Tuesday, December 1, 2015

The Story of Doon Shore


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The Story of Doon Shore
A happy hunting ground it could be described for a generation that grew up in the 1950s. The Doon Shore (once upon a time Leyland’s Shore) became the power point on the Lough Key shoreline that zigzags along for miles. The name has its origins in a rocky plateau stretching above it aptly named the Rock of Doon. Finding one’s way to this little haven under the hill required a mixture of stamina and youthful exuberance.
It started with a three-mile walk from the heart of Boyle town to the heart of Doon country, climb a gate, walk four fields and a narrow lane laden with blackthorn bushes ‘forever in bloom’. The camaraderie on the way was an important part of the expedition and could be likened to the foreword of a book. The only hint of civilisation having ever touched it was a rickety old stone pier protruding into the lakeand a fairytale cottage hidden behind a hedgerow of trees which was the summer retreat of the local doctor. Dr. Leyland was one of nature’s gentlemen, rotund, wellspoken with a rich crop of grey wavy hair. His trip to the Doon Shore would never entail a journey of three miles on foot, climb a gate, walk four fields of meadow and navigate a laneway that was overgrown almost with blackthorn; on the contrary the good Doctor had his own transport by ferry from the Wooden Bridge and a ferryman to bring him safely to his retreat, his own Paradise on earth. In the early 1960s the area took a dramatic change for the better.
A new road was built all the way to the shore that included a car park for fifty or more cars. A spread of sand to give the place a sense or feel of the sea was put down, lacking of course the sound of the ebb and flow of a tide or the pungent smell of seaweed. New toilets were built as were three new piers for boats, and a diving board in the shape of a platform that stood five feet high on beams embedded in the lake floor.
This was Boyle town’s new water world. Families flocked to it during the summer to bathe and to picnic and many a young mother spent hours stretched on technology’s newest creation, the sun bed,
longing for that envious tan beloved of all young women. The angler pulled in to show off his catch of perch and pike while the occasional cabin cruiser (with continental crew) stopped by for a break and to indulge in a barbeque on deck. The ‘Hoi Polloi’ of the day sat up and looked on inquisitively as the pungent smell of roast chicken doused with oriental spices permeated the nostrils.
Windsurfing had just become the new sport on the bloc, particularly for an age group in their twenties and thirties. Many of this jet set spent their Sundays and summer evenings riding the surf,

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‘Blown to the winds ’ on occasions and suffering the odd topple only to climb back up again and continue on doggedly. The surfboard on the roof of the car in a hurry to Doon Shore was a common sight, a symbol of youth, a reflection of the good life, La Dolce Vita. The lake also turned into a playground for speed boats and jet-skis which abounded and tended to monopolise and ‘exceed their mandate’. A day of reckoning however crept upon them unexpectedly like a terminal illness. The noise and the never-ending cycle of mini-tsunamis they created all round was an unmitigated disaster for other water sports. The quiet inoffensive angler trolling along seeking the elusive trout was demoralised as the fish fled in terror from their traditional feeding grounds; there was no safe haven, no resting place. Other water lovers longing for a spell of peace and quiet saw this new flamboyant sport as overpowering, loud and brazen.
Signs appeared on lake shores roundabout screaming ‘Speedboats not welcome’; the writing was on the wall for the speed hogs and no excess of tears were shed. The sight of one today on Lough Key is about as rare as a Red Indian on the shores of Manhattan.
The swimming gala was another event to come on the scene in the 1970s; its forerunner was held at one time on the Boyle River at Assylinn. To relive that historic event one would have to go back to the 1940s to recall the enjoyment it created for so many families on a memorable Sunday in August every year.
A brief digression might be worthwhile? The event in those times didn’t involve competing against teams from other swimming clubs. This was pure untouched fun, a variety of races across the river and back for the different age groups, swim the width of the river underwater at its widest point, the length of time one could remain submerged under water, walk the greasy pole (without falling off) and finally a diving competition. The closing event was ‘the spectacular’, a one-off where a well-known character performed a high dive from the handlebars of a bicycle secured on a wooden scaffold fifteen feet above river. As part of this final act, the same character delivered an ‘Oscar-winning’ display of how to save a drowning person who had just suffered severe stomach cramp; the sound effects rising from the drowning victim in the throes of death was chilling as “The Mighty Mouse” brought him safely to shore. The crowd rose to their feet in a spontaneous gesture to give them both a standing ovation. The day and the event overall would be talked about for months afterwards. Over a generation later the revived gala being held at Doon Shore attracted swimming clubs from Galway, Tuam and Sligo, and smaller ones from Carrick-on-Shannon, Castlerea and Roscommon. Among the many events there was 3 the mile swim to Church Island which attracted top swimmers from around the province and which was the highlight of the afternoon. Trophies and medals were presented at the conclusion and teas, sandwiches and soft drinks were served free gratis. One of the most colourful events to burst on the scene around that time was the Shannon Boat Rally which culminated on Lough Key. Cruisers were dotted around the lake from Tinnerinagh to Rockingham to Doon Shore making the weekend one of camaraderie and music that ran into the daylight hours. Cocktail sausages, an innovation at the time, were passed around at a bonfire near the old harbour in Rockingham and the revellers washed them down with the newest ale on the market, aptly named ‘Time’. What a name for a bottle of ale! The connotations attached to it gave a new meaning and interpretation to that most precious of gifts, Time, and how we use it. Lough Key was about to come of age and was doing it in royal style. As an aside, this writer clearly remembers the first colour picture postcards of Lough Key to come on the market simply read ‘Co. Roscommon’, no mention of Boyle. A poor sales bet it would seem to suggest. Today Boyle is known the world over and The Celt is still to be found on its shores.


