tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26386226744003780102024-02-22T23:42:52.095-08:00Christy WynneUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-91849951730407886472021-12-30T23:47:00.002-08:002021-12-31T02:47:54.571-08:00The Unforgettable Fire<p> <b style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 24pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">The Unforgettable
Fire</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">That
great conversationalist and customer Michael (Mickey) Morris from Abbeytown, my
local barber, had just dropped in to pick up his morning <i>Irish Press</i> 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! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">Mrs.
Flaherty (Tess) came in a rush for her paper and enquired if Paddy Leonard, our
Sacristan, had been in for his <i>Irish Independent</i>? 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! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">One memory invokes
another</span></b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-fareast-font-family: Georgia;">Christy Wynne </span></b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span lang="EN-IE"> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-64876730416923904782021-08-07T00:38:00.004-07:002021-08-07T00:39:25.963-07:00Assylinn: More than a Graveyard<h2 style="text-align: justify;"><b>Assylinn: More than a Graveyard </b></h2><p style="text-align: justify;">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. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">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! </p><p style="text-align: justify;">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. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">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.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">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. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">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. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">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. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">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’.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">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! </p><p style="text-align: justify;">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.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Christy Wynne</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-80565303549900337142020-06-16T12:17:00.003-07:002020-06-16T12:31:00.123-07:00The Way We Were<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">Whenever I hear
the old gospel song of the Plantation Workers of Southern Alabama – ‘That Old
Time Religion’ – I think of our religious ways of the 1940s and ‘50s and the intensity that accompanied it.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-spacerun: yes; text-align: justify;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Karl Marx is
reputed to have said that religion is the ‘opium of the people’. Certainly, the
community of the ‘40s and ‘50s, in which I grew up, lived and practised their
religion voraciously. I was an altar boy back then serving the 11.30a.m. mass
on a Sunday morning and relishing the little feel of importance that went with
it; again there were Sundays I enjoyed the game of handball in the local Ball
Alley or meandered my way to Lough Key, Doon Shore for a swim. Life is a
kaleidoscope of memories of schooldays, holidays, birthdays, Holy Communion
days, Confirmation days, wedding days, good days, bad days, sick days; all part
of life’s cycle from boyhood to manhood to old age. Today’s generation would
have a mountain to climb if they were to live the religious intensity I
remember of “order and obey” in all things! They’d likely fall at the first
fence; draconian might be a better word! There was an innocence that imagined
evil lurked in dark corners, that life’s pleasures could be an occasion of sin,
that temptation lay waiting to pounce at your weakest moment. Books and films
were censored and mortal sin hung like the sword of Damocles above your head
ready to bring you down in a moment of weakness. Stoicism, the ancient Greek
philosophy that preached self-control, was part of your daily curriculum and
Satan was renounced at every opportunity with all his works and pomps. The day
was a war between good and evil.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The present
generation lives in an alternative universe, a hyper-liberal society where
precious little is left to the imagination; everything and anything goes! The
psychologist’s couch is the modern-day confession box, the snort of cocaine is
the Highway to Heaven and the shot of Valium offers a soft landing after a
‘high’. Facebook, Twitter and Instagram make up the new ‘World Book of
Fairytales’ replacing many of the grand old reliables like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Our Boys</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ireland’s Own</i>,
comics and magazines for boys and girls, a wide variety of Detective, Western
and Romance novels to suit all ages; all for the more heady toxic stuff of
today. That being said, and to paraphrase an old school companion John Keats,
“When old age shall this generation waste and we stand in the midst of other
woes than ours”. And having failed to learn the lessons of history, old
draconian ways might slip back to haunt a new generation with penances
reminiscent of a bygone age. To wax humorous for a few moments, imagine a
neighbour having to dress in sackcloth and ashes and sit outside his local
Church or Market place for a month for spreading lies and fake news about a
prime enemy, or television’s ‘Nature Boy’ spending a month (in solitude) on
Lough Derg as an antidote to the abundance of female flesh he wallowed in on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love Island</i>, or a man to spend all of
Lent on top of Croagh Patrick for stealing his neighbour’s wife. The old
Canonical penances doled out in the early Church certainly knew how to bring
the serial sinner back into line; no three Hail Marys then, or a decade of the
Rosary for a penance! Life was never going to be a bed of roses or a Garden of
Eden.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">With the existence
of God smiled upon by many of today’s intellectuals and bearded philosophers,
surely it must dent the ego when they see flocks of highly intelligent people
enter a church or a sacred place in search of a bit of meaning to life and
death. The Creator in recent times has been replaced by something called ‘The
Big Bang’ (i.e. a gigantic ball of wind that originated from nothing and seems
to be travelling nowhere (has no destination) and has all of us humans stuck
here on earth whether we like it or not). It’s like a scene out of ‘Game for a
laugh’. So with Mother Earth hijacked between a combination of half-wits and
power-crazed misfits who see themselves as ‘Masters of the Universe’ is it any
wonder we’re on the verge of the ‘Sixth Extinction’, or looking down the barrel
of a gun at this latest phenomenon – the Coronavirus. If you feel you’ve heard
enough, kindly switch off now!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Religious Calendar of the 1940s and 1950s <o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The Church Calendar was a mixture of
ritual and ceremony. In chronological order, there was Christmas, Lent, Easter,
the Parish Mission, the Forty Hours Adoration, First Holy Communion,
Confirmation, Corpus Christi Procession, Feast days and Holidays of Obligation,
the Nine (First) Fridays, November (month of the Holy Souls), the Sodality
Meeting (i.e. Confession\Saturday, Mass\Sunday once a month and all year
round), Station Mass in the country home during Lent and Advent. Mass, the
epi-centre for all religious practice, was offered daily throughout the year
including three Masses on a Sunday. In the midst of all this religious
intensity there were the many joyful occasions like family christenings, First
Holy Communion Days, Confirmation Days, Wedding Days, Ordinations Days, Station
Mass in the home, and many other joyous occasions to celebrate along the way.
Of deep and powerful significance always has been the consolation and strength
the Church offers at times of sickness and death.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The Gregorian Mass: A Personal Memory<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: georgia, serif;">(Priest)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Introibo ad Altare Dei<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: georgia, serif;">(Altar Boy)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ad Deum qui laetificat iuvum tutum<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>meum<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: rockwell, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">Translation:
I will go unto the altar of God, to God who giveth joy to my youth.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The above were the first lines of the old
Latin Mass served by the altar boy. Today, when one sees the angelic little
altar girl dressed in her cream-coloured robe on the high altar, it begs the
question as to why it should have taken a further 40 years before she was
permitted to grace the altar of God! My Grandmother was a teacher in the old <st1:placename w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Convent</st1:state></st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">School</st1:state></st1:placetype> in her early
days and taught many an altar boy (including a cousin) the Latin of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Mass.</st1:state></st1:place> This cousin was so
determined to become a priest he’d insist on saying Mass for her in her
kitchen. Using a chair as an altar, a towel for a backdrop, a white cloth
spread on the seat and a cup and saucer for a chalice and paten, he’d go
through it without a hitch. Blasphemy, Blasphemy; all at the grand old age of
seven! “Happy the days when we shone in our angel infancy”; he reached his
goal, was ordained a priest, and died at the ripe old age of 90 not so many
years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Before the Second Vatican Council
(1962/65) the liturgy of the Mass was entirely through the medium of Latin.
Many changes would come as a result, one of the most important being that Mass
could now be said in English or the vernacular. The Celebrant faced the
congregation and delivered his sermon from the altar instead of the lofty
heights of a pulpit. Another very important change was the mass-goer being
allowed to eat food up to an hour before receiving Holy Communion. Prior to
that one had to abstain from the previous midnight.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Leading the Celebrant and four more altar
boys to the altar in front of a thousand people on a Sunday morning carried its
own little challenge; you had to be fully alert and know your Latin off by
heart like a school poem. Paddy, the Sacristan, was strict and scrupulously
fair. If you passed the test to his satisfaction, you became part of the
‘Church in action’ and were given your robes of office; a white surplice and
black soutane. You had to buy your own slippers which must be dark in colour.
To keep you on your toes he would sometimes say with a little smile ‘you know
the Celebrant can’t say Mass without you, that’s how important you are!’
Promotion in the ranks came slowly (like all good jobs) but the day eventually
came to pass when you led a small bunch of beginners onto the altar of God. You
had reached the pinnacle of success, you were the leader of the bunch!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The candles in their great cylindrical
tubes, five each side of the tabernacle, were lit by means of a long slender
pole with a tiny flame flickering on the end that blinked and laughed back at
you; a tricky little operation that could sometimes come a cropper and call for
outside help! Oh, the embarrassment of it all in front of a thousand people,
many of whom (you imagined) must know you! The 11.30a.m. Mass on Sunday was a
Missa Cantata, a sung Mass that began with the Celebrant walking down the
centre aisle sprinkling the overflow congregation with holy water as the choir
sang the ‘Asperges me’ (i.e. Cleanse me). Some Sundays when Mass was finished a
lady might come to the side altar requesting to be churched. You stood with a lighted
candle as the Celebrant read a list of prayers and blessed the said lady; the
ceremony was over in five minutes. Looking back on those unquestioning times
you presumed the lady might be ill or about to go to hospital; to be churched
carried no other connotations!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Christmas was one of the great high points
of the Church year with Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve and an extra early one
Christmas Morning (7.30 a.m.) to cater for the increased number of the faithful
home for Christmas; then there were the usual three Masses as on any Sunday
which brought the total to five on a Christmas Day. Setting up the Christmas
Crib was a high point of the hubris and excitement of Christmas with Paddy the
Sacristan acting as a kind of Snow White and calling on (approx.) seven altar
boys to assist him in the operation. Enthusiasm could run high leading
sometimes to a confusion not unlike what we’re told happened at the building of
the ancient Tower of Babel (i.e. members of the Holy Family took quite a while
to find their exact positions in the crib, not to mention the Shepherds with
their family of animal friends).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Some seven weeks later the holy season of
Lent had arrived. That meant one thing only: Fast, Abstinence, Rosary/
Benediction in the evening, Stations of the Cross on a Friday, the nine day
Novena leading up to St. Patrick’s Day and finally the Holy Week ceremonies
commemorating Christ’s Passion, Death and Resurrection. The Stations of the
Cross on a Friday evening were a mini-marathon with a verse of the hymn ‘Stabat
Mater’ sung at each Station followed by the prayer “We adore thee Oh Christ and
praise thee, because by thy Holy Cross thou hast redeemed the world”, followed
again with more prayers. This was repeated at each of the fourteen Stations
ending with Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament and the pungent smell of
burning incense burrowing its way into every nostril, nook and cranny of the
old Gothic Building.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Not very long afterwards came the Forty
Hours Adoration, a ceremony that extended over a period of three days. Two
altar boys would kneel for an hour at a time, praying (a little) and keeping
close watch on the finger-sized candles lit and inset in the candlebras all
round the altar. As they burned away, the task of the altar boy was to replace
them with new ones. Members of the laity came and went during daylight hours to
pray till closing time at 9 p.m..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nuns
from the nearby Convent usually came in pairs to fulfil an hour of adoration.
Looking down the years, remembering the solemn silence and air of sanctity all
round, brought back a memorable line from a poem by that wonderful poet William
Wordsworth that could have been written for such an occasion: “The Holy Time is
quiet as a Nun, breathless with adoration”.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">With memories of Lent still fresh in the caverns
of the mind our Parish Priest delivered his own tidings of great joy, the
annual Church Mission was coming fast down the track. Held (usually) over the
first two weeks of May, the Mission was a renewal of penance for the already
battle hardened faithful not to mention extra working hours for the faithful
altar boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was Mass at 7.30 a.m.
to facilitate the early morning worker and a later one at 8.30 a.m. for the
faithful in general. That was followed in the evening by Rosary, Benediction
and a high-powered relevant sermon. The first week was for the women of the
Parish and the second week for the men, with children of school-going age
enjoying a little mission of their own over the final four mornings of the
women’s mission. Their little mission consisted of Mass at 10 a.m. with a chat,
a short question and answer session, and a few funny stories to hold their
attention. The altar boy now at the heart of the action was in top gear,
finding himself in the shadow of Doctors of the Church, Jesuits or members of
another Religious Order. The proverbial ‘Poor Scholar of the Forties’ had scant
room for mistakes!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">During Lent and Advent, the Station Mass
was traditionally held in a country home. This was a very special occasion for
the family with neighbours coming together to pray and celebrate. As an altar
boy, I served at many of them and would travel with the Curate on duty on the
morning. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">By way of a short anecdote, to find
yourself in the company of the late Rev. Dr. Seamus McLoughlin as he drove his
Ford Prefect ‘DI 3701’ to the particular rural home was an unforgettable
experience. The Rev. Seamus never exceeded 15 mph in town or country to ensure
he could get a full view of the scenery and all of God’s creatures great and
small. On such a journey little would have escaped him! He was reputed to have
a photographic mind and an ability to scan a book in minutes (so to speak)
rather than hours. An avid reader, he was a member of the three local
libraries. A brilliant orator of his day he was known throughout the Diocese
and the country, and in constant demand as a speaker at religious conferences
and important events. A leading critic and an authority on the evils of
International Communism and National Socialism, he was often quoted in
newspapers and on national radio. When in full flight delivering his Sunday
morning homily, the Rev. Seamus could have surpassed a De Valera or a Michael
Collins arguing for or against The Treaty. Sparks rose from the pulpit and a
packed congregation listened (in a mood of shock and awe) as they clung to his
every word. His sermons were phenomenal, with the rhetoric a mixture of wit,
humour and a little douse of sarcasm if required. As a Confessor and founder of
the local men’s sodality, he attracted large crowds to his confessional
(contrary to adverse opinion) where he put in exceptionally long hours on
sodality nights hearing penitents sometimes till 10 p.m. and later. For a man
who outwardly projected the stern inflexible image, he was of a completely
different disposition in the confessional with some of his more ardent admirers
comparing him even to the great Cure of Ars; no sin was too grave, no story was
too long for him to give ear to, nor were his penances ever draconian according
to the ‘Whistleblowers’ of the day, and they were readily available. When the
Rev. Seamus died on December 22<sup>nd,</sup> 1960, the vast gathering at his
Funeral Mass told its own story. The overflow congregation included the
nation’s President and his Aide-De-Camp (seated in the Church Sanctuary), some
members of Government, Bishops from several dioceses roundabout, and a headcount of a hundred priests. A towering figure of his time, he still remained
the country curate who had hailed from humble beginnings from the rural
countryside of Ballyfarnon.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Back to the country Station, the Curate
and his young assistant were given a hearty welcome by the host family. He
began by hearing Confessions in a private room with Mass said immediately
afterwards. Breakfast followed and what a memorable occasion that was for a
young ‘townee’ lad to have his breakfast in a country home with the added
delight of the morning off school. The host family had their best china on
display, while breakfast boasted pure home produce; soda cake, scones, country
butter, fresh milk, boiled, scrambled, poached egg, apple tart, a variety of
sandwiches and a special treat Boxty. An air of welcome filled the home on
those mornings, together with a kind of feeling that God was partying there as
well. The memory of the Station Mass whether the Plains of Boyle, Brishlagh,
Deerpark or Doon, would remain with you for the rest of your days; a chapter in
the story of your life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The Corpus Christi Procession that was
held in the month of June attracted a thousand and more of the faithful. The
enormous gathering was made up of annual First Holy Communicants, Children of
Mary, Legion of Mary, members of the Men’s and Women’s Sodality, and a gathering
of the faithful. Members of St. Vincent De Paul carried the canopy above the
Priest bearing the Blessed Sacrament and a contingent of young fresh-faced
members of the local F.C.A. acted as bodyguards. The huge procession wound its
way through the streets of the town reciting the Rosary along the way. First
Holy Communion girls with little ornate baskets of flowers scattered the petals
in the way of the Blessed Sacrament in an act of homage while the Church Choir
sang the regular hymns of the time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">To serve at a Requiem Mass (usually 11.30
a.m. on a weekday) had a little bonus built-in for the altar boy; he had the
morning off school, lucky boy! Mass for the deceased person by its very nature
was a mournful occasion with tears shed by the family and friends. Towards the
end of Mass, the Celebrant with three more Priests stood around the coffin as
the Cantor sang the deeply solemn and very mournful dirge ‘Dies Ira’, a hymn
that rose like a cry to Heaven in memory of the deceased.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">A period of respite in Church ritual
seemed to occur over the autumn months. Then almost unnoticed All Saints Day
and All Souls Day, November 1<sup>st</sup> and 2<sup>nd</sup> respectively, had
arrived. All Souls Day saw the Priest saying three Masses consecutively. These
were shortened somewhat by the long gospel and prayers denouncing the devil
being read-only at the end of the third or last Mass, while Holy Communion was
distributed only during the first Mass.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Returning to more worldly trappings, there
was the odd occasion when a senior altar boy might be called upon to open the
Church if the Sacristan happened to fall sick suddenly or was unavailable. The
great key to the house of God hung on a hook on a hall rack in the Presbytery.
