainers who graced the old stage, who could forget the hilarious Jimmy O’Dea and Harry O’Donovan of Gaiety Theatre fame, playing to a packed hall for three or four nights in a row, staying in Lynch’s Hotel on Main Street, not to mention walking the streets of Boyle during the daylight hours. Anew McMaster, the great Shakespearean actor, also graced the stage of the old Hall on a number of occasions. Last, but not least, was the memorable arrival of ‘Question Time’ with Joe Linnane of Radio Eireann fame. Six knowledgeable gentlemen offered themselves up for the fun and the craic and what a memorable night it was, the winner being Dominic Lydon the assistant Station Master. What a night of banter, humour and fun, with Boyle Town the centre of attraction for the nation on a Sunday night. Joe Linnane was the Gay Byrne of his day with his famous ‘Question Time’ show every Sunday night, which was as popular then as The Late Late Show today, and tuned into every household in the country that was lucky to own a ‘wireless. We’re talking about the year 1945/46. A fine slice of Boyle’s coloured history is surely embedded in the stonework of the grand old building.

To fail to mention the annual swimming gala at Assylinn would be to do it a disservice. This was one of the great events of the year, looked forward to for months in advance and what a day it was! A short distance below ‘the sounding cataract’, the river runs smooth and deep with a high rise bank on each side created by Mother Nature herself for such an occasion. The young contestants lined up at the river’s edge awaiting the bang of a starting gun to set them on their way across. Cheers and shouts rose from the crowds on the embankments as the contestants pushed themselves to the limit to win the eagerly sought-after medal of victory. Another keenly fought competition was the underwater swim across the full width of the river, with the crowd holding their breath as well. Could there be a budding Johnny Weissmuller among this bunch of young Boyle lads about to stretch their lungs to the limit? For a young ten-year-old brought along for the day this was a scene not to be forgotten, a moment of pause even for a seasoned observer; who or how many would fall by the way and surface for a life-saving intake of breath? Would there be a winner? ‘Walk the Greasy Pole’ brought explosions of laughter from the crowd as one contestant after another slithered from their slippery perch like skittles tumbling in an amusement hall. The diving competition was broken into age categories, each one keenly fought with an ultimate winner. Then came the Grand Finale, the highlight of the Gala! This involved the local ‘Stuntman’ who staged a rather unique type of high dive each year, followed by an exhibition of a swimmer who suffers a sudden stomach cramp and struggles bravely to survive it. The diving board stood twenty feet above the river level, with a ramp on which a bicycle could be wheeled forward...yes, a bicycle! As the daredevil pedalled (with some assistance) to the edge of the ramp, he stood up and balanced himself on the handlebars and plunged into the depths below. The hushed crowd sat in shock and awe awaiting his reappearance from the depths. The burst of applause that met him could have awakened the residents of Assylinn Graveyard. He then followed up with his own special take on the swimmer severely hit by a stomach cramp. Writhing in pain he gathered himself into a foetal position on his back struggling with a back stroke to guide himself painfully and slowly to the river bank accompanied by periodic moans and groans. The crowd lapped it up as the stuntman made it look so real from beginning to end. The gala was an integral part of the annual calendar of events, a topic of conversation that would be talked about over many a drink, part of the local history, a happy memory, a forgotten happiness. 

In rounding off Assylinn’s long and varied history it would be a serious oversight to neglect to mention the area once reverberated to the sound of industry; small perhaps, but real. The colourful Robert (Bob) Stewart, a member of the Stewart dynasty, ran a successful saw mill in the townland of Glebe on the upper stretch of the river; while Michael Dwyer Snr. and his two sons, Mark and Michael, ran their saw mill a short distance below the railway bridge. Both operated very successfully into the early 1950s, supplying native timber to the local building trade, the freelance carpenter or joiner. 

Frank O’Mahoney, the very popular Cork man who made his home in Boyle in the early 1970s, ran a very successful iron foundry business within the walls of an old Georgian building (beside the graveyard) that was once occupied by the O’Connors (a highly respected family in the locality). Besides Frank’s skills in wrought iron, he also manufactured gates and different kinds of accessories for the agricultural business. Frank was also a specialist in moulding pieces of iron into fine delicate works of art, which he would have on display during the Boyle Arts Festival each year. Boyle’s adopted son also had a deep love of music and produced a musical show every year in the local hall for almost three decades, until his retirement a few years ago; a unique contribution to the town of Boyle. The ancient O’Connor residence where Frank’s skills were brought to fruition still operates under new management, an abiding symbol of an historic past. 

Further on one comes to the power plant founded by another member of the Stewart dynasty, John Stewart Ltd., in the 1870’s. The family supplied electricity to Boyle town and its precincts for the best part of a hundred years, producing D.C. direct current, and was among the first in Ireland to generate electricity on a commercial scale.  It is a proud feather in her cap that Boyle can boast being one of the first towns in Ireland to have an electricity supply. In 1965, the E.S.B. (the national network) bought over the plant as a result of a much greater demand for electricity and a need for alternating current (A.C.). Another member of the same family, Joseph Stewart Ltd., ran a highly successful flour mill from the late 19th century until very recently. Today it has turned its attention to oil distribution, with a fleet of oil tankers forever on the move. A much-anticipated addition to the local economy by this highly entrepreneurial family is at present in the pipeline (we’re informed) and at an advanced stage of planning. Hopefully it will soon come to fruition (i.e. a whiskey distillery) for Boyle town. We await it ‘with baited breath’.

The final little pearl in Assylinn’s crown is the variety of fish that inhabit its waters. Pike, perch, trout and eel swim there in abundance. All one requires is a fishing rod, the humble worm, a Blue or Brown Devon minnow, a wet or dry fly and a sprinkle of patience (a vital part of the sport). A very special stretch of water beyond Bob Stewart’s old sawmill, known as ‘The Cut’, has forever been known as the real testing ground for a true fly fisherman. Here is the spot where the fly fisherman’s casting skills are put to the ultimate test against the wily trout, to challenge a maze of cross currents ‘where rapids collide and converge’, ‘where stone is dark under froth’ and the trout breaks the surface for a fleeting moment to snatch a luscious Golden Olive, Brown Sedge or August Dun fly. All come together, the wily trout, the keen eye of the angler, the downturn of the wrist, the fly sitting where X might mark the spot on a war map; a challenge between two daring adversaries! 

So ends the story of Assylinn, a place that begins and ends with memories, in every sense of the word; an ocean of dreams, a balm for the soul, a hidden paradise.

Christy Wynne