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Who remembers the Boatman of Lough Key?

The story of Doon Shore would be incomplete without mention of the boatman of Lough Key. Jim Flynn became as much a part of the Lough Key story as the sum of the islands that makes it up. A rickety old pier standing today was the man’s original halting site, a bus stop then without a customer. Like the old man of the sea Jimmy was weather-beaten, wore a Commodore’s cap complete with anchor badge and the corn cob pipe firmly held between his teeth; the man was the living image of Popeye the Sailor. Jimmy’s natural home was Flynn’s thatched cottage on Ballindoon Shore, a name synonymous with everything pertaining to mayfly fishing on Lough Arrow and indeed Irish traditional music. Flynn’s cottage was a kind of gateway to Lough Arrow and was known to seasoned anglers from all over, including a gentleman by the name of Jackie Charlton. Early on, Jim’s entrepreneurial eye saw the potential for boat trips on Lough Key which was just down the road from his own home. He decided to set up his stall at Doon and began by giving trips at sixpence a time which was reckoned good value, particularly when he dropped his young customers off on one of the islands and collected them later on a return journey. It gave the new kids on the block the opportunity to explore the island like a latter day Robinson Crusoe, light a fire perhaps and sit around like a band of boy scouts. People on holidays who had emigrated years before made their way to the Doon Shore for a jaunt down memory lane with Jimmy the ferryman. Castle and Church Island were popular stops on his itinerary and Rockingham itself was no longer the ‘Hi-Brasil’ to be viewed from a distance. The Shannon boat rally then arrived on the scene and put Lough Key permanently on the map. Rockingham was attracting holidaymakers in their hundreds and the focus began to switch gradually from the Doon Shore to Rockingham or the ‘Forest Park’. There was a top class restaurant and shop, a swimming area for kids, underground tunnels leading all the way to the grounds of the old mansion and a scout den with acres of open ground, all-in-all an adventure playground. Jimmy’s days as the ferryman were slowly grinding to a halt. His own little Celtic Tiger suffered a slow demise while a new monster was rising on the other side of the bay. He departed the stage quietly and unsung but he still remains a part of the history and folklore of Doon Shore. The annual swimming gala also died a painless death, swallowed up in the bigger scheme of things. The Forest Park had become the new jewel in the crown, known today nationally and internationally.

A trip to the Doon Shore in the 1950s

There was transport, and there were modes of transport to get to the Haven under the hill in the 1950s. Nature’s way was on foot or Shank’s mare. There was the bicycle, but how many young folk owned a bicycle back then? Then there was the donkey cart and driver together winding their way to town on a Friday, the pension day, and Saturday, the market day. Finally there was the car or van, in short supply on the Doon highway in those days. The shuttle service to the Forest Park today would be a concept for the future back then, although McKenna’s Volkswagen minibus was just beginning its long arduous journey across The Milky Way. The trip via donkey and cart was a revelation; a bag of hay in one corner, the week’s groceries in the other and the helmsman in the middle puffing on a bulldog pipe and sending smoke signals skywards that read like Bendigo Coil tobacco. The view of the world from this humble little cockpit was quite a thrill for a townie and was eagerly sought after; the small farmers from the townlands of Doon, Tintagh, Corrigeenroe or Corrnacartha were in heavy demand those days as we courted their favour. If we met Pat Joe Casey, the sweet merchant, driving cautiously along in his small van we dared stand in the middle of the road like a Garda on duty to hail him down. Pat ran a wholesale business of his own and was on the road six days a week calling to small shops in and around the area. A man of considerable height and girth he didn’t have a great deal of space to offer in the van or indeed of himself, but whatever he had he shared it out the best way he could like the Good Samaritan.
If our journey was on foot we called to Mrs Casey’s (Pat’s mother) small country shop at Tawnytaskin for lemonade and biscuits; a shilling went a long way then. Her brother Peter Gray was part of the landscape as he sat outside on his cushioned armchair (weather permitting) smoking a Peterson’s pipe with the bent shank. In the advertising world of the time, obsessed with the pleasures of smoking, Peter would have won an Oscar for his depiction of ‘The Thinking Man smokes a Peterson’s Pipe’. Miss Keenaghan, or Tess as she was known to all her neighbours, lived in a fairytale cottage just a stone’s throw from Mrs Casey’s shop. Sitting at the front gate of her cosy cottage in the shelter of two little trees interlocked above her head, she was the epitome of happiness notwithstanding her deteriorating eyesight. As always she was anxious to hear the latest news from town which she relished and took in very carefully; bush telegraph afforded her the undiluted facts without any embellishments.
Our one remaining hope for a lift rested with a coal merchant from the village of Ballyfarnon. Johnny Keaveney drove his small two-ton truck to Boyle twice a day loaded up with bags of coal for his customers. The man never failed to pull up irrespective of the gang he saw lined up ahead; another man might have been intimidated but not Johnny. He looked at us and paused for about thirty seconds; Dr. Einstein was doing his homework. How many angels could he fit on the head of a pin? As he dropped us at the foot of Doon Hill we were already looking ahead; will you be around again tomorrow Johnny?