You unlocked the Sacristy door, proceeded to switch on the lights, walked the
length of the interior to the West Wing door (the only door opened on weekdays)
to be met by the ‘Magnificent Seven’. I see them to this day, and remember
their names, standing silently outside at 8 a.m with Mass at 8.30 a.m. Apology again
for a little anecdote ‘for the sake of posterity’ and a further insight into
local history!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pat Walsh, the big man
with a broad hat and a broader smile, was in his 80s and had been a daily Mass
goer all his life. During the Arctic weather of the Great Blizzard of 1947, Pat
struggled his way to Mass each morning dressed in what one could only describe
as a Himalayan style dress with matching footwear, that included two massive
bawneen socks like shin guards pulled up almost to his knees. As a young lad, I
wondered why Pat didn’t wear wellingtons like everyone else? The ingenious mode
of footwear seemingly was his chosen way to navigate across the vast carpet of
snow in front of him. Pathways had been cleared to a degree but the same
pathways didn’t travel all the way to the door of the West Wing! Pat had to get
to Mass, and being one of the ‘Magnificent Seven’ he’d be standing outside
awaiting a young St. Peter to open up! The faces are embedded in the memory as
clear today as in 1947, standing like the seven signatories of The
Proclamation. Before he died a few years later, the Parish Priest of the day
took the unique step of saying Mass for Pat in his own home in Bridge Street
for the final days of his earthly life. A man I feel privileged to have known,
he lived the quiet simple life with a smile and a friendly word for everyone.
He’s surely one of the many unnamed saints that ramble the highways of Heaven!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Back to reality, you rang the bell for
Mass at 8.15 a.m.. The great rope dangling from the Belfry a hundred feet above
dropped into a tiny dimly-lit porch at the bottom of the women’s aisle. To ring
the great bell could be a tricky business (especially if you didn’t know the
ropes!). If you failed to pull and release almost simultaneously you could find
yourself five foot off the ground trusting to a soft landing. A few of us did
learn the hard way!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Come retirement around the grand old age
of 12, you would have built up a little cache of happy and in some cases funny
memories; a few unforgettable ones! A once in a lifetime event occurred on a
quiet weekday morning during Mass. The Celebrant that morning had recently
returned from hospital having had a serious brain operation. After Holy
Communion he sat for the usual few moments of reflection and failed to return.
Three or four minutes passed with no movement from the Celebrant! The
occasional cough or clearing of a throat rose from the small congregation but
to no avail. The Celebrant was in a deep slumber, or was he? More agonising minutes
passed but still no movement. An air of panic was setting in. Could our
Celebrant have suffered a stroke? Who’d make a decisive move? Then Paddy the
Sacristan came to the rescue, having realised Mass was running quite a bit over
time. He came onto the altar and approached the Celebrant, still in
slumberland, and touched him gently on the shoulder and whispered something in
his ear. Mass came to a speedy conclusion with a profound apology and an
embarrassing little smile from the Celebrant. All was well. The scene brought
to mind the popular school poem by W. B. Yeats, ‘The Ballad of Fr. Gilligan
asleep upon his chair’. Those same mornings a deeply religious lady went around
the Stations of the Cross four or maybe five times, pausing for a few moments in
contemplation at each one. She had her mission accomplished in maybe ten
minutes. Remembering the Stations of the Cross on a Friday evening in Lent,
that might take an hour to complete with prayers and a verse of a hymn at each
Station, left one pondering if the same lady could reap an equal harvest of
grace with her own personal version? The Parable of the labourers in the
vineyard come to mind when one recalls those employed at the ninth hour were
paid the same amount as those who worked longer hours and endured the heat of
the day. Strange the ways of the Lord! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The final act of the day would be to
assist the Sacristan to close the Church at 9.30 p.m., and to prepare the
vestments to be worn next morning by the Celebrant. The colour was indicative
of the Saint or Martyr to be remembered in the Mass, and the great Missal was
left open and ready on its tripod at the correct page. One by one Paddy
switched out the lights and just before the moment of complete darkness (except
for the sanctuary lamp), he would call out as he had done a thousand times
before: “Everybody out”. One cold winter’s night a voice rose from out of the
darkness: “Not yet, I’m here”. A sound of high heeled shoes could be heard clip
clopping up the old flaggered women’s aisle. A young lady emerged into view,
somewhat out of breath and in a mild state of shock. “You could have been
locked in for the night,” Paddy said with a friendly smile! Regaining her
breath she replied, equally with a smile: “I could think of far worse places to
be locked up” and continued her way out by way of the Sacristy door. The great
key was left sitting on its hook in the Presbytery hall for another night. God
alone would decide who’d be the next mover! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: rockwell, serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">CHRISTY
WYNNE<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">Postscript<o:p></o:p></span></u></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">In
light of the terrible scandals regarding the physical and sexual abuse of young
boys and girls inflicted by different religious institutions over time, I can
only speak for myself when I say that being an altar boy was one of the happiest
experiences of my life. For this reason, my story is just one more happy memory
of growing up in Boyle, ‘the town I love so well’. I have written on every
aspect of life as I remember it from my earliest days of the 1940’s up to the
present-day, and the above story has been as rich in memories for me as anyone
gone before. I would have dearly wished the same could be repeated by every
young boy or girl growing up then. They are supposed to be among the happiest
and best days of a young person’s life and serve as a bulwark for the tougher
times that might lie ahead in later life; unfortunately it doesn’t always work
that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Haec olim meminisse iuvabit.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Virgil.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-27843633122637461792020-04-12T00:52:00.002-07:002020-04-12T00:59:15.694-07:00The Coronavirus<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>‘All changed, changed utterly’ (W.B. Yeats) </b> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Walking the centre of my hometown of Boyle on St. Patrick's Day 2020, brought to mind the above famous quote from the poem Easter 1916; the message conveyed was more than appropriate. Shops closed, an overwhelming silence, no human in sight, streets like a morgue; Boyle was a dead man lying in repose.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Can anyone remember a St. Patrick's Day without Mass, a parade, music, banter, laughter? I have never known one like it in my memory and it stretches a long way to The Blizzard of 1947 and further. To think that a virus a thousand times more fragile than a rib of a human hair (we're told) can bring our powerful hi-tech world to a halt boggles the mind and humbles the spirit. The Masters of the Universe (no need to name them) look like a drowning man fighting for breath as they struggle to handle this mysterious little bug, that emerged one afternoon on the far side of the globe, that has our sophisticated world frightened out of its wits. Military might, nuclear power, embargos would have little effect on this new little creature. It obviously recognises no boundaries!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The great economies of the world are in a state of trauma not knowing what's around the corner; they could be the next bushfires of the world similar to what we have seen in Australia and the Amazon rainforests last year. Twitter or Instagram would have little influence on the matter; they're lost for words!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My above little observations may ring a trifle satirical, with echoes of Gulliver's Travels or Alice in Wonderland, but seeing is believing. And it is there for all to see.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Today, with oceans of time on our hands to ponder and to think, it makes one wonder what strange anomaly of nature produced this deadly little virus in the first place. Apparently one afternoon last December, Mother Nature sneezed in a corner of a market place on the far side of the globe triggering a chain reaction that has reverberated around the world. Our beautiful open-air environment has suddenly become a dangerous place to inhabit. We are advised to stay at home (indoors). We must not socialise, and, if we do, keep a healthy distance. We must not shake hands or extend a hug of friendship; all changed, changed utterly, a (terrible) new way of life is born. A timeless and unique balancing act between Mother Nature and ‘Homo Sapiens’ was about to change. Coronavirus had arrived on earth.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Do we humans really value anything until it’s lost or taken from us? Freedom, the pleasure of company, a jog in the park, a walk by the lakeshore, a walk barefoot on the sands of an ebbed sea, the miracle of sunrise and sunset, relaxing in your own back garden! All these freedoms (taken for granted) are today being rationed out to us like foodstuff was during the war years (which I remember as a child); all because of Coronavirus. Without being facetious, could this whole scenario be an indicator of sorts to our present-day 'Masters of the Universe' to stop destroying all that's good and beautiful in nature? Wealth and power appear to be their one and only aim in life!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
To conclude my little thesis, I truly believe Mother Nature is a reflection of God in action; no more, no less. If we appreciate Nature, her goodness, her beauty, her wildness, her hedges, and her ditches, we appreciate God. Perhaps a humble little prayer to our Creator to bring this lockdown of humanity and its accompanying nightmare to a conclusion wouldn't go astray!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Christy Wynne </div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-82600580462125959642019-12-17T01:00:00.000-08:002019-12-17T01:08:32.460-08:00The Christmas Dinner That (Nearly) Never Was…<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Christmas Dinner That (Nearly) Never Was…<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It was early 1965 and I had just invested
in my first car, a five-year-old black Ford Prefect, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DI 6858</i>. It declared its age proudly, sometimes letting out a groan
or a rattle. On Christmas morning 1965, my mother, two aunts and myself (the
navigator) prepared for our annual visit to Longford, to another member of the
family, for the Christmas get together. This was an annual event, a renewal of
family bonds, an update on all things small and great. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We took off about noon (after the 11.30
a.m. Mass) in good weather conditions; no snow, no frost, no flooded roads to
contend with. As we swung into Abbey Terrace the ‘Old Faithful’ started to
splutter and chug a little, slowly grinding to a halt at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Abbey</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Terrace</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Bridge</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Shock and dismay
hung heavy in the air; could our Christmas visit to Longford be about to end
before it began?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My knowledge of the workings of a car was
extremely limited to say the least, a few basics and that was it. ‘Thinking
things that never were and asking why not’…I remembered a friendly little man
named Paddy Conroy who lived a short distance away at No. 8, <st1:address w:st="on"><st1:street w:st="on">Lower Marian Road</st1:street></st1:address>.
Paddy was the master mechanic in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Taylor</st1:city></st1:place>’s
Motor Works (now Corrib), a very popular man respected by all who knew him.
With the adrenaline running high I plucked up the courage (it was Christmas
Morning after all) and decided to call to his house and hope for the best. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">After a gentle, well-nuanced, knock his
good wife Mary answered the door. I wished her and the family a very happy
Christmas and then with an intake of breath gave her the bad news of my
predicament. “Come in Christy, he’s sitting here in the kitchen. You can
explain it all to himself,” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Mary said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Things moved quickly from there. Paddy
promptly collected his magic kit (the tools of the trade) and led the way. In
the midst of all the hype and the hope I couldn’t help but think of a local
Medical Doctor of the time, hurrying to give relief to a sick patient somewhere,
or perhaps help bring a baby into the world. Paddy was the Doctor that morning
and time was of the essence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He raised the bonnet. Open heart surgery,
hopefully not; too much choke, perhaps? Check the plugs! Minutes passed, the
bonnet still open, Paddy eliminated a few more possible problems and said: “Try
her now Christy…again…again”. At the third time of asking, the engine kicked
into action. The sense of relief was so palpable ‘it couldn’t be described’.
The Miracle Worker (not quite Anne Bancroft) gave a little smile of
satisfaction and simply said: “Keep going and don’t stop till you get to
Longford. See you sometime in Boyle!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Paddy, God rest him, will forever remain
in our memory for his wonderful deed of kindness that morning and for making Christmas one of the best we’ve ever had.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Christy Wynne<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-85909973548731734112018-06-24T05:25:00.003-07:002018-06-24T05:25:36.778-07:00The Street Entertainer<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif"; font-size: 22.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Street Entertainer<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As a young lad growing up in Boyle in
the 1940s and 50s the arrival in town of the street singer or showman could
halt the shopper in his tracks and bring traffic to a halt. It was a treat of
sorts when one of these colourful characters dropped in to display his hidden
talents or skills to the local community. There was the Ballad Singer, the
Whistler, the Preacher, the Strong Man, the Blade Man, the Bargain King, the
Huckster, the Three-Card-Trick man, the Man-with-no-Name and others; all part
of an old world order and tradition long gone and forgotten. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The first on my prize list would have to
be our own ‘singing bird’ and town crier Ned Kelly, who like the perennial wet
weather never left us till the Good Lord called him as heaven’s town crier. Ned
and his bell were inseparable as he walked the streets of Boyle proclaiming the
news of great events about to happen such as a political rally, Duffy’s Circus,
McMahon’s Carnival, the Agricultural Show, a football match in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Abbey</st1:placename> <st1:place w:st="on">Park</st1:place></st1:place>
and much more. Ned was also good for a song, and particularly if he felt a
thirst coming on. “Thirst can be a terrible thing,” Ned would say “if it’s not
quenched”; and he knew that his many friends in Boyle would never allow their
town crier to die of thirst. His repertoire amounted to two popular songs of
the time, ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer Do’ and ‘A Bunch of Violets’. The
voice of any ballad singer can vary in quality and tone and Ned was no
exception, at times suffering the ignominy of a drop in pitch or losing key. But
that never stopped his many admirers following on with their customary
generosity. To the people of Boyle, Ned wasn’t just a town crier; he was the
bearer of good news. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Another entertainer who paid seasonal
visits to Boyle showed off his style of funnelling his voice to the audience by
cupping his hand to his mouth to enhance or strengthen the melody. It was
strange to watch, a little funny even, but must have paid dividends as he kept
coming back offering more of the same!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Again, there was a strolling player who whistled his way through town
with a unique style of whistling or warbling, an early but amateur version of
the great Roger Whittaker who graced the world stage decades later with his
wonderful rich voice and whistling expertise. This man, with his little canine
friend tagging along behind him, reminded me of a 78 record I played regularly
as a child at home (on ‘His Masters Voice’). The name of the record was ‘The
Whistler and his Dog’ and the reverse side was ‘The Warblers Serenade’, two
favourites of mine I’d play again and again. Oh, childhood memories! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Next to take the stage was The Preacher
Man or Evangelist who brought the Good News to the very heart of the market
place. The Rev. Gentleman stood on a chair to connect better with his
congregation and with a great booming voice spoke about God, Heaven and
Redemption. The man had little need of a megaphone to make himself heard; his
voice filled every nook and cranny of the Crescent like a latter day Billy
Graham, the great American Evangelist. Then came the super salesman who set up
shop in the shadow of the Market Yard. As kids we nicknamed him ‘Billy Bassett’
of the Liquorice Allsorts fame due to the variety of bric-a-brac he brought
with him. One item that captured the young imagination was a pack of Macs/Smile
blades that showed on one side of the wrap a guy with a fierce angry look and a
dirty grisly beard and on the other side the same guy sporting a beautifully
clean face and a charismatic Macs/Smile. The packet of five blades cost the
enormous price of a shilling, which in those times could get a young lad into
the Abbey Cinema on a Sunday for the Matinee. More happy memories! Among the
myriad of items this guy had for sale was a powerful superglue that could stick
anything together. Even the fingers on your hand could be in danger. The
strange substance had first to be heated over a flame before use and boy could
it stick things! This bargain king would give an exhibition of its hidden
strength by smashing cups, dinner plates and other items on the ground and
sticking them together again. The mysterious substance needed the wearing of
gloves when using it and carried a notice to ‘keep out of the hands of
children’. History, they say, keeps repeating itself! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There is a particular rambling tradesman
I choose to remember as Ozymandias ‘the traveller from an antique land’. He hit
town pushing a type of rickshaw fitted with a great circular sharpening stone
that looked capable enough to sharpen the sword of Damocles or the French guillotine.
The little man, I thought, had a kind of oriental look about him but spoke
perfect English and had no problem relating with his customers. He parked his
strange machine on wheels (not by accident) in the very shadow of the Shambles
Yard which was a daily hive of activity. As news spread that the blade man was
in town the customers came running: hoteliers, grocers, butchers, barbers,
housewives; all taking their place in a queue with their respective ‘tools of
the trade’ to have them restored to their former greatness. At the end of what
seemed a massive day’s trading, Ozymandias took to the highways again. The
extraordinary little man must literally have clocked up thousands of miles in
his lifetime, he and his strange contraption on wheels having made their
appearance in town after town in County’s Roscommon, Leitrim and <st1:place w:st="on">Sligo</st1:place> over the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A unique character again who paid a
regular visit to town was a man named ‘Dan the Street Singer’. Dan graced the
town dressed in an old shower-proof coat, a battered hat and a belt tied around
his waist; all for effect. He could easily have been imitating the lifestyle of
the famous Irish writer Padraig O’Connaire, the man who rambled the roads of the
West of Ireland writing short stories about life there. ‘Dan the Street Singer’
however had a deep love for the Irish ballad rather than stories, so he was
happy to cycle through town after town during the summer singing Irish songs,
‘the songs our fathers sang’. Some may regard the man’s obsession as a form of
eccentricity, and if it was then what a wonderful way to share one’s love of
music and it worked for Dan with his fine tenor voice reminiscent of a Brendan
O’Dowda or a Frank Paterson. An added attraction of his was the quaint little
holdall on wheels he had linked up to his bicycle fitted with an acoustic
system, and no doubt food and wine to sustain him on his journey through the
highways and the byways of the west.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Of all the strolling players and
entertainers I recall from childhood, my personal favourite has to be a man who
made his entrance to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boyle</st1:place>
<st1:place w:st="on">Town</st1:place></st1:place> cracking a large whip; boy
could he crack that whip! The bad guys that lashed poor Clint Eastwood almost
to death in one of his famous western films of the 1970s wouldn’t be in the
same class. His noisy arrival could be heard way in the distance long before he
was seen in the flesh. From the four corners of the town the young (myself
included) came running to the Crescent to see this extraordinary character; ‘The
Man with no Name’ we called him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Seasoned shoppers were known to leave goods behind them in the rush to
see this guy and even the dogs on the street raced for cover from the
terrifying sound of the whip. The great open space that is the Crescent, with
its stately Courthouse and elegant Clock Tower (better known as the Town’s
Clock), was the setting for this class operator. For the people of Boyle, the
Crescent was the epicentre for all great events like political rallies,
carnivals, outdoor entertainments and celebrations of different kinds. It was
Boyle’s answer to The Forum in ancient <st1:place w:st="on">Rome</st1:place>.