Monday, November 16, 2015

Ode to an Ice Cream

The regular ice cream treat we all remember as part of our growing up was a luxury during the war years and into the early 1950s. And then, overnight almost, it became as common and everyday as the shake of confetti at a wedding. Three shops in Boyle stocked the precious commodity in those days – Wynne’s, McDonagh’s and Miss Martin’s Grocery shop on Main Street. The main ice cream manufacturers of the time were Lucan Dairies and H.B. (Hughes Brothers) in Dublin, and some years later a company named Kevinsfort Limited in Sligo. There was also the enigmatic Miss Josie Callaghan (Bridge Street) who had a homemade brand of ice cream with its flaky crispy texture and the colour of country butter. It had its own unique taste and was in close contention for best-selling ice cream in town. Going to a film in the Abbey Cinema one had to pass Miss Callaghan’s shop on the way so there was a healthy temptation to spend a few of the hard-earned extra pennies on one of Miss Callaghan’s homemade specials. Known as Josie, she had a fringe hairstyle similar to ‘Mo’ of The Three Stooges (no offence intended); the serious one who dished out the orders, made the rules and delivered the punishment. Like ‘Mo’ she commanded respect, bordered a little on the eccentric and was happy to be addressed as Miss Callaghan. Her antecedents were the owners of property, seven houses in Greatmeadow and land enough to build a shopping centre the size of Liffey Valley. A large field occupied today by Cooney’s Filling Station belonged to them as well and was the annual venue for John Duffy’s circus and McMahon’s Carnival. What young person could ever forget Callaghan’s field, what it stood for and the memories attached to it? 

With Halloween memories still in the air, a short digression including an anecdote with a touch of humour comes to mind from those halcyon days. On that special night kids went out knocking on hall doors and running away helter-skelter. Miss Callaghan’s door was no exception. On one particular Halloween, Josie, having been harassed to the point of distraction, stood quietly inside her hall door awaiting the next knock. At the first tap she opened in a flash and pursued her gang of young persecutors all the way to the Pleasure Grounds, 500 yards away, in a replay of the retreat from Moscow. About the same time, small amounts of carbide were being set alight in empty bean cans and exploding in different locations around the town. Caught between darkness and mayhem, Josie lost track of her prey and returned home with her fury undiminished. A while later, another group of street urchins passing by hit the John Player tobacco sign outside her shop with a small cudgel. The sound of ash and aluminium colliding brought Josie’s fury to the boil and she retreated upstairs with a pail of water. Opening the window, and without any hesitation, she emptied the pail on a group passing underneath exclaiming “now hit my sign again…let that be a lesson to you!” Epilogue to the story was the innocent victim passing by got the contents of the pail and gave vent to his rage. Josie’s sign was attacked for the second time and John Player & Sons were left debased and unlikely to sway ever again in the autumn breeze. 

Back to the topic of ‘Ode to an Ice cream’! The long journey west began at Westmoreland Street Station, Dublin. The precious commodity was transported by passenger train to ensure it reached its destination in the shortest possible time. Thirty-six bricks of ice cream, frozen solid and consisting of three assorted flavours (vanilla, strawberry and banana), were packed into a canvas container lined on the inside with lead. Delivery took place each week on a Saturday to ensure it arrived in good shape for the following week’s trade. At that time, the shops didn’t open on Sundays. Joe Williams, a boy who delivered the morning newspapers for my mother on his way to school, had the job of bringing the container of ice cream from the railway station. On that morning Joe must have felt like a young superman as he pushed his precious cargo of ice cream hurriedly down The Crescent on a two-wheeled truck. God protect anyone who might cross his path on the way to Main Street. The dogs on the street barked and ran for cover from the sound of the truck and the determined look on Joe’s face. A deadly race was on between countdown and meltdown. The little blocks of gold were immediately transferred to the ice cream fridge and got ready for the Monday morning trade. 

Some years later Peter Phelan (a well-known ambulance driver) bought Miss O’Donnell’s shoe shop on Bridge Street, just a few doors away from Miss Callaghan’s, and opened the first ice cream parlour. To see two or three people sitting at a table wallowing in dishes of ice cream, topped up with fruit and a dash of raspberry, was a thing of beauty. Ice cream was no longer the quick fix or the takeaway. It had become the equivalent of today’s morning coffee with a chat. 

Saturday, August 8, 2015

Update 9th August


Diary of an Emigrant


Lord Tennyson once wrote that ‘all experience is an arch where through gleams the untraveled world’. A half century ago I negotiated that arch and turned emigrant for a few years. In my early-20s then, I was determined to discover if our closest neighbour ‘pagan England’ was truly pagan. Stories arriving back on the backs of colleagues who had emigrated a few short years before spoke of a way of life far removed from that lived in a small country town in the west of Ireland. Like Robert Service’s story of The Yukon, ‘money was just like dirt there, easy to get and to spend’ and the jobs were a dime a dozen. Like many before me my destination was the city of London and to a place with the fairytale name of Swiss Cottage.

The train journey to Dublin that day was a memorable one as I ended up in the company of one John McGahern, the writer who happened to be travelling the same afternoon. John and I had known one another since our secondary school days with The Presentation Brothers in Carrick-on-Shannon and we hadn’t met since those halcyon days of enlightenment and literature. In the course of the three-hour train journey we did a post-mortem on the old Alma Mater recalling the professors, their moods, their eccentricities, their teaching skills and the disciplines of secondary school life of the time.

We bared our souls as we sat in the old Pullman dining car drinking tea and eating Kimberley biscuits. Brother Francis was one of nature’s gentlemen, a teacher with a keen sense of humour and generous to a smile. Tom Mannion, our English professor, was a soft spoken methodical character with a love for prose and anything written by Hazlitt, Johnson, Lambe or Thackeray. The others we left to time and eternity. We laughed about the lunch room, the old fashioned kitchen with a Brooks/Thomas range stuck in one wall and a tall dresser in the other that was used by the country lads to store their lunch boxes and flasks of milk; there was also the facility to make your own tea. Tom Mannion often joined us near the range drinking strong tea. Then there was the lunch hour banter with fledgling comedians competing for the number one spot. John recalled the ten-kilometre journey by bicycle in the morning from the Garda Barracks in Cootehall where his father was Sergeant in Charge. How could you forget the back roads with clumps of grass growing up in the middle and potholes half hidden and innocent looking ‘til you hit one of them? The end result could be a puncture or a change of trousers before going into class.

At Westland Row (Pearse Street Station today) we parted company and hoped we’d meet up again in the not too distant future. Destiny, however, would decide otherwise. Thirty years went by before we met again at the Boyle Arts Festival when John read extracts from a selection of his works in The Forest Park Hotel and again some years later at a similar event in The Church of Ireland on Green Street. The third and last was a much more sombre occasion when I saw him laid to rest alongside his mother in Aughawillan Cemetery.

Back to real life and the lonely trip on the ferry from Dun Laoghaire! The sea that evening barely raised a ripple as I stood on the deck with a group of fellow travellers watching a blood-red sun go down behind Howth Head. Looking back at the harbour receding in the distance I thought of past generations of emigrants who would have witnessed a similar scene and pondered if they’d see ‘Kingstown Harbour’ (as it was then known) ever again. For many of them it was a one way ticket. Ten hours later, with land and sea behind me, I dismounted at Euston Station mentally and physically drained. The goodbyes were well and truly over and visions of a new life were beginning to unfold.

The time read 6.30 a.m. on the face of the giant Smith’s clock overhead as I sat on my old leather suitcase with its metal buttons shining, waiting for my friend John to arrive. The numbers of people moving about were mind-boggling and, stranger still, no-one saying hello or goodbye. For a brief moment I had forgotten I was now in ‘the heart of the empire’ and not some friendly little railway station in the west of Ireland. The seething mass of humanity brought back to me a line from John Milton’s poem on ‘His Blindness’ when he said “Thousands at His bidding speed and post o’er land and ocean without rest, they also serve who only stand and wait”, and here was I sitting and waiting. I was happy to see John suddenly appearing from out the crowd. It now read 7 a.m. on Smith’s clock and I had begun to fret a little. Maybe he had forgotten about the young greenhorn just let loose on Greater London! “No way old friend,” he commented in his best west of Ireland accent, “‘twas the train came in early” (which happened to be true!). His address in Swiss Cottage meant a journey on the underground to Piccadilly Station, a change to the Bakerloo Line and travel a further 15 stops.

My maiden voyage was quite a baptism of fire as this high powered underground train travelled through a maze of tunnels at what seemed like 90 miles an hour. My eardrums, being more accustomed to the quietness of a country town, blew all of a sudden and everything around me went silent. I looked across at John for a kind of explanation and was more than relieved to see an index finger stuck in each ear. Fifteen stops later we dismounted on a platform a world away from Euston. This was Swiss Cottage, my new address for the time being at least. What a transition! It could have been Boyle station on a Saturday afternoon.  