Imagine the Courthouse as the great centre of power with its impressive array
of steps leading up to it and the spacious area in front where the mighty
Caesar might sit on his lofty throne to pay homage to his warring generals
returning from the wars in Gaul or North Africa; or maybe rub shoulders with
the great legal eagles of the day as they made their way to The Senate House,
or be seen in the company of the most distinguished eagle of them all Cicero as
he strode Toga clad to his Chambers. This was the Crescent in Boyle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Man
with no Name, having arrived at his place of destiny, stripped to the waist to
show off his great brawny arms and muscular chest. He then unfolded a table on
which he spread a range of steel implements, the man’s stock in trade. First to
hand was a heavy steel poker that he bent in two, almost in slow motion, and
with gritted teeth gradually restored to its original shape. This was only a
sweetener or a beginning of what was to follow. He followed on by bending not
one but several six-inch nails to prove he was genuine. Next he hammered
several nails into a length of timber and with clenched teeth and a fiendish
expression extracted them one by one. The gathered crowd saw and believed. A
glass of water and a short pause followed as he got himself ready for his next
act which was even more fascinating. He announced to the crowd that he was
going to swallow a length of chain he had spread in front of him. Before
commencing he called for a volunteer from the crowd to come forward and grip
his bared stomach or solar plexus so the volunteer could actually feel the links
of the chain in the pit of his stomach. Having extracted the chain he next
pulled a sword from its sheath or scabbard and slowly and cautiously swallowed
it out of sight, all eighteen inches of it. Shock appeared on every face in the
crowd. The next act was something new again and would require the assistance of
a young boy. One promptly stepped forward as cool as you like (how I admired
the lad’s courage) in front of the large crowd. A bicycle was wheeled into the
arena and the boy was put sitting on the saddle of it and told to hold on
tight. The strong man then lifted boy and bicycle above his head balancing both
on his chin for a number of minutes having taken away both his hands. The
applause afterwards could have made soundwaves among the deceased of Assylinn
graveyard. Then followed the final act, the Crème De La Crème; the one that
would not easily be forgotten. The act involved the use of a large flat rock
heavier and thicker than a flagstone (placed there in advance).</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Once again a
volunteer was invited from the crowd. The ‘Man with no Name’ let it be known
that this volunteer would have to be a brave man, a man of courage, a man who
would not cower or pull back at the last moment! After a lengthy pause a man
stepped forward. The ‘Man with no Name’ prostrated himself on the ground on his
back with the volunteer placing the large rock on his naked chest. He then
lifted a sledge hammer above his head and brought it down full force on the
flagstone which broke into several pieces. Silence and disbelief showed on the
face of the crowd as they wondered and waited to see if the man would rise
again!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seconds passed, silence hung
heavy in the air accompanied by numerous intakes of deep breath. Then suddenly,
the ‘Man with no Name’ moved, stood up, dusted himself down and smiled at the
crowd. The show had come to a happy ending.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Christy Wynne<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-74622876505955877392017-10-23T23:45:00.001-07:002017-10-24T00:16:48.864-07:00My Own Place<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One morning recently I woke to the sound
of a dog barking. Strange I thought to myself, I nearly always wake up to the
sound of a heavy truck or lorry rumbling along the street below. I looked out
my bedroom window, the same one (I might add) that I looked out as a child 70
years before to catch the first glimpses of the great snow blizzard that hit
Boyle on the February 23rd 1947. The street was as usual devoid of a human
being except for the never-ending flow of tankers, delivery trucks, juggernauts,
land rovers careering through with little or no reason to stop; the street had
become a right-of-way to the west, to the midlands and the south. It was a far
cry from the street I grew up in; people stopping for a chat, children
laughing, dogs barking, the sound of shop doors opening and closing. Charles
Lambe, the famous essayist describing a similar scene from his own time, talked
about “the sweet security of a street”. If he were to come back today he might
form a different opinion! Having got over the commotion of the barking dog I
returned to my comfort zone but was unable to get back to sleep. Instead I went
on an exciting cruise down memory lane recalling life as I remembered it in
Main Street, the home place well over a half century ago. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It was a bustling busy street back then,
full of small shops offering a friendly and personal service to all who came
through the doors. Many of the same shops have since closed, some have changed
hands, others have passed on the baton to a new generation. The closed ones had
now a cold lifeless look about them, their windows devoid of goods; empty
spaces, graves without a cross! The collapse of the economy a decade earlier
had wreaked havoc on the town and many like it around the country. The deadly
virus spread like a cancer killing everything in its path, but it wasn’t the
whole story. In preparing for this great boom now dead, a raft of new parking
regulations and street by-laws were brought in to facilitate the never-ending
flow of heavy traffic through Main Street and the town centre. These great new
pillars of the economy steamrolled their way through a town that was never
designed for such traffic, making it literally impossible for any business to
survive. A nail the size of a crowbar was being hammered daily into the backs
of the traders. The never-ending stream of dead matter took priority over
people and traders alike. Caught in a catch-22 situation, the shops closed by
the dozen, never to open again; it was a case of death by a thousand cuts. The
same story repeated itself in many towns around the country but little sympathy
was ever shown by Governments or local authorities. The state was in the
process of reaping a Pyrrhic victory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Doing an autopsy, my thoughts moved
slowly from house to house whence I had a long deep look. The street had at one
time been the main driveway or gateway to the King House at one end. The
facades of the shops and houses had been designed to face towards the driveway
rather than the river running parallel behind it. Towns of more recent vintage
with a river running through have the facades of the buildings face on to them,
enhanced further by boulevards of trees, shrubs and pathways. Such
considerations weren’t in the offing when the Main Street was being planned.
The King family had become the new landlords of Moylurg, the ancient name of
the area in the early 1700s. Their country residence was in Rockingham, which
today is Lough Key Forest Park. That magnificent Georgian Mansion was destroyed
in a fire in 1957 and the shell that stood for a further fifteen years was
regrettably levelled before An Taisce had time to stop its demolition. The King
townhouse on Main Street was in time converted into a Military Barracks and
became the home of the Connaught Rangers before, during, and for a time, after
the First World War. Later again it housed the 19th Infantry Battalion of the
national army during the years of the Second World War, and later a platoon of
the F.C.A. continued to have quarters in it until very recently. Bord-na-Mona,
another semi-state body, used several of the rooms as offices in the late-40s
and 50s, creating a good number of jobs in the process. The great open square
used by the soldiers for drill and parading also served as a handball alley
which in time became a little bonanza and a playground for the new kids on the
block. Around the same time a peculiar twist of history helped restore the
prestige of the old building for a short period. A drainage scheme carried out
on the shores of nearby Lough Gara caused the levels of the lake to drop considerably,
revealing several lakeside dwellings called Crannogs. These wattled huts had
been the habitat of our ancient ancestors thousands of years ago. The findings
also included shells of old boats, cooking utensils, tools for tilling land and
numerous other artifacts. A temporary museum was set up in rooms of the
building to store the vast array of items found. Dr. Raftery, then keeper of
antiquities at the National Museum, became a frequent figure around the town,
smoking his pipe and perusing the landscape. He also gave a series of talks on
the archaeology of the area to packed audiences in the great groundfloor hall
of the building. The project at the time was regarded as being of such national
significance that three extra Gardai were drafted in specifically for the
duration of the work. The same three Gardai integrated themselves so well into
the community, becoming members of the local GAA, golf and snooker clubs, they
were given the distinguished title of ‘The Three Crannogs’ and are remembered
by many to this day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When the Barracks was finally vacated, a
syndicate of local businessmen bought it and used the grounds to store large
quantities of coal, turf and briquettes for resale and also as a storage depot
for dance marquees. The new owners were a breed of young entrepeneurs who saw
the potential for renting out marquees for open air dances, agricultural shows
and various other kinds of social occasions. Dancing at the crossroads under
canvas had become the new craze in the 1950s and continued for decades until
the disco hall and the singing lounge brought in a complete new form of
entertainment and pleasure. The attraction of the marquee reached a peak when
the season of Lent was over and the long spell of abstinance had come to an
end. The sight of circus-like tents raising their heads in fields outside every
village and town was something to behold, they were the harbingers of the good
times ‘a coming’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">With my memories of the King House now
drained I turned my attention to my own place Main Street, where I first saw
the light of day. There she stood in all her fullness. For a moment I thought
of Fra Pandolf the artist praising his masterpiece ‘My Last Duchess’ to a
friend. “There she stands,” he said. “I call that piece a wonder now. Will’t
please you sit and look at her?”. Newsagents, grocers, drapers, butchers,
hairdressers, electrical shops, bicycle shops, hardware shops, a music shop, a
sports shop, a pharmacy, a one time R.I.C. Barracks now a restaurant, licensed
premises, a merchant tailor, a hotel, a legal practice, an office of the Bank
of Ireland and National Bank, two shops with the added attraction of a petrol
pump outside; the one next door to the home place a vintage model that required
manual operating (i.e. two large bottle-like containers overhead had first to
be pumped full of petrol and released back slowly into the car tank; an
interesting piece of technology to the eyes of a young street urchin hoping to
be asked to give a hand in the operation). What finer variety of shops could a
street offer, not to mention the rare and varied selection of sound, music and
sometimes fury rising from within and without. There were the voices of happy
children playing on the street, dogs barking, loud men laughing, the music shop
playing the best of Delia Murphy, Three lovely Lassies from Bannion, The Sally
Gardens, The Spinning Wheel, Dan O’Hara, the clarion sound of the bell in the hotel
lobby ringing out time for meals, the thud of the butcher’s cleaver carving up
a half side of beef. Saturday, the market day, was the big business day of the
week. Donkeys and carts laden with our feathered friends lined up along
Military Road, better known perhaps as the Fowl Market. Chickens are thoroughly
examined and breasts felt with a view to Sunday’s lunch. A buzz of business
fills the market place. A customer showing an interest in buying two birds sets
off a bout of bargaining reminiscent of buying the turkey at Christmas. The
local expert on birds, a man who never misses a market, is tentatively approached
to give his valued opinion. His word is sacrosanct, a deal is done, Sunday
lunch is guaranteed. Around the corner a donkey (and cart) parked outside a
large grocery store has finally run out of patience and neighs its deep
displeasure, and sadness almost, at being ignored and forgotten about for
hours. The owner appears out of nowhere, produces the magic bag of hay from the
back of the cart and spreads it on the ground; all is forgiven, the donkey now
happy sounds off and retreats back into himself. The brief spell of silence is
shattered minutes later when the local town criers, two mongrel dogs that live
opposite one another, start a high-powered barking match in the middle of the
street; it goes on and on till one of them eventually runs out of steam. Not
quite outside the door of the National Bank, an elegant-looking Victorian-style
lady dressed all in black and somewhat eccentric stands grumbling and mumbling
about her lost savings; she faces the front of the building demanding her money
back now. She stands in the same spot three mornings a week (on my way to
school) staking her claim, and for anyone willing to give her an ear she reads
out the Bank’s Capital Assets writ large in letters of gold on one of the
windows, £7,500,000. On the other side of the street, at the hall door of a
long-established premises, a sedate old man reputed to be verging on centenarian
status stands Moses-like with a beard stretching down to his breastbone. Local
history believes he was an Elder or Bishop of the Plymouth Brethren, a
religious sect that once had a place of worship in the town in the late-18th
and early-19th century. To the young denizens of the street he is their Noah
(from a film), the bearded holy man at the helm of the of The Ark navigating
the mountainous waters of The Deluge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Further on again, a long established
trader stands at his door dresswed in his brown shop coat. The man whose day begins and ends with a
cigarette can be heard coughing and choking in what could be his last breath on
this earth. Every sinner in the street knows the origin of the sound and the
direction it’s coming from. They’ve been listening to it for donkey’s years but
no one mentions a word of condemnation; judge not and you shall not be judged.
Lady King Harman, severely afflicted by rheumatoid-arthritis, leaves the Beauty
Salon complete with hair perm and accompanied by her lady-in-waiting. Outside,
her chaffeur stands in readiness dressed in navy blue uniform and high leather
boots at the door of the wine-coloured Bentley for Her Ladyship to enter;
shades of the grand old ‘Upstairs Downstairs’era. Drawing ever closer to ground
zero (the home place), a vision of my neighbour looms large in front of me. The
man was one of the great pianists of his day, the Joe (Mr. Piano) Henderson of
his time; a person who could beat out the great postwar tunes of the 1950’s. A
celebration is taking place in the upstairs sitting room and friends are
sitting round having drinks sweetened up with ginger ale or soda water. The
occasions are Christmas, Easter and other celebratory times of the year. Other
impromptu sessions occur that are even more enjoyable than the organised ones
and may last till midnight and beyond; what memories, what a wonderful world! <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A lady, a music teacher by profession,
living in a flat a few doors away brought the word curry into the little world
of Main Street. Born in India, where her father was a British army major during
the First World War, the said lady had family connections with Boyle. After her
father died in India she came on a holiday, fell in love with the place and
never left it. Her oriental cooking became famous in the street and was talked
about almost like an eighth wonder of the world. The pungent smell of chicken
curry or vindaloo halted people in their tracks as they tried in vain to
discover the source and the name of the strange exotic aroma permeating the
street round about. A touch of eastern promise and oriental cuisine had come to
the home place years before an Indian or oriental restaurant was heard of in
Ireland. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A new neighbour has just opened up a
strange type of grocery store in the street which boasts being among the first
of its kind in the west of Ireland (1960); it’s called a supermarket and it’s doing
a roaring trade. A ground-breaking concept, the place is held in awe by all who
enter. How a business can survive that has neither a counter nor an assistant
(so to speak) simply boggles the mind. It beggars belief, shelves upon shelves
of items to pick and choose from and pay at the door on your way out. Old
habits die hard, the pass book, the weekly credit, the personal touch, the
Christmas Box. Do these grand old trappings of a way of life that has endured
for generations go out the window in the name of some alien form of business
still wet behind the ears! When God was a child the shops stayed open all
hours; the owner could almost choose his own time to open and close. Closing
time was usually 8 p.m. on weekdays, 10 p.m. on Saturdays and 1 p.m. on
Wednesday (the half day). Sunday, the day of rest, was sacrosanct except for the
sinning Newsagent. The barber around the corner held the record for long, stand
alone, outrageous hours; he could be found working up till the midnight hour,
cut-throat in hand unloading a mountainy man of a week’s growth of beard. His
was the last stop saloon. Trade unions were a nasty word in those times,
probably a throwback to the great Dublin Lockout. The name was rarely brought
into conversation, shunned like the subject of politics or religion in a bar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At the junction of Main Street, Bridge
Street, Patrick Street and Green Street stands the majestic old building of the
Northern Bank. Standing in the shelter of the hall door of this impressive
building, one has a birds-eye view of
anything and everything happening on three of the four named streets.
The shelter surrounding the closed entrance door served as a kind of lookout
post for as long as anyone can remember, a place where a restless soul might
linger to consider the fragility of life or for the man not quite ready to go
home ‘yet’. After leaving the pub or the cinema, a small group would gather
around the historic door for a rehash of what had gone on earlier. The pipe
would be lit up, cigarettes smoked and the occasional loud laugh told its own story,
a good yarn had just been spun. Then came the pauses of deep silence as the
group huddled together like ghosts in the shadows using each other as
protection from the elements. The spot became the all-seeing eye of Boyle, the
local centre of the universe, a kind of early version of CCTV. Other memories
to enrapture the mind are the bright lights of the ‘open all hours’ little
shops in the long winter evenings, a husband and wife team working together
behind the counter with a smile for everyone. They were the halfway houses
where a customer hung on late for a chat and a smoke, and could end up sitting
at the fire in the kitchen at the back of the shop. It was a familiar culture
that died with the demise of the small shop; they were <i>John Nesbitt’s Passing Parade</i>; they were the ‘Lachrymae Rerum’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As I reach the bottom of my Pandora’s
Box, I see the faces of two colourful personalities peering up at me who were
born on Main Street. They are Jasper Tully, M.P. at Westminster and founder
member of the <i>Roscommon Herald</i>, and
Maureen O’Sullivan, the famous Hollywood Actress who acted as Jane – Tarzan’s
(Johnny Weissmuller) partner in many a jungle film. They have earned their
niche in the street’s little Pantheon of characters. Boyle town has been
through the wars; battered, bruised and scarred, but still standing; a born
survivor. Within her lies an unconquering hope that will see her overcome every
obstacle no matter how great. Lord Tennyson said it once in a few words: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 108pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">To
strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">CHRISTY WYNNE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-60738316642400761512017-06-28T22:28:00.000-07:002017-06-28T22:44:06.610-07:00Convent of Mercy, Boyle<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 26pt; line-height: 107%;">Convent of Mercy<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span lang="GA" style="color: #333333; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Lest We Forget<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In retirement I have enjoyed putting on
record many of the memories I have of growing up in my hometown of Boyle, a
town steeped in history; the town I love so well. I have covered events like
the Blizzard of 1947, the Cattle Fairs on the streets, Christmas Shopping in
Boyle, Showday in Abbey Park, Rockingham (the Forest Park) and many more. With
the recent closure of the Convent of Mercy I feel now might be a good time to
recall some of the happy memories of my first Alma Mater, the Convent school;
appreciated or not! My ramblings come from a different time and place, giving
names of nuns that can mean little or nothing to the present generation but
nevertheless may convey a picture of what life was like for a child attending
Convent School back then, ‘a poor scholar of the ‘40s’ one might say.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">To say I remember my very first day in
school would be pushing it a little.
However I do remember the class of low infants and my teacher Sister
Imelda, a nun with a gentle voice and a friendly face. She radiated a warmth
that helped overcome the initial shock of those early days of separation from
Mum and home. I remember being given a small black slate with a piece of chalk
to scribble with and later a lump of plasticine to make shapes. I can’t ever
recall her raising her voice to anyone in the class. A high point of that first
year in school was the visit of Santa at Christmas. I never got to know who
played Santa but I certainly remember the mayhem he created. Dressed all in red
with a great white beard, he exploded into the classroom with a show of
exuberance that frightened the life out of us. Pandemonium set in with children
climbing over stools and running for cover. It took several minutes for poor
Sister Imelda to restore calm and for Santa himself to realise the shock he had
created, not to mention being given a chance to dole out the toys he carried in
a swagbag on his back. Faith in Santa was gradually restored but God bless him
he must have wondered what went wrong or where he lost the plot.</span><br />
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Next came the
diminutive Sister Anita in high infants. Equally blessed we were with this
little nun’s friendly manner. She had a press full of books and toys she handed
out for a while each day, a kind of happy half-hour! My favourite toy was a
drum that sounded like a bodhran but I wasn’t always lucky in getting it; the
competition was fierce for the same instrument. Sister Anita was nothing short
of a miracle worker in that she could find a toy or a book to suit everyone
almost.</span><br />
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then came Sister Francis in first class; she was the nun who prepared
us for our First Holy Communion. Starting our third year in school, we were
becoming ‘seasoned little annuals’ that could take it on the chin whenever she
used the word ‘booby’ for making a mistake or ‘sugar lump’ (that melts in your
tea) if your excuse for missing school was ‘a shower of rain’. Notwithstanding
all of that we loved her, particularly when she read Pudsy Ryan for us in the
Far East magazine or the funny jokes from Our Boys comic. Sister Francis had a
thoughtful side to her as well and would often send a pupil who looked pale or
sickly across to Annie in the dairy for a glass of milk. Gentle Annie would
present the glass of fresh milk and simply say in that memorable soft voice of
hers: “Drink that up child and you’ll be big and strong in no time”.</span><br />
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span>
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sister Concilio,
who was in charge of second class, was an explosive mix of energy and bombast,
a nun you’d hear before you’d see. Along with the normal school subjects she taught
us to knit, to sew and to be gentle with our female classmates when playing
with them. As boys we weren’t overly enthusiastic about learning to knit but it
was included as extramural (subject). Mrs. Logan, the lady with the Donegal accent
(the examiner), would call to the class now and again to monitor our progress
and of course praise our genius. Sister Concilio
was fond of music and taught us our first religious hymns as well as a number
of popular children’s songs. Could one
easily forget Little Toy Soldier, Christopher Robin, Sheep and Lambs, Teddy
Bear’s Picnic to name but a few! Then there were the occasions she’d pop out
for a minute to Sister Francis’ classroom which was separated by a partition
that had a small glass panel inset in it. The door would hardly be closed
behind her when all hell would break loose with everyone talking together. Her
control button happened to be a silver ring on her finger that she applied hard
and heavy on to the same glass panel; silence descended on the class like a
bolt of lightning. Sister Concilio’s was the last act in the story of the boys
in Convent National School; a new chapter in life would soon begin for them in
St. Joseph’s Boys’ School at Mockmoyne. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="GA" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A nun who taught in one of the higher
grades was known for her sarcasm, her sinister wit and a skill to speak daggers
but use none. Another again was famous (maybe infamous) for a lack of patience,
her tantrums, her fiery temper and the unfortunate student ending up in tears.
Sister Columbanus, later known as Mother Colombanus and in time Mother General
(the Mercy Order), was the most senior teaching sister in the school and was in
charge of sixth grade. It would take a book of its own to cover the life story
of this very special nun, not alone as a teacher but for the record she left
behind; her name was synonymous </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">with student success. She is remembered by many
a mother’s daughter as the driving force behind her winning a position in the
Civil Service in Dublin or elsewhere when jobs were like gold dust. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">She was
phenomenal by any standard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">Another nun loved by many students (many of whom
have since passed away) was the irrepressible Sister De Sales, the chatty and
outspoken nun who taught a sister of mine Maura (also deceased) in the mid-1930s.
To digress for a moment, Sister De Sales had a flamboyant personality with a
tendency to pinch a pupil’s jaw or jowl in a kind of goodwill gesture. She was
a nun who loved to hear news and discuss events going on around the globe; in
colloquial terms she would be the present-day newshog! Newspapers and magazines
would be taboo in a Convent in those times, hardly recommended reading; a nun’s
calling after all was to teach, offer praise to God and pray for peace in the
world! Sister De Sales, like any of us, had her little idiosyncrasies and asked
my sister Maura to bring her the Irish Press on certain mornings of the week
(my mother happened to own a newsagents shop). Her one stipulation was not to
bring the paper up to her in the classroom and place it on her desk. That
wouldn’t be necessary; she would collect it herself from her schoolbag quietly
at lunch time. This would be the little secret between teacher and pupil.
Mission accomplished with no fuss!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">A nun I can just about remember is Sister Theodosia,
said to be the oldest nun in the Convent at the time. She taught my mother in
infants class in the early years of the twentieth century and when I asked her
about her she said in a few simple words that she loved every single day going
to school when Sister Theodosia was her teacher, end of story. Now in her
nineties she could be seen on occasions in the company of Sister Elizebeth,
Mother Superior still enjoying a short walk in her own ‘Garden of Eden’. </span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What child of the time could ever forget
grand old Mother Xaviour as she walked the school playground every day at lunch
hour like an earthly mother keeping a close watch over her family. She was
forever on call offering words of comfort to a child that fell, cut a knee
(myself included) or bumped a head; she radiated a warmth that helped ease the
pain and put an end to the tears. At one end of the playground where a low wall
separated it from the Convent gardens, Sister Mel would regularly be seen
walking up and down in quiet meditation. She’d pause sometimes in the course of
her meditation to ask one of us our name, if we liked our teacher and what we
would like to be when we grew up! The winding lane that she walked, the floral
paths, the neatly trimmed hedges, the rockery, the little dairyhouse nestled in
a corner and a meandering brook that babbled its way to the Boyle river nearby
was a picture of tranquility, a hidden gem! The poet who once wrote that ‘one’s
nearer to God in a garden than anywhere else on earth’ must have had such a garden
in mind.</span><br />
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then there was Sister Josepha, the tall thin nun with the horn-rimmed
glasses who managed the kitchen; she looked different. Her habit was part white
and blue with an outer garment like an apron almost with stripes running
through it. The same nun would be seen at times carrying a tray of food towards
the hall door of the Convent; a rambler of sorts or a homeless person had
arrived at the hall door and was about to be presented with a hearty meal. This
was common practice in the Convent for many many years until very recently, an
act of charity unseen to the eye and unlikely ever to find its way on to the
front page of a newspaper!</span><br />
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Convent ran its own farm, milk cows
and a dairy to produce its own butter; it was self supplied with its own
vegetables and had a beautiful flower garden, self-sufficient one might say in
every way. Sister Gertrude, the Bursar and keeper of the purse strings, was
never much in the public eye like the other nuns; her job was commercial, to
balance the books. In the course of time, when the farming ultimately came to
an end, she returned to her first love which was teaching. Larry McDermott from
Ballinultagh was farm manager and was there for as long as one could remember,
the helmsman ably assisted by his two young recruits Mickey McHugh and Eddie
Wynne. Larry had the added responsibility of ringing the Convent bell for the
Angelus at 12 noon and 6pm in the evening before he cycled home, a job he did unfailingly.
When you heard the bell, you stopped in your tracks and prayed ‘The Angelus’
and automatically thought of Larry the bellringer, God’s messenger to the
people of Boyle. His brother Tom took over when Larry retired and remained on
until its eventual closure. It was in many ways the end of an era. The Nun’s
field (as it was always known), where the cows spent their days browsing,
became a new state-of-the-art children’s school erected in the shadow of the
statue of Christ the King and alongside what was once the nun’s cemetery. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It would be an injustice not to mention
the Convent Laundry and the employment it gave to so many young girls from the
town for over half a century. Sister Pia, the nun in charge, was assisted by
the indomitable Bea McGowan (her second in command) and two other junior
lieutenants – Lizzie Cambell and Bridie Tansey. Could one ever forget Bea, the
little lady who taught Irish dancing to generations of school children and was
loved by everyone for her smile and her good humour. She is fondly remembered
by the people of Boyle as the dapper little lady who came to town all dressed
in black; beret, blouse, coat, stockings and shoes. Each shoe was adorned with
a silver buckle, the symbol of her love for Irish dancing. A regular visitor to
town, Bea knew every living soul in it and everyone knew her. Her name is
forever associated with Irish dancing and the Convent Laundry. St. Vincent’s
employed upwards of thirty people at its peak, all of them from the town. When
at full throttle the sound of the washing machines could be heard around the
playground as they tumbled up and down, over and back in an endless monotony.
Little puffs of steam poured out the open windows in a regularity of their own,
measured quantities almost as they rose up from the ironing presses positioned
just inside. The laundry was a thriving business then, giving employment to
girls in their late-teens and older during the 1930s, 40s, 50s, and 60s. At no
time had it ever been a Magdalene Laundry or meant to be, contrary to rumours
that it could have been. A particular memory I have of the engine room was that
of a noisy place. Eddie McGlynn from Doon, the captain of the ship, kept the
furnace stoked and the wheels turning. Knowing Eddie from calling to our shop I
would often steal my way towards the engine room after school hoping he’d see
me and bring me in to see his powerhouse going full steam ahead. I was lucky
sometimes, especially if Sister Pia happened to be in the vicinity and gave
Eddie the knowing nod! Eddie also drove
the laundry van, as did his brother Tommy and a number of other drivers who
came afterwards: Tommy Lee, Paddy Cryan, Leo Scully, Mickey Fox; all of them
playing a part in the life and times of St. Vincent’s Laundry.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Last but not least of the many special
memories I have of the Convent was the introduction of Eucharistic Adoration in the Convent Chapel
in the mid-1980s, a practice that continued unbroken for over thirty years.
Adoration went on around the clock, twenty-four hours a day, twelve months of
the year till the Chapel finally closed its doors in May of this year (2017).
The religious establishment that had spanned almost 140 years of teaching etc.,
had come to an end. The school building that had served generations of students
was vacated and demolished when boys and girls came together in the new second
level Abbey Community College at Marian Road. The building that was St.
Vincent’s Laundry was completely refurbished and is St. Joseph’s Resource
Centre today and used regularly by voluntary organisations and groups from the
town. The Convent with its beautiful garden, today in full bloom; its rockery,
its flower-lined walks, its meandering brook and its redundant little dairy
house stand a reminder of life’s earthly cycle from childhood to adulthood to
old age and death itself. </span><br />
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>A silent citadel, a preserver of a million
memories. </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><i><span lang="GA" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Christy Wynne<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-87904981986805110122017-04-26T11:31:00.004-07:002017-04-26T11:31:33.259-07:00The Great Blizzard Revisited<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<b>‘Haec Olim Meminisse Iuvabit’ (Virgil)</b></div>
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It began on the evening of Monday 24 February 1947; the greatest snowfall of the 20th century was about to hit my hometown of Boyle. Today, 70 long winters later, the great event is simply remembered as The Blizzard. Casting an eye across such a long period of time I can confidently describe it as the most unforgettable experience of my life. The phenomenon of nature about to unfold was for me all about fun, snow battles, holidays from school and to use a little quote from my friend Wordsworth the poet “Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive and to be young was very heaven.” And that it was. </div>
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During the weeks leading up to the great freeze, an ice cold wind swept over the land like a Biblical Plague leaving everything in its wake rock dry. Going to bed that night my mother hinted the good news: “It’s starting to snow,” she said, adding in a little plea to the man above, “God grant it’ll take the awful cold away!”. Next morning, when I had a peep out, what met my eyes was beyond my wildest dreams; shop windows, doors and their recesses were buried beneath a blanket of snow. The chimney stacks on the roofs opposite, complete with their pot hats, looked like miniature soldiers lined up on a snow covered slope. The morning cackle of birds on the moss-covered slates had fallen silent; there wasn’t a bird to be seen. I missed their presence that morning as I would ‘Fluffy the cat’ rubbing up against my legs looking for attention. Downstairs in the kitchen, the oatmeal porridge cooked from the night before lay ready to be reheated and consumed. Then dressed in my new woollen balaclava, two pairs of socks, a sprinkle of holy water and a hug from my mother I stepped into a mini snow storm like a young Scott of the Antarctic. As I trundled up Saint Patrick Street, I crossed to the middle of the road to walk in a lorry track made earlier that morning; it came to an abrupt halt at the entrance into Candon’s flour yard. My Hansel and Gretel track had just run out of road. As I gazed about in the deadly silence that accompanies the falling snow I seemed to be the only student finding his way to school that morning. It was then I saw Granny Mitten standing in her doorway with her great mane of snow-white hair reminiscent of the great Albert Einstein blowing in the wind. She beckoned me over to her and like a modern day ‘Oracle of Delphi’ she told me to “go home before someone gets lost in this blizzard”. Then looking to heaven she added in a kind of afterthought: “I haven’t seen the like of it since The Count was elected”. This other Delphic remark meant nothing to me until my mother enlightened me later that day. Granny Mitten was remembering ‘George Noble Count Plunkett’, the first Sinn Fein T.D. elected to the British Parliament for North Roscommon in the by-election of February 1917 exactly thirty years before; the event is remembered in local history as the ‘Election of the Snows’. The snow fell all day Tuesday till midday Wednesday driven by a powerful east wind that built up huge snowdrifts in alleyways, archways and gable walls. The town could have been taken for an isolated outpost in Siberia with no trains or buses getting through for several days and commercial life at a practical standstill. Boyle town was fortunate to have two good bakeries in operation all during the blizzard: Egans, Green Street and Cunnions, Elphin Street. They attempted a delivery each day with a transport to match the weather, the horse and sledge. The names Egan’s Batch and Cunnion’s Wheata became synonymous with the story of the blizzard and were given the grand title of ‘Manna from heaven’. Two big milk suppliers used a similar type of transport to get to their customers but weren’t always one hundred percent successful. There were instances of the occasional breakdown on the way; the mountain had to find its way to Muhammad! There was also the smaller dairy farmer who prized his own precious little customer base. He was like a member of the family, the man who called every day of the year, the man who sat in the kitchen for a chat and brought all the news with him, the man so attuned to nature he could give you the weather forecast better than any modern day meteorologist. Jimmy from ‘Spa’ at the foot of the Curlew Mountains (our supplier) was that kind of man. His transport was of the old traditional style, the pony and cart fitted with rubber tyres. The terminus for Roger the pony was the wooden E.S.B. pole on the corner of Green Street beside Ryan’s Pharmacy. Roger was tethered to the pole and given an early morning lunch in the form of a large bag of hay spread on the ground. A special memory I have of Jimmy’s visit to our kitchen was the little drop of milk he always ‘threw in’ for Fluffy our cat, a gesture a child doesn’t easily forget. Another memory of Jimmy was the din he created on the street from the rattle of the aluminium jugs he had hanging from the spout of the great dairy can he carried with him; the man was giving advance notice to his customers of his coming amongst them. With delivery completed, he made for the window stool in Devine Conlon’s pub (Saint Patrick Street) for his usual two or three bottles of Guinness to re-energise him for his journey back to Spa. The window stool appeared to be Jimmy’s by some sort of squatter’s right; it was his vantage point to keep a watchful eye on Roger across the street while he was enjoying his few glasses of medicine. Leaving his cosy nook on the window stool Jimmy would sometimes say with a smile: “Back to the reservation lads!” </div>
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As the days went by a series of strange stories were beginning to unfold, the first being that of the missing postman. Johnny Gormley set off from the post office in the early hours of Tuesday morning with his bicycle and bag of mail. The countryside he covered was mountainous, rugged and beautiful and included the long meandering Lough Gara, stretched in the valley below. In summer the poet Wordsworth would certainly have described it as ‘the loveliest place on earth’, but in winter it was bleak and unforgiving. Steep hills, narrow winding roads as old as time itself and a valley to cross was the daily challenge for Johnny. The names of the townlands he traversed had a Celtic/Gaelic ring about them: Kiltycreighton, Ballinultagh, Corrnameeltha, Derrynaugheran to name some of them but that didn’t make the job any easier. Near the top of Brislagh Hill, which at its highest point is a little short of a thousand feet, Johnny was forced to abandon his bicycle beside a ditch and continue on foot. Conditions were so bad he was contemplating turning back but then had second thoughts. By late afternoon anxiety was high in the post office when he failed to return, so a small search party set out in a hurry but returned a while later as dusk had set in. Early next morning a search party set out again, this time with food, blankets and medical equipment but failed to locate Johnny. The snow in the fields had reached the level of the surrounding ditches making it impossible almost to recognise known landmarks; the area had become one vast desert of snow, a no-mans land! Thursday and Friday went by. Then on the Saturday morning with hope practically gone a vision in flesh and blood appeared on the Crescent. The missing postman had come back from the dead and was telling the story of his survival to a crowd gathered around him. A farmer from the Cloonloo area searching for sheep found Johnny lying in a hayshed semi-conscious and in a state of hypothermia. He brought him to his home nearby and took care of him till he was well enough to make the journey back to Boyle five days later. The house of the Good Samaritan remains standing today and is often pointed out as the place the postman found refuge during The Blizzard.</div>
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Around the same time a similar scene was unfolding on the far side of Boyle town. The Home Assistance Officer for the area left his home in Cortober, near Carrick-on-Shannon, that morning for his office in Boyle. Near Woodbrook House, which is the home of the distinguished Kirkwood family and a place of literary note, Danny got bogged down in a huge snowdrift. He faced a tough choice; should he try to walk to Boyle six miles further down the road or walk the four miles back home? He decided to attempt a short cut across ‘The Plains’ which is a vast area of countryside thinly populated and with few houses. When he reached the humpbacked railway bridge beyond Hollymount School, Danny was in for a second shock. A farmer’s cottage nestled deep in a hollow in the shadow of the bridge appeared to have vanished. A massive snowdrift twenty feet deep had enveloped the cottage on two sides leaving it almost invisible to the naked eye. The Relieving Officer stared in disbelief at what he knew to be the bachelor Luke’s cottage. He called his name several times without a reply and then a muffled voice broke the deadly silence. Luke was alive and well and informed Danny he had enough food on hand to see him through for a week or more. Danny continued his journey across the ‘The Plains’ but like the postman he too succumbed to the Arctic conditions and had to take shelter in a farmer’s cottage for twenty four hours. When he arrived in his dole office in Boyle a day late, but with his ‘Wells Fargo’ intact, he was greeted with smiles all round! </div>