 I was happy when he said we were only ten minutes walk from his bedsitter. An average sized bedroom with adjoining toilet, a cosy kitchen and living room combined, it also had the luxury of a little carpet of grass outside the kitchen window that reminded me a little of home. Within minutes he was in the throes of cooking a fry; Sainsbury’s bangers, rashers and black pudding crackling on the pan brought back memories of breakfast at home on a Sunday morning after Mass. With the pangs of hunger gone I fell into bed. ‘Oh blessings light on him who first invented this same sleep it covers a man all over thoughts and all like a cloak’. Like Sancho Panza I fell unconscious for eight solid hours.

John eventually had to waken me up and with a wry smile inquired if I’d fancy a pint of Guinness. “It’ll help you to sleep tonight,” he added. Where in God’s name would you get a pint of Guinness in London in ‘62 I wondered? In the local down the road, he informed me; it’s called ‘The Swiss Tavern’ and it’s one of only three drinking houses in the whole of North London that sells the black stuff. The Tavern was old world and boasted a thatched roof. An array of tables and chairs situated on a patio outside was new to me and it radiated a cosmopolitan look that wouldn’t be seen in Ireland for a further ten years. John seemed well got there as Niamh the attractive young blonde hostess rushed over to greet him and his friend from back home. He was hungry to hear the news from Boyle town, the Abbey Cinema, the Snooker Club, the dance hops in the Tennis Pavilion, the swimming pool we broke our backs selling tickets for (and still a work in suspended animation in 2015 A.D.) and lots more. As we strolled back to his apartment at our leisure an hour later he stopped suddenly and politely told me not to be nodding to every passerby. It’s not done over here you know, they’ll think you strange; remember you’re only one of eight million people. And there was I thinking I was being sociable!

The following week I made my way to ‘Emerald Agencies’ in Kilburn, an employment agency known to countless Irish emigrants. I had with me what today is known as your ‘Curriculum Vitae’. It consisted of a character reference from my Parish Priest, my Intermediate and Leaving Certificates, a certificate of a 12-month commercial course in Rosses College, Dublin under the guiding hand of Professor Sparkhall Browne (a name that would surely enhance the value of any certificate), and finally a letter confirming three years office experience with C.I.E.. The interview took place in the head offices of Blue Star Garages in High Street, Hampstead. The Personnel Manager informed me they controlled 400 garages around England and kindly offered me a cup of tea. I then handed him my Curriculum Vitae. Robert Barton had all the looks of a military man, wore a heavy military moustache and had been a British Army major in Northern Ireland during the Second World War. Are you from Northern or Southern Ireland he asked politely at the outset? From the West of Ireland I said promptly and innocently. He paused for a moment and rephrased the question; I meant Northern Ireland as part of the U.K.. For a moment I wondered had I shot myself in the foot with my slightly ambiguous answer; would he interpret it as a spot of petty arrogance? He carried on with a range of questions about the type of office work I did, book-keeping, stock control, telephone experience etc.. I got the job, starting the following Monday. 

Hampstead was a beautiful part of the world. The area then was suburban and the office was just five minutes walk from the beautiful Hampstead Heath. When I walked it during my lunch hour I couldn’t but think of John Keats sitting in some quiet valley glade writing ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ or ‘To Autumn’, or waiting for the spark to fall that powered many of his wonderful poems on summer and nature. Hampstead had been his home for the last few years of his life before he died at the very young age of 26. The King of Bohemia restaurant was just doors away from Blue Star Offices and it was there I had my first experience of a carvery in action. Back in Ireland if one had the occasional Sunday lunch out, the food was selected from the ‘A La Carte’ menu and it was served up from behind closed doors; this however was very different. A chef dressed in a long white apron and tall hat (like the guy on the chef sauce bottle) stood behind the carvery counter. You took your place in the queue, made your choice, paid three shillings and sixpence at the cash desk and carried it to the table yourself, all very neat and satisfying. It was like the eighth wonder of the world.

I began walking to work when I discovered a shortcut through Belsize Park, Fitzjohn’s Avenue, Old England’s Lane, Haverstock Hill and Hampstead Village; 20 minutes on foot, 45 minutes by bus. Fitzjohn’s Avenue was residential and extremely upmarket, the Shrewsbury Road of London I would have imagined. Some mornings I’d pause to watch the Bentleys and Jaguars been chauffeured from the grounds of the ivy-leaved mansions with the owners sitting back very important looking and wearing that ostentatious look so beloved of ministers and moguls. It brought back memories to me of Sir Cecil Stafford King Harman of Rockingham Estate being driven to (Boyle) town in his Bentley by his chauffeur Christy Dolan. Christy seemed to be forever dressed in his navy blue uniform, peaked cap and polished high legged leather boots that reflected in the door of the Bentley as he held it open for Sir Cecil or Lady Stafford. He then entered our shop for the morning newspapers for Rockingham and 20 Players Navy Cut cigarettes for himself, shades of the ‘Upstairs Downstairs’ television series of the 1970s. For a Walter Mitty moment I was a millionaire, the owner of a Rolls Royce and living in an ivy-walled mansion. Then Blue Star Garages loomed up in front of me.