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Of the many events and tales of courage to emanate from out that period, the most memorable for me must be that of the ‘Marathon Man’. Pat Joe told me his story some years before he died and I felt his Sam McGee-like experience deserved to be put on the record and made part of the story of The Blizzard. Pat left home with his bicycle late on the Monday afternoon, the eve of the blizzard, his destination being Collooney railway station fifteen miles away. His intention was to board the train for Enniskillen and from there transfer to another train going to Belfast, a routine journey he did a number times each year as part of his business. Pat was in his late twenties at the time, as tough as nails and possessed of an iron will. The evening he set off on his tour-de-force, the weather was in pre-blizzard state, extremely cold and crisp dry. Around 9pm, it started to snow and gradually got worse with the snow blowing directly into his face. When he reached Ballymote he left his bicycle with a friend and decided to walk the rest of the way to Collooney station. When he eventually got there cold and hungry, he was given the news he least wanted to hear; the railway to Enniskillen was closed and would remain so for an unknown period of time. Pat now faced a dilemma; should he make the effort to return home or simply book into a guesthouse for a number of days! The roads were beyond use and traffic was at a standstill. As he surveyed the landscape round about pondering his plight he became aware in the distance of what he reckoned to be the telegraph poles that run parallel with the railway line. Could there be a solution to his problem here he thought? He started across the fields till he reached what turned out to be the railway embankment and he slid down the snowy slope to the track fifteen feet below. Pat was about to begin his marathon journey home via rail through Collooney, Ballymote, Kilfree junction ending up at a bridge that spans a viaduct at Mullaghroe where he bade farewell to the Permanent Way. He was now back on territory he knew like the back of his hand and got home weary and hungry but very proud of his little achievement. The ‘Marathon Man’ had entered the local hall of fame! </div>
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Back in Boyle town, another strange event was happening that commanded the front page of the Roscommon Herald. An old and well-known resident had died and the usual religious rites would be fulfilled; removal of remains to the church, requiem mass the following day and burial afterwards in Assylinn cemetery. The funeral was unique in that it was ‘a first’ for people to witness a coffin being drawn by horse and sledge to the church and thence to the graveyard. A large crowd of people followed the cortege through the town centre and many more lined the footpaths in a show of respect. A few local residents who happened to own cameras went on to take photographs of the macabre scene being played out on the streets; this was a funeral of a different kind and would have to be recorded for posterity. The steep hill leading to the cemetery had been partially cleared of snow to assist the cortege in getting to its destination and men in groups of six then carried the coffin to the graveside for burial; the blizzard had created another piece of history!</div>
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A week later a variation on the same theme featured at the railway station. A man from outside Boyle had died in a hospital in Dublin and the remains were brought home by rail for burial. A brief digression will explain my presence at this other strange event! Being fascinated with steam engines (all my short life) I dreamed one day I would be the driver of one. The day in question I was standing on the cross bridge with my school pal Paddy (the Station Master’s son) eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Iron Maiden as she belched forth great clouds of steam in all directions. As the passengers disembarked, Larry the tall railway checker paraded up and down the platform like a sergeant major calling out the name of Boyle in a commanding voice. At such times I would feel a little surge of pride and wonder could my home town be famous for some event of history that passengers on board should be made aware of! During all this activity the huge engine gorged her belly with countless gallons of water from the old water tower at the end of the platform; then with a shrill whistle and more bursts of steam she shunted her way slowly out of sight. It was then we noticed the group of people on the platform carry a coffin towards the waiting room. We hurried down to see it placed on a wooden catafalque in a corner of the waiting room with Andy the railway porter leading the way. Relatives and friends of the deceased paused for a while in quiet conversation and in prayer, and afterwards the waiting room was closed and locked for the night. Our curiosity was whetted; who was in the coffin, a man or a woman, were they from the town? Good humoured Andy gave nothing away only to say there wouldn’t be any breakfast! </div>
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Over the days and weeks, the blizzard had transformed the town into a winter playground with Green Street Hill and the Crescent transformed into a natural skating rink. With road traffic practically at a standstill there was little problem for the youth to try their skills on these two great slopes. Anything that could move on ice made an appearance. Push cars, buggies, stripped down prams, stools upside down, enamel basins, metal trays, could be seen in motion with the young ones hanging on for dear life. Laughter filled the air and if a collision occurred few tears were shed; aches and pains were glossed over or forgotten about in the heat and enjoyment of the moment. Three popular members of Boles Drapery Store – George, Edwin and Ernie – brought a real snow toboggan (with a steering mechanism) on the scene and it became the star performer on Green Street Hill. The starting point was at Caleb Shera’s dwelling house (Sheridan’s House today). Caleb, an old and respected member of the landed gentry, loved to sit in his doorway wrapped in a rug to watch the sheer excitement on children’s faces as they were given a ride in this modern day Porsche. The joy on their faces could have come straight from Oscar Wilde’s famous story of ‘The Gentle Giant’ as he watched the smiling children playing in his beautiful garden; God was in His heaven, all is right with the world! Back down to earth and the man standing sentry at the bottom of the hill armed with a flag to indicate all was clear! The pilot and his young passenger then took off like a rocket into space racing downhill through the junction at Main Street, across the river bridge by the Royal Hotel and coming to a halt at the entrance to the Rockingham Arms Bar. An experience never to be forgotten! George, Edwin and Ernie and their toboggan had become part of the story of the blizzard. </div>
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Other winter sports found their niche along the way. The grounds of Abbeyview House on the Shilling Hill, that onetime home of the actress Maureen O’Sullivan, was the setting for one of them. The majestic building sits high on a hill with the surrounding terrain dipping sharply towards ground zero. To enjoy a bird’s eye view of snow skiing in action one had simply to sit on the Abbey Park wall on the Sligo Road and watch. It was thrill-a-minute action as the fledgling skier zig-zagged his way down the steep slope towards the boundary wall richly lined with giant beech trees. Skill would be vital in negotiating this short and speedy descent to ground zero. Amateurs most of them, some learned the hard way as they came face to face with the line of beech trees, not to mention the sturdy stone wall beyond that again. Out of sight of the observer, the sound of the crash of ash would rise up from behind the high wall; a little pause of silence would then follow while the learner shook himself down and got ready for a replay on the same grounds. It was front row entertainment and all of it free. The next theatre of sport was the lily pond at The Warren which was part of the ninth hole on the old golf course. Frozen solid for the duration of the blizzard it became a miniature skating rink for the young and not so young. Many members of the golf club took up skating on this half acre of ice, better known to them as the pond of a thousand golf balls. Some didn’t fare too well, ending up with frozen shoulders, sprained ankles, a few cases of concussion but all in all, nothing worse.</div>
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The real jewel in the crown, however, for winter sports was the frozen over Lough Key. In the early days of the freeze, the ice was stress tested at different points of the lake and was found to be some six inches thick. Stories have been passed down of Ceilidhe dances on the shoreline at Doon, Tinnerinagh and Corrigeenroe in the glow of bonfires with energetic young dancers waltzing on ice into the daylight hours. The sound of the melodeons and bodhrans echoed across the full length lake and found its way into the very halls of Rockingham House itself eight kilometres away. Dick Clynch, head butler in the Big House, told the story to my mother all those years ago. Even the legendary Una Bhan NicDiarmuida and her lover Thomas Laidir Mac Coisdeallbaigh, who lie side by side on far off Trinity Island, could have been awakened from their centuries old slumber from the sound of the haunting music! It would have been a fitting epilogue to their sad dramatic love affair! The fun and sport peaked on Sunday afternoons with small groups of people daring to tread the frozen lake on foot and visit some of the better known islands near the shore such as Castle, Trinity and Church Islands. The extraordinary sight of seeing small groups of people walk to an island was beyond belief; others again preferred to climb to the top of the ‘Rock of Doon’ to enjoy the panoramic view of Lough Key in all her winter splendour. Stranger than fiction stories tell of a number of young diehards who used the frozen lake as a shortcut home. One daredevil surpassed the rest by cycling across eight kilometres of frozen ice to his home at Knockvicar, the point where Lough Key merges with the River Shannon. Happily he survived it.</div>
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In town, the ‘Winter Olympics’ carried on unabated with snow battles played out daily on the streets. When the footpaths were cleared the snow stood six feet high in the channels; gaps were then opened at different points on the streets to help shoppers cross from one side to the other. A man wearing a hat or smoking a pipe was a regular target for the street urchin; the hat was an easy enough object to retrieve but the pipe was a more serious problem; it sank out of sight in the snow. An apology was immediately made to the victim and a search was carried out for the precious pipe. Finding the pipe was a cause for celebration. Tempers did fray at times but usually ended up well. Youth after all was having the time of its life.</div>
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The great freeze had now exceeded the biblical forty days and nights and was coming to an end. When it did come, it came with a vengeance. The channels were unable to cope with the massive mounds of melting snow that stood on the streets like megalithic tombs. As the great slabs of ice rumbled from the roofs overhead, they crashed on the streets below like a clap of thunder. Notices were pinned on street corners to warn shoppers to ‘Beware of falling ice’. The people were witnessing the death throes of the Great Blizzard and the finality that accompanied it. The like of it would hardly be seen again in a lifetime. For the young it was generally the best of times, for the old and infirm it was arguably the worst of times, and for animals and birds it must surely have been an endless nightmare. As I look back over seventy winters there are many that stand apart for special reasons. None, however, can ever match the wonder and the ferocity of ‘The Blizzard’ that hit Boyle town on the night of the 24th February 1947. I treasure the memory of it and will always regard it as the most momentous event of my childhood.</div>
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Christy Wynne</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-35975840492652157192016-10-20T13:22:00.001-07:002016-10-20T13:22:12.500-07:00MacDara looks for a job<div style="text-align: justify;">
After sitting the Leaving Certificate in the mid-fifties, MacDara decided to seek a job for the summer months. Jobs were in short supply in country towns like Boyle in those days so MacDara set his sights on Dublin city. He drew up a list of well known business houses he knew by name, beginning with Eason’s Booksellers and Independent Newspapers (both of Abbey Street). Having received no joy there he moved on to tobacco manufacturers Player Wills, and then to Cadbury’s and Rowntree’s confectioners, renowned for sweets and chocolate. Failing again he turned his attention to Millard Brothers, O’Neills Sportswear and Elverys (all of them distributers of fishing tackle and sporting goods), and finally Kapp & Peterson Limited (suppliers of pipes, lighters and accessories); all to no avail. High-tech giants like Microsoft and Apple hadn’t yet arrived; they were concepts of the future. </div>
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As MacDara pedalled the streets and cobblestone lanes of North Dublin courtesy of the brother’s bike, and coming near the end of his tether, he suddenly saw the name Lucan Dairies standing out in large letters on a wall in Parkgate Street and remembered the well-known flag with its logo fluttering in the breeze at home and in seaside resorts roundabout like Strandhill, Rosses Point and Enniscrone. He’d give them a lash in a last ditch effort! Lucan Dairies consisted of a huge milk plant on one side of Parkgate Street and their office block on the opposite side. They were among the main distributers of milk around Dublin city and county, the others being Dublin Dairies, Merville and a smaller one with the exotic name Tel-el-Keber. With nothing to lose he marched in bravely and asked if there were any jobs going for the summer. A while later he was ushered into Personnel, where the usual questions were asked about education and background. MacDara had suddenly and unexpectedly found himself a summer job that would continue till early October, which was the end of the ice cream season. Today, and in hindsight, it’s unbelievable to think that ice cream was on sale for just six months of the year, from April to October. Delighted with his new found luck he was informed that he could start work on the following Monday morning. That left him three days to find accommodation. </div>
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MacDara ploughed the north side on his bicycle and eventually found a place beside Arbour Hill Church, with his bedroom window looking on to one of the most hallowed sites in Dublin city or country, the graves of the signatories of the Proclamation. He could walk to work from there in ten minutes and lived on the doorstep of the Phoenix Park, which was home from home on a Sunday morning with groups of lads his own age playing football, hurling and a game called rounders that was hugely popular then. Dublin Zoo, being close by, was another great way of spending a few hours on a Sunday. Begging the liberty of a short digression, MacDara had retired to bed late one Saturday night/Sunday morning when something went boom in the dark. A sound like a bomb going off shattered the peace and tranquillity of Arbour Hill and left him semi shell-shocked in the middle of his bedroom floor and in pitch darkness. Within minutes his good landlady, like a modern day Florence Nightingale, came on the scene torch in hand assuring her five lodgers that the roof was still on the house, that she had no gas leaks and that the loud bang emanated from elsewhere. Happily the electric power came back within an hour. The following morning, after Mass in Arbour Hill Church, all was revealed. The bronze statue of Field Marshall Hugh Gough (1779-1869), sitting on a horse on a plinth just inside the gates of Phoenix Park, had been blown away by the newest breed of the IRA. The noble gentleman’s head had been blown off once before in an earlier campaign in the forties, but was found later in the River Liffey at Islandbridge and soldered back on. </div>
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Getting back to his new found job, Lucan Dairies had a huge milk distribution business throughout Dublin city and county and also had contracts to supply milk to wholesale confectioners around the city. His immediate boss Mr. Samuel was of the austere calibre, a man who rarely if ever smiled at anybody or any thing! His working day seemed to revolve around one principle, ‘reconciling the stocks’. The three words hit the ear drums ten times a day like lines from an old ballad. The equation in simple language amounted to, the volume of milk in stock from yesterday plus the volume of milk received on the current day, minus the amount distributed to customers and wholesalers in the course of the day. It must balance or ‘reconcile’ by the day’s end, and if that didn’t happen then you worked until it did, no questions asked! Yet the most heartbreaking task of the week was yet to come on the Friday afternoon. If ever a job was conceived to destabilise the brain of two eighteen year olds this must surely be it. With Jimmy, the other young recruit taken on for the summer season, the two of them spent the afternoon counting empty bottles till they were blue in the face, thirty-thousand to be precise! There were twenty-four bottles to a crate and the crates were stacked fifteen feet high in a building tall enough to hold a 747 jet aircraft. Bottles were completely made of glass then, and didn’t have any label of identity on them; every last one was similar. MacDara and Jimmy took turns to climb a ladder and count the rows of crates that stretched upwards and outwards in all directions. The mountain of dead colourless matter staring down at them could have been Queen Maeve’s grave on the top of Knocknarea and to further aggravate the situation Mr. Samuels looked in like a Job’s comforter to see how “the long count” was progressing! What a relief it was for the beleaguered two when the clock struck six and the bells of Arran Quay Church up the road rang out the Angelus across the Liffey! The normal functions of the brain found their way back slowly, similar to the deep sea diver coming out of the bends.</div>
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One Friday during lunch break, MacDara remarked to a colleague who was many years in the job how he found it hard to live on four pounds a week. He was already paying his landlady three pounds ten shillings full board which left him with ten shillings to survive on. Norman’s advice was to ask Herbie (the boss) for a rise. He’s not such a bad guy when you get to know him he said smiling! The next Monday MacDara plucked up courage and inquired from Personnel if he could see the boss? Like a patient sitting anxiously in a doctor’s surgery he was becoming more nervous by the minute. What followed next came dangerously close to a health check up. Herbie asked him did he smoke, did he drink, did he gamble, did he go to films, where did he live and how much did he pay for his digs? MacDara wondered what would come next, would he be asked to take a deep breadth or cough a few times! Then came the punch line. How much are you being paid per week young man? Four pounds a week sir. Don’t you get extra for working in the milk office on the second Sunday morning of each month, isn’t that another ten shillings! Yes sir. He rubbed his rich growth of moustache over and back a few times while studying this new employee of his. His façade softened, a hint of a smile appeared and he said he would give the matter further consideration. Thank you very much sir, said MacDara. The following Friday there was an extra ten shillings in his pay packet. Norman (the guy who had talked him into it) could hardly believe it. You’re a plucky young lad he said; I was having you on and didn’t think for a second you’d have the guts! </div>
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Ten shillings increase in wages in the mid-fifties would be regarded as considerable and would open up a few new avenues of enjoyment; an extra film or dance in the city on weekends, a game of billiards in the saloon opposite Wynn’s Hotel in Abbey Street, a swim at the Fortyfoot on a Saturday. He might even invite Joan in the office (whom he fancied) to a film or a dance, all made possible courtesy of Herbie’s increase. A favourite venue was the Theatre Royal to listen to Tommy Dando in his all-white suit blasting out the great music hall hits of the day on an organ that lit up like an exploding star as it appeared from out the bowels of the building. Like a great amphitheatre inside, MacDara picked a seat well up at the back where he could see everything going on even though he seemed a mile away from the stage. On one occasion he was lucky to get in to hear the renowned international speaker Archbishop Fulton Sheen from New York. MacDara had heard the famous man speak once before in the tiny village of Croghan outside Boyle in 1950 when the Archbishop travelled there to bless the newly-reconstructed church where his grandparents had been baptised. He was looking forward to hear him speak again and he wasn’t disappointed! He spoke about his trips to countries around the globe and the mission fields he visited throughout Africa, Southeast Asia and America. In a short digression (and there were more than one) he told a story that brought an explosion of laughter from a thousand throats. The venerable Archbishop had been invited to a christening ceremony in a small isolated village in Nigeria served by an Irish missionary priest he knew personally. The parents of the child had seemingly been well tuned into Ireland’s ancient history and its culture and had chosen a very special name for their new born son; he would be named Brian Boru after one of Ireland’s greatest chieftains. The Archbishop spoke for surely an hour that evening with never a dull moment. </div>
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Back to reality and the various other entertainments on a weekend in Dublin. There was the poky little Grafton Cinema on a wet Saturday afternoon where one could sit back and watch the great cartoons and comedies of the thirties and forties. There was the Carlton Cinema on O’Connell Street that showed western films almost all the time, so much so that normal banter had it that the cast were permanently resident in the Gresham Hotel opposite. A dance in the Metropole Ballroom for two shillings and sixpence brought a new dimension to the Sunday afternoon, while The Yerrawaddies (Engineering students) ran their dances in the Olympic Ballroom on Camden Street on a Saturday night. Ten shillings wouldn’t give access to all of them the same weekend but it allowed one to choose. MacDara met his first girlfriend at one of them and timidly asked if he could meet her the following Sunday afternoon under Nelson’s Pillar, a tradition he was told might bring him good luck! His luck held out just about as long as the job! Herbie his boss was blamed for it all, but in a most congenial way!</div>
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Shrill October arrived and so also did the day of reckoning. The ice cream season had come to an end and it was time for the ‘Prodigal Son’ to return home. As he left the city, MacDara brought with him a slice of Old Dublin in the form of 2lbs of Hafner sausages which were regarded at the time as the crème de la crème of the sausage world; the flavour was unique and just could not be equalled. To have to stand in a queue outside Hafner’s shop on Abbey Street, and wait your turn to gain entrance, was a pre-requisite to achieving your goal. As he sat on the train and ruminated over the months gone by he could have been Alice exiting Wonderland. The passengers opposite him must have wondered at the eccentric figure smiling seemingly at nothing; they didn’t know the half of it! </div>
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Christy Wynne.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-46855981677592085122016-07-26T09:25:00.003-07:002016-07-26T09:25:25.123-07:00Fair Day in Boyle<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<o:p> </o:p>My memories of the
cattle fairs in Boyle of the late 1940s and 1950s are timeless and special.