The month of October ‘62 found me wondering would I see home for Christmas. The Cuban Crisis was at its height and had reached a frightening level with the imminent threat of a nuclear war. Over a period of 72 hours, America and Russia rolled out a devastating show of military power. Negotiations had reached an all time low and the world was literally holding its breath. Bertrand Russell, a world renowned philosopher, pacifist and anti-war activist, raised his head above the parapet to send telegrams to both Kennedy and Khrushchev personally pleading with them to consider the future of mankind. The alternative was the beginning of the end of the human race, an end to civilisation. It succeeded and the world drew a huge sigh of relief.

Jobs were plentiful in Britain at those times and the swinging ‘60s had just hit London with the force of a tornado. Pop groups were sprouting up like early morning mushrooms and were vying with each other for the Number One spot in the charts. A new group calling themselves ‘The Beatles’ were leading the field in popularity and were about to be christened Britain’s latest secret weapon by no less a person than the Prime Minister himself, Sir Alec Douglas Hume. Their music and lyrics were sweeping Europe and America with the speed and power of a tsunami. The ‘peace people’ were singing their new anthem, ‘make love not war’. Mary Quant was about to launch the mini-skirt onto the ladies fashion world and ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’, the book that had been banned for a hundred years, was for sale in every bookstore. Feeling like a free spirit I went into my nearest library in Hampstead and asked for a copy of James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’, a book that had also been banned for over half a century but was now available as well. The librarian informed me that the three copies in stock were out on loan but she had a copy of ‘Finnegan’s Wake’ if I’d like it. I took it, spent half the night struggling through 20 pages of this masterpiece and decided it would have been simpler to translate Homer’s ‘Iliad’ or Caesar’s ‘Gallic Wars’. When I returned it the following day the librarian didn’t seem overly surprised; she just smiled and asked me if I had an enjoyable night’s reading! That ended my brief love affair with James Joyce.

Around the same time John Profumo, the ‘War Secretary’ in Harold MacMillan’s government, lost his way somewhere between Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice Davies and ended up making a fool of himself in the House of Commons. The ignominy of it all was too much and he took early retirement soon afterwards. A short time later Harold Macmillan, his boss, tumbled off the wall like Humpty Dumpty and they failed to put him together again. They were never heard of again.

Some Sundays after Mass in Kilburn High Road (there were 12 of them) I’d pay a visit to Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park for a spot of light entertainment. On a Sunday this famous corner of the park became a hotbed for homespun philosophers, stand up comedians and religious fanatics pontificating on everything from the Creation to the Apocalypse. Freedom of speech was sacrosanct here and took precedent over everything else. An atheist in one corner proclaimed there was no God, that He was a figment of the imagination, a fairytale. A guy across from him quoted chapter and verse from the Book of Genesis to prove God created everybody and everything, including his nemesis opposite. A short distance away again a chap climbed into a wooden pulpit and ranted about Christmas being a pagan festival until the Christians stole it and put Christ in its place. The (Irish) Diaspora present were outraged and shouted ‘blasphemy’ back at him. Even the royal House of Windsor didn’t escape the lash of some of these demagogues when they were in top gear.

June ’63 saw President Kennedy visit Ireland and the Irish around the world stood tall. The grandson of an emigrant had become the most powerful man on the planet and suddenly we Irish were six foot tall. Five months later we shed tears when we heard the dreadful news that he had been assassinated in the city of Dallas. Television networks around the globe interrupted programmes with newsflashes reporting the terrible news. It made such a profound impact on people that many were able to remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when the awful news broke. In June the same year the grand old Pope John the 23rd died and England, the bastion of Protestantism for centuries, mourned his death in a very special way. As I walked across Westminster Bridge I thought it extraordinary to see the Union Jack flying at half mast over government buildings in tribute to the man’s memory. An extraordinary gesture from the people of Great Britain and little wonder they christened him Good Pope John. He had done more in his few short years as Roman Pontiff to repair the damage of The Reformation than any of his predecessors had done in the previous four hundred years. A few months later the new Pope Paul VI was elected and he continued the work of the Second Vatican Council with limited success.

Cocooned in my humble little bedsitter I’d meet with a few friends on the weekend for a drink in one of our preferred watering holes in North London, the Swiss Tavern, the North Star, or Mooney’s on The Strand, the landmark pub run by Dermot Gray a native of Boyle. On a Saturday night Mooney’s in the heart of Piccadilly could be classified as Ireland Inc. with accents from the four provinces mingling with those of inner city Dublin or The Pale. As the night progressed our attention turned to Charlie Mack’s (family run) dancehall off Victoria Road. On a Saturday night Charlie Mack’s was akin to a nurse’s training college packed with young trainee nurses from the four corners of Ireland. It was a special place, a place where moods and matters of the heart were listened to with a caring manner that only young trainee nurses are possessed of. At the early stages of ‘getting to know you’ a young nurse might seek a second opinion from her nursing colleague that might leave you dangling on life support ‘til the end of the dance. To aggravate matters further the last tube ‘for home’ left Victoria Station at midnight which left little time to deal with matters of the heart or make arrangements to meet again in Charlie’s or elsewhere. When men make arrangements they say The Gods smile! My friend John, who was a steward with British European Airways, had become a close friend of Charlie and would bring him back a bottle of the best wine when in Rome. As he entered the hall Charlie would politely ask if he had anything to declare. “Nothing but my genius” John would say, “and this little parcel”.

In rounding off on the extraordinary chain of events that came so closely together over a few short years it would be remiss of me not to mention the winter of January/February ‘63. The newspapers of the time recorded it as the harshest winter in Great Britain for 120 years (i.e. since records began). Millions of households lived a Spartan-like existence for several weeks with household gas and electricity cut to a minimum in the evening time. A half an hour to boil a kettle wouldn’t be an exaggeration, more like a bad dream. Electricity was also reduced drastically in the evening time, making London a twilight zone. A number of older Londoners I happened to work with drew comparisons with the war years and the darkness that accompanied the nightly bombings during the Second World War. Add in the occasional bout of smog, ‘the scourge of London’, and there was little room for joy. To see a bus conductor at six o’clock on a November evening leading his driver and bus to the nearest bus stop with the aid of a powerful torch was the stuff of fiction, laughable but true. 

A day of reckoning arrived for me unexpectedly when a big decision had to be made; return to a small family business back home with potential as they say, or set down roots in London permanently like many of my friends before me. Playing around with the old proverb that man fulfils his destiny best in the place that gave him birth I packed the old leather suitcase with the metal buttons and headed back to the west of Ireland with my mind a mixture of hope and confidence. The economy of the country was still in the doldrums and would remain so ‘til the end of the decade. It would take the genius of men like Sean Lemass, Ken Whittaker and a small band of young able economists to carry out the miracle of the economic recovery that took place. Ireland was on the up and the rising tide was about to lift all boats. John (of the Wildean wit) came on holidays a few years later and as we walked along the railway platform he looked round about and smiled as he said: “Well old friend, it’s not Swiss Cottage, Piccadilly or Hampstead. But God I still love every inch of it.”


Christy Wynne

                              

Friday, August 7, 2015

Update 7th August

Meanderings

“The wind is old and still at play, and I must hurry upon my way,
For I am running to Paradise”  W.B. Yeats

In a few words W.B. sums up his feelings as he hurries to the haunts of his youth at Rosses Point, Drumcliffe, Lisadell, Glencar, Lough Gill, Ben Bulben and such places. Whenever I read them they conjure up humble memories of my own to such places as The Wooden Bridge, Doon Shore, The Abbey, The Military Barracks (King House), The Plantation (the Sligo Road), The Abbey Cinema and many more. Poor comparisons no doubt to the mystic beauty of the Yeats countryside, but the mind being its own place and all things being relative I too felt like I was running to Paradise!
                                           
The meandering Boyle River flows into beautiful Lough Key at The Wooden Bridge, a point from where a cabin cruiser can navigate the full length of the River Shannon to Killaloe and back, though it might require the skills and experience of a Dick Warner at the helm. If the same old bridge could speak it would have many an interesting tale to tell. The mile long stretch of quiet country lane that leads to it was once called the Boathouse Road (now Wooden Bridge Road) but it also had the more parochial name of ‘Lover’s Lane’ since it was frequented by many a courting couple. The same winding road boasted a solitary house from beginning to end; a quiet place, a tranquil setting with an old oak tree at its end that served a dual purpose, a shelter from the elements and a secluded bower beyond the ken of a man of the cloth who could just happen to pass that way.

A little further back the same lane another love nest sat snugly behind a hedgerow of small trees suitably intertwined; a gift of nature unspoiled until a modern path and wall, installed courtesy of FÀS, demolished it. The cosy nest that had served generations of lovers was left in tatters, all in the name of progress. Moving to the 1950s, the then Swimming Club organised lessons in swimming and life-saving for new and older member alike in the vicinity of the Wooden Bridge. Harry McEvoy, a first class swimming instructor and a native of nearby Castlerea, was engaged to teach us the finer skills of life-saving. He booked into the historic old Princess Hotel, Green Street for the two weeks of the course. If Harry had booked his room a while earlier he would have found himself in the finest of company and rubbing shoulders with such notables as Eamonn De Valera, Count Noble Plunkett and other prominent members of Sinn Fein.