There was one every month, some months had two and among them there were five
monster ones: January, March, May, October and November. The big ones meant a
day off school and needless to say they are the ones that remain alive and well
in the memory. The sound of cattle moving through the streets began around 6am
as they were being guided to the Fairgreen in Lowparks. When I think back to
those ‘monster fairs’ they trigger in my mind a poem I learned in my schooldays
all those years ago called ‘The Drover’ by the poet Padraig Colum. Could one
ever forget his haunting description of “the crowds at the fair, the herds
loosened and blind, the loud words and dark faces and the wild blood behind”, and
then of course the farmer wielding his little cudgel of a stick over the heads
of the cattle as he steered them carefully to the Fairgreen. If the morning was
frosty, little puffs of hot breath welled up from a thousand nostrils as the
cattle found their way in the grey light of early dawn. The same fairs were
famous all across the midlands for the quality and the quantity of the cattle
for sale.</div>
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Being a junior clerk
at the railway station in the late-1950s, I remember well the names of the
great buyers of the day as they called to the Goods Office to order whatever
number of cattle wagons they’d require. They were the Larry Goodman’s of the
time, dressed in fine Crombie coats, Donegal tweed caps and brown heavy leather
boots; tycoons of the cattle trade from the four provinces. For me, one stood
out both in stature and his exotic-sounding home address overlooking <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Dublin</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Bay</st1:placetype></st1:place>
– M.J. Towey, <st1:street w:st="on">Sorrento Road</st1:street>,
Dalkey. He was a big man with a voice that commanded attention, a powerful
sense of presence, a rural bearing and a capacity to buy enormous numbers of
cattle if the quality was to his liking. Other names still vivid in the memory
are the Horgans, the Foleys, the Mullins, the Mollaghans, the Conon Brothers, the
Sharkeys, the McGarrigles, the Cosgraves and Clarks; all of them the embodiment
and beating heart of the big fair. When deals were done the cattle were herded
through the town a second time, some of them to the Crescent to be loaded onto the
waiting trucks, others to Military Road opposite the old Military Barracks (the
King House today) where more trucks were lined up and the rest, the majority,
were herded towards the railway station to be loaded onto wagons for their
ultimate destination (i.e. Dublin). On one of those great fair days, thirty or
maybe forty wagons could leave Boyle railway station, each one holding an
average of ten cattle, amounting to three or four hundred. The train was given
the grand title of ‘A Special’ and had clearance from Central Office in <st1:city w:st="on">Dublin</st1:city> to arrive at a given time at North Wall for export
to <st1:country-region w:st="on">Great Britain</st1:country-region>.
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The first stop on the
return journey from the Fairgreen was Tom Wynne’s pub, the Central Bar at the
bottom of <st1:street w:st="on">Green Street</st1:street>.
His was one of three bars to have an early morning license allowing him open at
7am. On a great October fair morning the bar became a hive of activity from the
moment it opened its doors. The scent of hot whiskies and rums rose up from
every nook and cranny of the bar while bottles of Guinness, Smithick’s Ale (unpasteurised)
and Double Diamond lined the counter. Mugs of hot Bovril were in heavy demand and
were served up with plates of ham and cheese sandwiches. A new brand of instant
soup, with the romantic name of Maggi (Italian), had recently come on the
market and was the current craze on a winter’s morning. It lacked the age old
basics of onions, celery, barley and Oxo cubes but the fact that it could be
served up in minutes transformed it into a miracle soup. Maggi was among the
first of the package soups to appear on the shelves of the grocery shops and
later when the supermarkets came on stream. The pint of Guinness came into its
own in the afternoon and evening when deals were done, money had changed hands
and the time had come to sit and relax.</div>
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As young lads enjoying a day off school some of us would stand in the vicinity
of the Royal Hotel or on the river bridge to get a close-up of the action.
Mindboggling could only describe the scene as the big buyer counted out £20,
£50 and £100 notes to his farmer friend in payment. The mind of a young lad
could easily slip into overdrive as he tried to work out the number of visits
he could make to the Abbey Cinema ‘at sixpence a time’ if he owned just one of
those colourful notes with Lady Lavery on the front. By mid-afternoon, the Crescent
was a sea of cattle waiting to be loaded onto trucks, many of them standing
quietly with their backs up against the front of private dwelling houses. This
particular aspect of the fair was very contentious and caused many a headache
for the residents living there. They had considerable difficulty getting in and
out of their homes and there was the added problem of cow dung splattered on
the walls and on the pathways outside; if the morning was wet it became a recipe
for disaster as tempers reached boiling point, arguments raged and hall doors
got slammed with a bang. Tradition spoke of the country town coming into
existence wherever cattle fairs and markets were held and for that reason there
was no law in place that could change that situation; the tradition of the fair
was older than the town itself and therefore was untouchable! Ironically, its demise happened almost
overnight with the arrival of the cattle mart in the early-1960s. The Mart was
a new concept in buying and selling cattle (an auction), and the farmer
ultimately found it more convenient and was sure to get the best price on the
day. The neighbouring towns were quick off the mark in setting up a Mart but
Boyle still believed in the fair on the street and ended up with neither. It
was stealth almost by night! The residents of the Crescent and its surrounds were
more than happy but the shops, bars and restaurants saw it as a nail in the
coffin for business. A good day’s trading could pay a half year’s rates on a
business premises or some other household expense! A way of life known for
centuries died without a whimper and no law could stop it.</div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">The colourful side to the Big Fair<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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On those unforgettable
days there were the street traders who added colour and spectacle. First there
was the clothes stall erected on a covered-in trailer parked along the wall of
the old hospital (the Plunkett Home today). Suits, coats, corduroy trousers of
different colours and sizes hung on a rail the length of the trailer onto which
the buyer had to climb by means of three steps to make a purchase. A curtain
for privacy at one end didn’t always work and could lead to a character in the
crowd calling for a speech or yelling ‘the wife won’t like it’ or ‘Up Dev’; all
in a spirit of good humour. Down in the town centre, near the Market Yard, the ‘Bargain
King’ from Bundoran had set up his stall. A natural born orator he could be
heard above the din of conversation and the lowing of cattle. A crowd of people
stood around his stall listening to his catchphrases and sharp wit. One could
spend hours listening to this demagogue without ever becoming bored. In later
years whenever I passed the statue of ‘Big Jim Larkin’ on his pedestal in
Dublin’s O’Connell Street, I would immediately think of the ‘Bargain King’ on
his soapbox at the bridge in Boyle, his head erect and his arms raised to
heaven extolling the merits of some new kitchen utensil or labour-saving device
guaranteed, he would say, to turn a kitchen chore into a moment of pleasure.
Thus it was with this unforgettable ‘latter day prophet’. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Paddy McGovern, the
market gardener from Drum, ran a vegetable stall on the corner of the river
bridge opposite Coleman’s egg shop on a Saturday morning and on big fair days.
He carried a range of fresh root vegetables that any modern day supermarket
would be proud to carry and his sales motto simply read ‘cut fresh from the soil
this morning’, and the clay would still be on many of them to prove it. A stall
of particular interest on the big fair day was the one selling Dilisk,
Corrigeen Moss, seaweed lettuce and a few other sea-related products. One of
its attractions was the unique pungent smell of seaweed that surrounded it, an odour
as powerful almost as the incense that surrounds a coffin at a funeral mass.
Sometimes the vendor would offer a strip of Dilisk to some inquisitive young
onlooker to taste but it rarely worked, the verdict being too salty? Not so for
the farmer’s wife! Dilisk or Corrigeen Moss cooked in milk was known as an age-old
cure for chest colds and many kinds of lung infections; tradition handed down
suggested it could even be a defence against the dreaded Tuberculosis. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Stephen Maughan, the
local (and mobile) fishmonger, rarely missed a big fair day. The man didn’t use
a stall and nor did he need one. His was a heavy <st1:city w:st="on">Raleigh</st1:city> bicycle with the rectangular steel
framework in front that could carry his boxes of fresh herrings anywhere and it
was from it he carried on his business. Stephen never liked anyone handling his
fish and would react speedily: “Will you quit handling them ma’am, they’ll not
come alive or grow any bigger,” he’d say. His humour was infectious, good-natured
and usually brought a titter of laughter both from the accused and the other
customers gathered round about. On a Friday, the day of abstinence, Stephen
would set off on his bicycle in the early hours of the morning to travel the
countryside selling his fresh herrings from door-to-door. He was a lovable
character known far and wide for his simple good humour and light banter. To
quote my mother-in-law, who was a rural lady, his rare appearance at her door
was “like a breath of fresh air”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Getting back to the
fairs, the three-card-trick man had just arrived in town and was about to set
up shop near the entrance to Frybrook House. Michael Morris, the well-known
local barber who had the lease of the gatehouse as a hairdressing salon, saw in
advance the potential danger that lay ahead for the man and ran forward to
advise him not to set up shop anywhere near the entrance. Mr. Fry, the owner of
the Manor, had been unable to drive his car in or out of his property over
several successive fair days and had remained ever since in a state of high
dudgeon. A man of volatile nature (if risen) he didn’t suffer fools lightly;
there would be an explosion in verbal exchanges, sparks would fly and the
three-card-trick man would undoubtedly come out on the wrong side of the law.
The little man with the trilby hat got the message, thanked Mick the barber for
his timely advice and went in search of another site. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Ned Kelly, the well
loved local town crier, had a field day on a fair day. His repertoire consisted
of three songs: ‘You are my Sunshine’, ‘A Bunch of Violets’ and ‘Dan O’Hara’. Ned
himself flowed gently through the fair dressed in a Bloomsday waistcoat and
bowler hat supplied courtesy of his great mentor and facilitator Jim Candon (of
James Candon Limited), Ned’s raison d’etre. When he had sung himself dry, he
revisited the proprietors of the many shops he had regaled along the way and to
a man they showed their appreciation by making a jingle in the famous bowler
hat. Many farmers who would have known Ned of old were happy to show their
appreciation for a voice that was a base, a baritone and a tenor all rolled into
one. Ned had been Boyle’s official town crier for over half a century and was
reckoned to be the last surviving member of that august body when he retired.
His famous bell made a dramatic appearance at a ‘Back to Boyle’ festival some
years back and it was carried in a victory run around the town in memory of a
golden era. A well known local councillor at the time proposed that Ned’s
famous bell be donated to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">National</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place> and should be put
on display alongside other famous artefacts like the Cross of Cong and the
Ardagh Chalice. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The last of the many
colourful characters likely to appear on a great fair day was Lucky Cody. The
guy wore a sombrero hat, knee-high leather boots and set up shop near the
entrance to Hans Lawn which is the riverside walk that leads to St. Patrick’s Well.
His few accessories amounted to a fold-up table, a spin-the-wheel with numbers
on it and an old Jacob’s biscuit tin filled with cloakroom tickets folded and
ready for sale. The tickets cost three pence each and when Cody reckoned he had
enough sold for a spin he called for silence. I was lucky once and won what
would cover three visits to the Abbey Cinema for the Sunday matinee;
unrestrained joy ensued. Another stroke of good fortune might come your way if
you happened to be in the right place at the right time. A farmer and a
colleague standing on the river bridge might fancy a drink in the Royal Hotel
or the Italian Warehouse nearby but would need someone to “keep an eye on the
few cattle” for the proverbial five minutes! Destiny had directed you to this
spot and now you were employed to keep that watchful eye; you had suddenly become
an integral part of the fair! The reward at the end was a sixpenny bit, more
unrestrained joy!</div>
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A farmer rarely left
town on a big fair day without indulging in a meal in a restaurant or what was
then known as an eatery or eating house. They were located in different parts
of the town to facilitate both the shop assistants round about as well as the
many farmers who swarmed into town on that day. The same eateries had a reputation
for serving up the best of food and each of them had its own clientele. Sad to
say none of them survive today but they remain part of the history and the
story of Boyle. There was Lynch’s Hotel (Brady’s Guesthouse) and McNamara’s on
Main Street, Mrs. Toolan’s and Ml. Moran (the old Princess Hotel) on Green Street,
the Royal Hotel on Bridge Street, Mrs. Divine on the Crescent and Mrs. Spellman
in Elphin Street. As the smell of cooking rose up from these well known eateries,
it reawakened an appetite that might have been lost or forgotten about in the heat
of bargaining. A meal of Irish stew or bacon and cabbage was God’s very own
special gift to the Irish nation and took precedence over all others. An ‘a la
carte’ menu or wine list (if such existed then) would have been discarded as
meaningless or a waste of time; quality and quantity was what mattered. In the homely
surroundings of those eateries each farmer knew one another and conversations
centred on the price of cattle and the future prospects for the trade.<o:p></o:p></div>
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By 7pm, the fair was
well and truly over. The streets had fallen empty and strangely quiet, the last
of the trucks had left town, the clothes stalls were folded up and gone, and
the ‘Bargain King’ was only a memory. The shops had reaped a harvest and were looking
forward to the next big fair. The residents of the Crescent were hosing down
their walls and pathways, not bothering to wait for a council worker to carry
out the chore the following day; time was of the essence in getting back to
normality. The great fairs and the excitement they generated are gone forever
as are the loud voices, the dark faces and the wild blood. A way of life known
and loved by generations has become part of our history. To quote an old Irish
patriot, ‘It’s with O’Leary in the grave’. All in the name of progress they say!
Maybe, though one wonders at times?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Christy Wynne<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-39120919895394277612016-06-11T16:56:00.000-07:002016-06-11T16:56:50.111-07:00Rockingham A Maiden Voyage<div style="text-align: center;">
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My first close-up of Rockingham House came from the saddle of a bicycle one Sunday morning many years ago. The year was1950 and school holidays were about to begin. David, a friend of mine from England, had arrived on his annual visit to his grandparents Elizabeth and Paddy Moraghan in Rockingham. Paddy and his son Frank ran the stud farm which was situated in the stable yard in the heart of the estate. There, the young purebreds and yearlings were reared, groomed and got ready for the annual blood stock sales in Doncaster in England. The Moraghan home was on one side of the great archway into the yard which in more recent years became the offices of Coillte. On a wall in Paddy’s living room there was a range of photos of race horses that had begun life in his charge, some of which had won success on the race tracks of Great Britain. A place of honour was given to ‘Careless Nora’, a young mare that had realised a huge price at the bloodstock sales in the late-1940s and had helped put the small Rockingham stud farm (and Paddy) on the map. Paddy was a regular caller to our shop for the Irish Press and an ounce of his favourite tobacco, ‘Erinmore Flake’. For three weeks in summer when David arrived I became a visitor to Moraghan’s home in the heart of Rockingham.</div>
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That Sunday morning as I set out on my voyage of discovery I felt like a young Christopher Columbus sailing to a new world. It would be the first of many visits I made to Rockingham before the great mansion was gutted by fire in September 1957. David had arranged to meet me at The Gothic Gate which was the official entrance into the estate. Mick Carroll, the well-known ‘Keeper of the gate’, had a puzzled look on his face till he saw David standing by and seconds later we were pedalling the mile-long beech walk I had heard so much about. The towering beech trees, heavy with foliage lining either side of the majestic driveway, left us in a twilight zone or as John Milton might say: “in darkness visible”. I imagined it as the nave of an old gothic cathedral, pillars awash in deep green letting in narrow shafts of light through tiny windows high in the roof. The chanting of a thousand birds, invisible to the eye, sounded like the dawn chorus arriving late, while carpets of bluebells, primroses and rhododendron led us along the way. As we exited this beautiful jungle of green we emerged into a vast area of open space extending almost as far as the eye could see. The only interruptions on the landscape were the small derelict Church on a far off hill that had once been the place of worship for the King Harman’s, the family’s own private chapel and beside it the cobbled stable yards that had living accommodation within for the families of the men who worked there. The entrance to this lonely looking outpost was through a great archway that boasted a comfortable home on each side; David’s grandparents in one and Dick Clynch, the Head Butler and Chief of Staff (in the Mansion), in the other. Next into my ken was Rockingham House sitting majestically on a hill overlooking the lake, no doubt the penultimate view of Lough Key with its 32 islands! </div>
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In a short digression, my grandmother who had been a schoolteacher in her younger days in the convent school told me many stories of old Boyle, the rich history attached to it, the way of life of the people and a few little insights into the story of Rockingham. She had even found time to teach me the Latin responses to serve Mass as an altar boy in the days of the old vernacular. Describing the mansion she said it contained a window for every day of the year; true or false I confess I never got round to counting them. She was one of a group who attended the Great Ball and Open House in the year 1912 on the coming of age of the young heir Edward Stafford King Harman. Being the unique occasion that it was, the estate opened its doors to the residents of Boyle town many of whom were still paying rent to Rockingham in those early years of the last century. The rent office then was situated at Military Road, which today is the Family Life Centre, and the sealed-up door still visible on the left of the building was the entry door the tenants used to go in to pay the rent. She described more than once to me the scene in Rockingham as she remembered it; people standing in small groups on the great lawn in front of the house, tables erected and dressed with food, sandwiches and fruit from the Rockingham gardens. Music and song that welled up from inside the mansion filled the great lawn outside with a wonderful air of festivity. Young Edward could be seen dancing with some fine elegant young ladies, some of whom hailed from the town. It was a great occasion of celebration for the King Harman family but sadly it was short lived. A few years later, in 1914, Edward was killed in action at the Battle of Ypres in the early days of the First World War and denied the joy of ever seeing his yet unborn child. He would have been the inheritor of the estate rather than Sir Cecil his younger brother who ended up as the last member of the King Harman family to live in Rockingham. The dynasty that had spanned a period of 350 years was about to enter its final stages.</div>
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Getting back to my itinerary, Rockingham of the 1950s was in its heyday with an estate close on 5000 acres which included 2000 acres of quality grazing land, vast tracts of dense forest, a private residence for The Agent or overall manager, four gate lodges, two hunting lodges, a small stud farm, a ten-acre walled garden with a large orchard, two artificial canals (one connected to the small harbour convenient to the mansion) and last but not least Lough Key itself, the most beautiful lake in Ireland. </div>
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When we arrived at the Moraghan home that morning I was given a real warm welcome by David’s granny and soon afterwards he brought me on a ‘grand tour’ of the estate. It began with a trek through the tunnel used by the staff to enter the kitchen and the house generally. Built in a curve that ran for two or three hundred yards in semi-darkness I might have cursed the said darkness but for a few lights fixed high on the walls. Rockingham House had its own electricity supply and didn’t have to depend on the local power station, John Stewart Electric Ltd., in Boyle. A gentle tap on the kitchen door was answered by Maura Taheny, a lady I knew from town. Una Leydon from Drum was giving a hand to Mrs. Hogan, the Head Cook (Master Chef), to lift a large tray of cakes from the oven of the huge Aga Cooker. A few minutes later we were sitting in a corner of the huge kitchen sampling a slice with a dash of fresh cream; not a bad start, I thought, for my first visit to Rockingham House! </div>
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As we were about to leave the kitchen Miss Mackie, Governess to the King Harman family, peeped in. A petite lady with snow white hair and wearing an air of importance, I thought for a moment I was looking into the face of Miss Marple the well-known detective or sleuth from the Agatha Christie films; they could have passed for twins. On our way out David added a little postscript to her C.V.; Miss Mackie loved to cycle to Boyle on her day off and to meet up with a close circle of literary friends in The Royal Hotel and enjoy a glass of Winters Tale Sherry. Quite a revelation! </div>
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After the kitchen experience we found our way to the icehouse, a room below ground level that was used to maintain foods at a cool temperature. With winding stone steps leading down to it, it had shades of the medieval dungeon about it. Next stop was the Fishing Temple or Pavilion built on a pier extending on to the lake. A quaint fairylike building, hexagonal in shape, it had small gothic windows and a miniature folly as part of the roof. The jury was out on its use or function; it could have been a kind of summer playhouse for the King Harman children when they came on holidays! After dinner I was brought down The Drummans and was quietly informed (only when we got there) that it was haunted. David’s Grandad had told him about the strange man who wandered about the woods occasionally dressed in gamekeeper’s attire and carrying a shotgun; he never spoke but just stared ominously at the person he confronted. It was said he was the ghost of a long dead gamekeeper who liked to visit his old stomping grounds and to ‘frighten the daylights’ out of a potential poacher. Fairytale or not, I was happy to exit this dense part of the forest and to see the Fairy Bridges up ahead of me and heavenly daylight breaking through. </div>
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Arriving back at his home, he said: “Let’s give the Clynch’s a call. Mrs. Clynch is a very nice lady!”. Dick, her husband, was Head Butler and Chief of Staff in the mansion and little happened without his imprimatur. Orders for the day emanated from him and were taken on board. His wife was seamstress and personal assistant to Lady King Harman, a position that carried its own prestige and an authority of its own. Anyone who ever watched the 1960s television series ‘Upstairs Downstairs’ could have been watching a day in the life of Rockingham House. The daily routine had a close similarity about it. In the morning the dark green coloured Bentley was driven from its underground garage, spotless and looking as if it had come off the assembly line that morning. Christy Dolan the chauffeur, dressed in navy blue uniform, peaked cap and polished knee-high leather boots, drove Sir Cecil or Lady King Harman to Boyle whenever required. That Sunday morning we sat and watched from a distance as the Bentley emerged from the darkness of the underground garage into the sunlight and drove up the winding driveway to the main entrance to collect Sir Cecil and Lady King Harman for Church Service in Ardcarne Church.</div>
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My final visit on that memorable Sunday was to Rockingham Gardens. I hadn’t been brought there just to admire the ten-acre spread of trees, gardens and glasshouses; David had a built-in plot of his own. There were glasshouses bulging with fruits of every kind. James Kelly, the head gardener, and his family lived within the grounds and had three or four learner gardeners to help him run the show. Mick Bellew, his second in command whom I knew well calling into our shop, had spent the best part of his life in Rockingham; the man’s name was synonymous with Rockingham gardens. David lingered and browsed close to a particular glasshouse, one rich with raspberries and strawberries. As we dallied and pondered, a smile appeared on the face of Mick Bellew. “You’re standing very close to that glasshouse lads,” he commented. “Mind you don’t crack it!” We said nothing. “A dish of strawberries with fresh cream in Moraghan’s kitchen would be a fair old ending to a day in Rockingham, would it not,” said Mick. We smiled and gave a nod of agreement. My first visit to Rockingham was an unforgettable one. </div>
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Christy Wynne </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-10303085597921211412016-05-25T03:06:00.003-07:002016-05-25T03:09:43.849-07:00Tribute to an Old Friend - Paschal Mullaney<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">Tribute to an
Old Friend<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<i>“Fear no more the heat of the sun, nor the
furious winter’s rages<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone
and taken thy wages”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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William Shakespeare<o:p></o:p></div>
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Following a
protracted illness Paschal Mullany, a very special friend, passed away quietly
and peacefully, the last of the proverbial bunch one could say. Our friendship
touched on the seven ages of man as conceived by The Bard himself. His death
brought to mind a poem close to my heart by Charles Lamb, ‘The Old Familiar
Faces’, which I hope to quote later.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Paschal and his wife
Moya ran a highly successful grocery and bar trade on Bridge Street, Boyle for
three generations, a business where they gave loyal and dedicated service to
their many customers. Moya’s endless hours behind the cash register will be
long remembered notwithstanding the dedicated care she gave Paschal in his
sickness and the unbearable crosses she carried nobly and quietly, and may I
say with a deep faith.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Going back to
Paschal’s younger athletic days, the man was a top rank tennis player of Connacht
Cup status and had won many trophies along the way; the game of tennis was his
tour-de-force. Inter-club matches were held regularly over the summer months
and Paschal invariably was the Number One seed. Back in 1960, for a young guy
to own his own car was quite rare. ‘DI 7604’ was used primarily for shop
deliveries, but it had other purposes as well. ‘Ballrooms of Romance’ were
sprouting up in towns and villages all around the west and come Sunday night,
if one was lucky to have a car, the world became your oyster. Meticulously,
Paschal would take note of the bands playing the dancehalls on the night; the
best of the bunch was then chosen and a few of his ‘cronies’ were invited along
in the bandwagon. The names Silver Slipper, Cloudland, Fairyland, Roseland all come
to mind, not forgetting Tooreen Parish Hall (in the heart of the country) that
was part of the fiefdom of the late great Canon Horan, the man who always
seemed to have a smile on his face. Distance wasn’t ever a problem for Paschal;
like a youthful Caesar, at the end of the night he would simply say ‘Veni,
Vidi, Vici’. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Another of his interests
extended to the County and Provincial Fleadhs which invariably led to an All-Ireland
Fleadh in some far-flung field. After the hype of the All-Ireland Fleadh in
Boyle in 1960, the appetite had been whetted for more of the same; fast-forward
Swinford, Clones and Mullingar. One of our most unforgettable expeditions was
to the marble city of <st1:city w:st="on">Kilkenny</st1:city>
in 1960 for the 250<sup>th</sup> anniversary celebrations of the founding of
the famous Smithwick’s Brewery. Many a post-mortem ran late in a smoke-filled
lounge as we reminisced on that long day’s journey into night. We often
wondered in hindsight if the same festival might have been the precursor of the
great music festivals of today that are held annually around <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region> and the <st1:country-region w:st="on">U.K.</st1:country-region>!<o:p></o:p></div>
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After his marriage to
Moya (and what a day that was in the Hodson Bay Hotel), the family arrived and
in the course of time the growing boys drew him more and more into football, handball,
rugby, swimming and of course tennis. The Roscommon county team playing at home
or away could never be missed. Lorna, the apple of his eye, was happy to hold
the fort at home with Moya on a Sunday afternoon as the rest cheered the county
to victory. Then followed the dark night of sickness that seemed to run forever;
a mountain nigh impossible to climb. The last of the stages of man, age Number Seven,
had arrived. Conversation was a struggle, concentration diminished, and
memories were dimmed. The face I had known so well wasn’t there anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My heartfelt sympathy
is with Moya, Charles and Lorna today.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Christy Wynne<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The Old Familiar Faces<br />
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<span lang="EN-GB">I have had playmates, I have had
companions, <br />
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, <br />
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I have been
laughing, I have been carousing, <br />
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,<br />
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Ghost-like I paced
round the haunts of my childhood, <br />
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, <br />
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Friend of my
bosom, thou more than a brother, <br />
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? <br />
So might we talk of the old familiar faces –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">How some they have
died, and some they have left me,<br />
And some are taken from me; all are departed –
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All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i>Apologies to Charles Lamb for a tiny spot of
editing</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-16000001454063471802016-01-26T00:44:00.006-08:002016-01-26T00:45:57.026-08:00A Blast from the Past<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<b>As much through the light of years as through this wet evening</b></div>
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<b>My thoughts of the past seemed to move. (John Mc Gahern)</b></div>
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The present endless cycle of wet weather, the overcast days and the long winter nights can sometimes be too long a sacrifice and make a stone of the heart. By way of antidote the poet Shelly once wrote that ‘if winter comes, can spring be far behind’. So with that happy little thought in mind, I am looking forward to bright blue skies, sylvan walks, leafy glades and an uplifting of the heart. A little theory of my own to help lift the drooping spirit is all about tapping into your reserve of childhood memories, the happy ones that ramble around in the canyons of the mind. We all have a store of them, the joyful occasions and delightful little events that helped make us who and what we are; you then proceed to blot out (in the best way possible) the not so happy ones. A balancing act, one might say, but well worth trying.<br />
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For me, one of the first is about a letter I wrote to Santa Claus one Christmas; a must for every child that ever learned to write. I decided to post my letter in the pillar box at The Northern Bank, to Santa in Lapland but got it back by return post the following day. John Mattimoe the popular and well-loved town postman, grandfather and godfather of the Mattimoe postal dynasty and a close friend of my mother, went out of his way to return it to me in person (in our shop) explaining that Santa would be much happier if I left it at the fireplace in the bedroom where he couldn’t miss it. I thanked him, took his advice, placed it in the fireplace and the great man duly arrived with the goods. What innocent and hilarious times we lived in!<br />
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The Great Blizzard of February 1947 would be next on my list. The most phenomenal event of my youth, it had within it all the ingredients for a book, maybe even a best seller. Too long to tell it all here!<br />
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Another little blast from the past, not quite as newsworthy as the Great Blizzard but still very much a tradition of the time was Mayday. That particular day had great significance for a generation that was deeply religious and conscious of God in their everyday lives; people who clung to an infallible belief in Heaven (and Hell) and the hereafter. Mayflowers scattered on the doorsteps on Mayday morning was a symbol of welcome to Our Lady Queen of the May, a month that is still dedicated to her memory. Little altars were set up on the landing of many a home for the month of May, a now long forgotten practice. The buttercups, daisies and primroses that dotted the countryside in a carpet of colour were literally at one’s fingertips. My own favourite patch to pick a bunch lay between the first and the second gate into Rockingham. Bea Sparkes (a friend of my mother) lived in a little cottage inside the first gate and it was there I went to pick them with a little more than Our Lady’s memory in mind. I had sampled Bea’s apple tart in her kitchen a few times in the past and felt it could just happen again if the conditions were right and if I made myself ‘unashamedly’ conspicuous. Even at the tender age of ten there lies a native cunning! Religion reigned supreme then, Sunday Mass, confessions each week, the monthly Sodality, Lent and Advent, abstinence from meat on a Friday, The Rosary prayed daily, the annual church mission. Religion in Ireland drifted as far back as the arrival of the Celts; ‘twas in the DNA.<br />
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Another very special day in a child’s calendar was First Holy Communion Day which included breakfast in The Convent. The Reverend Mother assisted by her team of young nuns, dressed in full length black habits and snow white breastplates, moved about from table to table smiling and chatting with parents and communicants. The great rosary beads that dangled from their dark leather belt swung over and back like chains of a wag-of-the-wall clock that were out of synch. Later that day there was the grand outing to Strandhill in Brian Grehan’s Ford V8 (hackney car). The afternoon was full of excitement. The travelling there, the running on the beach, the paddling in the sea, a picnic in the sand dunes and a visit to The Paragon Stores ice cream shop. I can still visualise my mother in the shelter of a sand dune pumping the primus stove with its little blue flame to boil the kettle to make tea (and sandwiches) while her now ravenous offspring sat around her in a circle like a clutch of chicks waiting to be fed. The old box camera did its work that day, sealing for posterity the special moments that only happen once in a lifetime. Mrs Cullen’s shop (Paragon Stores) was invaded every half hour as we spent our Holy Communion money on the usual paraphernalia; sweets, ice cream and biscuits. Today Strandhill is a very busy resort compared to that of the mid-1940s, and while Mrs Cullen is long dead she must still cast a cold eye on the beach and the canon gun. Today the name of the shop in bold italics reads Mammy Johnston’s, a lady whose origins are in Boyle town. Before we left Strandhill, we paid a visit to Culleenamore Strand to dig for cockles which we had for supper that evening cooked in milk. We shared some with our driver Brian Grehan, the man who had made it all possible, and not forgetting his tenant John McKeon the local dentist whom we knew was addicted to the little saltwater clam. Happy days! With such memories and more flooding the mind, the ripples of depression faded into thin air, lost in a sea of joy.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-7841382815336694472016-01-13T10:54:00.000-08:002016-01-13T11:22:30.960-08:00The Year of the Big Snow 1947<div style="text-align: justify;">
The greatest snowfall of the century</div>
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It began on the night of Monday 24 February 1947. The greatest snowfall of the century was on its way. Today it is simply remembered as, ”The Blizzard. As I look back to those far off days when I was a young ten year old, I recall in a special way the words of the poet William Wordsworth when he wrote, “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven,” and so it was.</div>
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For weeks before, an arctic wind had been blowing across the land and snow was the topic on everyone’s lips. As I went to bed on that Monday night dreaming dreams, the first flakes were beginning to fall. The next morning when I woke up and looked out on the street below I could barely recognise it. Shop fronts, shop windows, hall doors, had literally disappeared under a huge blanket of snow, and the roof tops opposite looked strangely different with their snow capped chimneys standing out stark and weird against a snow filled sky.</div>