Those towering figures of history stayed within the hallowed walls of the grand old hotel in the build up to the Sinn Fein by-election of 1918. History is never more than a breath away when in Boyle. Harry taught us the way to “approach and carry” a drowning person and how to bring him or her safely ashore, a task I might add was not very simple if the victim happened to weigh 14 stone and the life-saver was a 17-year-old weighing nine. The exercise demanded a rare mix of inspiration and perspiration! Later, a Director of the Water Safety Association of Ireland travelled from Dublin to present us with swimming certificates, also first second and third class certificates in life-saving, all in the presence of a group of well-wishers gathered along the bank. Kingpins like Brendan Coleman and Cecil Tiernan jump to mind, ably abetted by younger members Bob Flaherty, Christy Wynne, John Kelly, John Malone, Paddy McCarron, Eamonn Lynagh and several others forgotten in the mists of time.

Not many years later at the Doon Shore, the life-saving skills of Brendan (Coleman) were called upon to save a number of lives when a boat capsized; the course in life-saving had proven its worth. The wooden beams that protruded from beneath the old bridge also worked as a launch pad to hone our diving skills. A great film idol of the time was Johnny Weismueller, who played the part of Tarzan. His partner Jane was played by Maureen O’Sullivan, a native of Boyle who was born on Main Street; she added that little extra dimension to our lives. We were obsessed with this Lord of the Jungle who could fight lions and crocodiles with his bare hands, dive from the dizzy heights of Brooklyn Bridge and swim extraordinary distances underwater. On leaving the Abbey Cinema after watching a Tarzan film we competed with one another on the way home to see who could best mimic his famous jungle cry as he swung from tree to tree; lucky for us a law covering noise pollution had not yet been enacted. In that innocent uncomplicated world of our time we played out our fantasies hoping maybe one day we could be like him.

Another hidden haunt, The Plantation on the Sligo Road (opposite The Glen), still hovers like a giant bodyguard with its own little waterfall we named Shangri- La. God was its architect and the young workers at the vineyard finished it. Like a family of beavers we shored up the flow of water above the waterfall to reduce the level and to clear the river bed of stones and what have you. Mission accomplished the beavers removed the dam and restored the flow of water to its former level and to complete the project we built a diving board of clay and stones that could have been mistaken for a megalithic tomb. Boyle town finally had her own swimming pool (the only one we ever had) and it hadn’t cost the taxpayer a penny. A wonder to behold (in our own eyes) it made the pages of the Roscommon Herald through the good offices of its editor the late Micheal O’Callaghan; we were hailed as budding entrepreneurs! Summer holidays way back in those times were all about games, outdoor sports, swimming, football, fishing, picking blackberries, walking the fields at daybreak searching for mushrooms, and to end the perfect week a matinee in the Abbey Cinema on Sunday afternoon. Going in search of a summer job was something a million miles away. A concept for the future! Running to Paradise one might say!

The Army Fourth Motor Squad was based in the Military Barracks (The King House today) for the duration of the Second World War. Soon afterwards some rooms in the building were used as offices for the semi-state body Bord na Mona and that continued for a number of years. A large area of the massive building still remained unused and in the course of time it became dilapidated and run down. Bord na Mona subsequently moved their offices to the midlands and the old building became a haven and a playground for young lads to play ‘Cowboys and Indians’. Blessed with an outdoor handball alley from its army days, this was a wonderful bonus for a playground to have. Empty rooms were to be found at every level from the ground up.

There were old prison cells in the bowels of the old building with bars on their windows and also a huge meandering basement shrouded in semi-darkness. A sentry box with a guard room still intact stood inside the main gate and a line of look-out posts with peep holes ranged all along the perimeter walls. Then there was the empty gymnasium (The Great Hall today) that carried memories of boxing tournaments held among the soldiers themselves.

The writer had the pleasure of being brought to one of these boxing tournaments as an eight-year-old and it was an unforgettable experience. The Military Barracks was in a sense the jewel in the crown of the different playgrounds we were lucky to have around Boyle. Like many of the great houses of the time there was a caretaker in residence who supervised the comings and the goings. Mr. Murray, a very nice man, had two sons of similar age to ourselves with whom we were friendly with. He had his work cut out to keep watch on the street urchins who invaded his space daily, but as long we obeyed the rules and not lose the run of ourselves there would be no banishment to Siberia. No one was ever banished and nothing untoward ever happened during Mr. Murray’s watch. Not only were we acquainted with every nook and cranny of this eight-story building but a few among us harboured the secret hope that one day we would get a glimpse of the mysterious Green Lady who had haunted the place for centuries and whom we had heard so much about.

One particular Halloween night with spirits running high and flash lamps working overtime we believed we had seen the lady dressed in a long green garment enter an attic room that had no window; sadly when we entered she had disappeared into thin air like Lady Madrigora of Fry’s Chocolate Cream fame. In latter years the building and grounds were taken over by M/S Harrington and McNamara and used for storing dismantled dance marquees and as a fuel yard. Mr. Michael Harrington, still happily with us, was the last registered owner of the building before it was acquired by the State and it has since been transformed into one of the great heritage houses of Ireland with a history stretching back more than 200 years. 

Our youthful journeys brought us to Paradise one might say.

Christy Wynne