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The birds that chattered in the morning on the moss covered slates and perched along the telegraph wires were nowhere to be seen. I wondered had some natural instinct told them that a blizzard was on the way and so had taken flight in a hurry to a warmer country. That morning I didn’t dally over the breakfast as time was very much of the essence. Dressed in Wellington boots, balaclava on my head and schoolbag on my back, I set off for school fully prepared for anything the elements could throw at me.<br />
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I paraded up St. Patrick St, in a track that had been made in the middle of the road earlier that morning and which came to an abrupt halt at the gateway to Candon’s flour yard. Suddenly I began to feel panicky as the snow was almost up to my waist and the readymade path had run out. An eerie silence hung everywhere and there wasn’t a human being in sight. Just then an old lady whom I met regularly on my way to school appeared in her doorway. Better known to all of us as Mrs Mitten the widow, she was small in stature, and her great mane of white hair reminiscent of the illustrious Albert Einstein was blowing wildly in the wind. Somewhat eccentric in her ways she had a habit of greeting the morning with a rendering of her one and only song “Sweet Genivieve” as she carried her jug of milk to a friend a short distance down the road.<br />
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That morning she wasn’t singing when she beckoned me over to her, but like the wise old oracle advised me to go home before I got lost, assuring me there would be no school that day or for many a day. Then, as if looking up to heaven, she said ‘I haven’t seen anything like it since “The Count” was elected’.<br />
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It was many years later before I understood who she was talking about .“The Noble Count Plunkett” had been elected as the first Sinn Fein T.D.in Ireland for North Roscommon during a similar blizzard in February 1917, and she was apparently reliving the memory of that historic event some thirty years later. Many of her generation would have remembered it as the ‘Election of the snows.’ That morning I didn’t hesitate in taking her advice, and turned for home hoping and praying that her forebodings would come to pass.</div>
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1947 down to Bridge Street 1947 down to Bridge Street The scene that was now unfolding by the hour was to last for a month. It snowed all that day and night until midday on Wednesday, accompanied by an arctic wind that left a trail of snowdrifts in its wake. Gable walls, alleyways and archways took the brunt of the storm with drifts fifteen feet high piled up against them. The town began to look like a lost village in Siberia with its commercial life slowly grinding to a halt, and public transport failing to get in or out for several days.<br />
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People were beginning to panic buy. The town was fortunate in those days to have two thriving bakeries, Thomas Egan, Green Street, and Danny Cunnion, Elphin Street. They did a bread delivery almost every day with their own improvised mode of transport the “horse and sleigh” and this relieved the situation considerably. “Egans Batch” and “Cunnions Wheata” became household names and was the proverbial” Manna from Heaven.” Milk was also a big worry at the time as there was no such thing as being able to buy it in the shops. Sonny Gannon from Greatmeadow had a large milk delivery which covered a wide area and he overcame the problem by using the same mode of transport to get to all his customers. It was hailed as a great success. James Hennigan, another supplier from “Spa” at the foot of the Curlew mountains had a more humble form again. With his small donkey and cart he plodded his way to the outskirts of the town near Easkey and Lowparks, and from there he continued his delivery on foot. He supplied many homes in the town centre including our own home during those hard wintry days never failing to turn up with his priceless commodity. It was often said in fun at the time that Jimmy would be heard coming, long before he was seen, from the rattle of the aluminium jugs hanging from the spout of his dairy can.</div>
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As the days went by, strange events began to make the news, the first being that of the missing postman. Johnny Gormley left the Post Office in the early hours of the Tuesday morning with his bicycle and bag of mail to carry out his usual delivery. The countryside he served was mountainous, rugged and beautiful. In summertime our friend “Wordsworth “ would have described it as “the loveliest place on earth”, but in winter it was bleak and unforgiving. Steep hills, winding narrow roads half as old as time, and a valley to cross made it daunting terrain. The names of the townlands he served sounded equally beautiful.; Kiltycreighton, Townanaden, Corrnameeltha, Derrynaugheran to name but a few of them, but that didn’t make the job any easier for Johnny. At Brislagh hill he was forced to abandon his bicycle behind a ditch and continue his journey on foot. As the weather conditions were getting worse by the minute he wondered should he continue or turn back. In the Post Office, anxiety was mounting when he failed to return by late afternoon, so a search party set out but had to return within a short time as dusk had already fallen. Early the following morning a full search party set off with food, blankets, medical equipment and lanterns, but again returned that evening without success.</div>
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Huge snowdrifts had obliterated many of the familiar landmarks, making any further search impossible. The area had been transformed into a no mans land. Thursday and Friday passed with the same result, and now with hopes fading fast of finding him alive his family and friends had begun to fear the worst. Saturday morning dawned and people continued to hope and pray that the friendly postman would be found alive, and then,”<br />
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Miracle of miracles “, a vision in flesh and blood appeared on the ‘Crescent.’The postman presumed dead was telling the story of his ”deliverance” to a hushed crowd. Johnny had struggled his way across the valley through the townland of Taverane and on towards Cloonloo where he collapsed, suffering from fatigue and hypothermia. A farmer out searching for his sheep found him in a semi- conscious state and brought him back to his home where he took care of him until he felt strong enough to attempt the journey back to Boyle town. It was a story with a fairytale ending and a cause for celebration for the rest of the day. The house of the ‘Good Samaritan’, can still be seen today ,and whenever a heavy snowfall occurs the story of Johnny’s survival comes to life again and is retold in many a bar and lounge.</div>
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Around the same time a similar scene was unfolding on the other side of town. Danny Kelly the Home Assistance Officer for the area left his home at Cortober, Ck-on-Shannon, to travel to his office in Boyle. Near Ardcarne,about five miles from the town, his car got stuck in a large snowdrift, so he abandoned it and decided to take a shortcut across ‘The Plains’via ‘Eastersnow. It was an area of the countryside he knew like the back of his hand.<br />
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When he passed Hollymount school and came to the small hump backed bridge over the railway line,Danny was in for a shock. A farmer's cottage situated in a hollow in the shadow of the bridge appeared to have vanished. A massive snowdrift nearly twenty feet high had enveloped it completely on two sides leaving it almost invisible to the naked eye. Danny, who knew the farmer very well was in disbelief, as he stared at what used to be Luke’s cottage. He shouted out his name several times in desperation but failed to get any response. Then after what seemed an age, Luke’s muffled voice broke the silence. He was alive and well and in good spirits, and said he had plenty of food, fuel and good neighbours to see him through the immediate crisis. Having got over his initial shock, Danny, whose ordeal was still far from over, continued his hazardous journey across ”The Plains“. However, like Johnny the postman he too became a casualty of the fierce weather and was forced to take shelter in a farmer’s cottage until the following morning. That afternoon, there was unbridled joy in the town when Danny the social welfare officer arrived safely in his dole office with his ‘Wells Fargo’ intact. It was another cause for celebration.</div>
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Of the many stories of courage and endurance to come out of that period one of the most memorable must be that of ‘The Marathon Man’. Patrick told me his story some months before he died and it is surely one for the record books. He left his home in “Duballa” a few miles outside the town late on the Monday evening of the Blizzard with his bicycle. His destination was Collooney railway station where he was to board the train for Enniskillen and thence to Belfast.<br />
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It was a journey he had made many times before and thought little of it. When he set out that evening the weather was extremely cold and dry, and some time later it started to snow. Conditions were getting worse by the minute, and the blinding snow was making it almost impossible for him to cycle. When he eventually arrived in Ballymote ten miles on, he left his bicycle at the railway station in the safe hands of the Station Master. He continued his journey on foot to Collooney which was another ten miles ,and eventually got there feeling cold, weary, and more than disappointed. All transport had been cancelled due to the catastrophic weather conditions, so his marathon journey had all been in vain. But he now faced a new and tougher challenge as he had to find his way back home on foot which was twenty miles away. The snow on the roads had by now reached the same level as the tops of the ditches, blotting out practically every landmark that he was familiar with. A sea of white stretched to the horizon on all sides .</div>
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For Pat the situation was looking very grim. 1947 clearing the Rails in Boyle</div>
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1947 clearing the Rails in Boyle</div>
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Suddenly, the proverbial “spark from heaven” came to his aid. Across the fields in the distance he recognised the stretch of telegraph poles that run parallel with the railway track. Slowly and doggedly he struggled across the frozen landscape till he reached the embankment and found his way on to the railway line. From there he continued his marathon journey along the track through Ballymote station, Kilfree Junction and Mullaghroe. Knowing he was in home territory at Mullaghroe bridge, he left the railway track and completed the last few miles of his extraordinary journey by road. The ‘Marathon Man’ had made his way home safely and his story is now part of history.</div>
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Back in Boyle town an event was taking place that made the front pages of the Roscommon Herald. An old resident had died and his burial was in Assylinn cemetery which is situated on a steep hill a mile outside the town. The man’s funeral was unique in that it was the first time for people to witness remains being carried through the town centre on a horse drawn sleigh. As it wound its way from St.Joseph’s Church through the streets, a large crowd of mourners walked behind, while many more lined the sidewalks. Photographs were taken of the funeral cortege at various points along the route with the old Box camera in evidence. It brought a touch of the macabre to the whole scene. When it mounted the steep hill close to the cemetery, an area had been cleared in the snow to park the horse and sleigh. Groups of pallbearers then took it in turn to carry the coffin into the graveyard for burial. It was a slow tortuous journey of a kind not seen before, and for many, hopefully would not be seen again in a lifetime.</div>
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Some days later a variation on the theme took place at the railway station. As a young lad I was fascinated with steam engines and spent many an hour watching them rumbling in and out of the station. That particular day I was high up on the cross bridge looking down on the old steel giant grinding to a halt and belching out great clouds of steam in all directions.<br />
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1947 Steam engine coming into Boyle Station</div>
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Passengers boarding and disembarking, scurried out of the line of fire while the railway checker rushed up and down the platform loudly calling out the name of “Boyle“.<br />
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As a young lad for some unknown reason I used to feel a tinge of pride when I heard its name ringing out loud and clear. During the excitement of it all the engine filled her huge belly with water from an old water tower at the end of the platform .and with a shrill whistle and more clouds of steam the old warhorse shunted her way slowly out of the station and out of sight. It was then I noticed a group of people dressed in dark suits carrying a coffin along the platform and into the waiting room. I hurried down to see them placing it on a readymade catafalque situated in one corner.<br />
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Andy the porter, whom I knew well seemed to be directing operations. Curiosity getting the better of me, I asked him who was in the coffin. Andy, known for his wit and good humour left me little the wiser except to say in a whisper, ‘He’s resting peacefully here tonight and he wont be needing any breakfast. That put an end to my curiosity. Some prayers were said quietly around the coffin before the small group of mourners drifted away in silence. I never found out the name of the deceased or what form of transport ferried him to his final resting place.</div>
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As the days passed, the frozen snow had turned the town into a winter playground, with” Green Street“ hill and “The Crescent “transformed into skating rinks. Lorries and cars were in short supply in those days, so there was little problem for the youth to try out their skills. Anything that could move on ice made its appearance; Push cars, broken-down prams, enamel basins, aluminium trays, stools on their end could be seen racing helter skelter down the hill with children hanging on for dear life.<br />
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The sound of laughter was everywhere, and if and when the odd minor collision did occur, few tears were shed. Everything was forgotten in the sheer joy of the moment. A few members of staff of “Boles of Boyle” drapery store rigged up a real snow toboggan, and it became the star performer on the ”Green Hill.” As children we would line up at what was then Sheras house at the top of the hill and eagerly await our turn to be called. A colleague at the bottom of the hill gave the all clear signal and the pilot and his young passenger shot like a bolt of lightning through the junction, at Main St | St. Patrick St, careered up Bridge St, past “The Royal Hotel” and finally came to a halt outside “The Rockingham Arms“. It was the thrill of a lifetime .and an experience you would never forget.<br />
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The pilots, George, Bill and Ernie divided up their leisure time to try to give everyone a chance, but it was like fighting back the tide. The queue of young recruits eagerly waiting their turn was endless, and the pilots themselves had only so much of their leisure time to give. For those of us who can remember back to those days, it used to be said in fun that George, Bill and Ernie deserved the purple heart for bravery. As the day progressed we turned our attention to another type of live entertainment. The scene was “Abbeyview Hill “at Knocknashee., and the setting was readymade for the would be skier. For a birds eye view we would sit on top of the Abbey Park wall which was directly opposite and watch the impending action. The skiers raced down the slope zig zagging their way to the boundary wall that was lined with beech trees. Sometimes their landing came a cropper and a sound like the crash of ash could be heard rising from behind the wall. However after a brief pause and a spell of silence the aspiring skiers would be seen to struggle back up the hill for more of the same, looking a little humbled but unbowed. It was entertainment at its best, and the seats were free. Our next stop was Conroy’s pond on the old golf course at Warren. Frozen solid, it too became a skating rink both for the young and not so young. We tried our best to play football on it, but spent more time on our backside than on our feet. Some members of the then club tried their skills at ice skating but fared rather badly. Sadly a number of them ended up with sprained ankles and frozen shoulders. They would have been much more at home wielding a driver or a nine iron on the nearby green.</div>
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During all this period Lough Key was also frozen over and it too became a winter playground. Stories survive of Ceilidhe dances being held along the lake shore at Smutternagh, with bonfires alight and the sound of accordions and bodhrans echoing across the frozen waste as the dancing continued into the early hours. Una Bhan and her lover Thomas Costello would have loved it all, as they listened from their quiet graves on far off Trinity Island.<br />
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1947 frozen Lough Key<br />
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The fun and sport came to a peak on Sundays when many took to skating on the frozen lake. A vantage point on top of the ‘Rock of Doon’ gave one a panoramic view. It was a beginners paradise, with, the young and old indulging in a sport that was unlikely ever to be seen again on Lough Key. It was to remain a dream and a memory. The lake remained frozen over for several weeks and this tempted a few brave hearts to use it as a shortcut home on many occasions, The bicycle was the most common mode of transport then, and some of these daredevils peddled their way across five kilometres of ice without considering the cost. A story is told of a man who cycled the full length of the lake to Knockvicar Bridge, a distance of ten kilometres for the “Craic“. He would have needed nerves of steel to make such a crossing as the lake is noted for its countless fresh water springs.<br />
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Back in the town the ‘Winter Olympics’ continued unabated, and snow battles were played out daily on the streets. When the paths were cleared to allow people to shop in relative comfort, the snow lay six feet deep in the channels. Openings were made at various points along the street to allow shoppers to cross from one side to the other.; The setting was readymade for the hit and run battle. Youthful enthusiasm and boundless energy were in plentiful supply meaning the harassed shopper had to run the gauntlet each day. Many a farmers hat bit the dust with his bulldog pipe still lit lying beside it,. Tempers became frayed at times but were rarely lost. Youth was having the time of its life and apparently could do no wrong.</div>
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Finally, after the biblical forty days and nights, the great thaw had set in and was at its height. As the ice melted on the roofs, huge slabs crashed down on the streets below with a sound like thunder. Any person unlucky enough to be caught under one of them would hardly rise again. It was the endgame and there was a terrible finality about it. The great blizzard was coming to an end and we were watching it in its death throes. It was unlikely we would ever see anything like it again in our lifetime. For the young it was ‘the best of times’, for the old and infirm it was “the worst of times “, and for the birds of the air and the animals of the fields it was surely a nightmare. As I look back over a period of sixty winters, many of them stand out for various reasons. None however will ever match the ferocity of the blizzard that hit the country on the night of the 24 February 1947.</div>
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Deep down I have a joy and satisfaction in being able to recall what was the most momentous event of my childhood and to be able to say that I was part of it.</div>
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Christy Wynne 2007</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-36296253754346574722015-12-01T01:47:00.003-08:002015-12-01T11:19:10.357-08:00The Story of Doon Shore<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<b>The Story of Doon Shore</b></div>
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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.</div>
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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.<br />
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.<br />
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,</div>
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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.<br />
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,<br />
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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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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<b>Who remembers the Boatman of Lough Key?</b><br />
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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.</div>
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<b>A trip to the Doon Shore in the 1950s</b><br />
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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.<br />
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.<br />
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?<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-20851057687672783552015-11-16T00:50:00.002-08:002015-11-16T00:50:26.990-08:00Ode to an Ice Cream<div style="text-align: justify;">
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? </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-7518393251946300862015-08-08T20:53:00.004-07:002015-08-08T20:58:40.893-07:00Update 9th August<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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Diary of an Emigrant</h2>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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!</div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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”.</div>
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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. </div>
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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.”</div>
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Christy Wynne</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2638622674400378010.post-27671881000950059682015-08-07T08:24:00.004-07:002015-08-07T08:27:00.513-07:00Update 7th August<div style="text-align: justify;">
Meanderings</div>
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“The wind is old and still at play, and I must hurry upon my way,</div>
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For I am running to Paradise” W.B. Yeats</div>
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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!</div>
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.</div>
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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!</div>
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. </div>
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Our youthful journeys brought us to Paradise one might say.</div>
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Christy Wynne</div>
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