'TIS ALL THE ONE

Despite being Irish by both persuasion and birth, I found it extremely difficult to understand the districts and boundaries of parishes and townlands when I moved west.  In cities, areas are clearly defined and named.  Bus, train and road trips also contribute to make the visitor or native aware of their surroundings.  I was born in 'The Pale', a lexicon hardly used and largely unknown to the present generation.  In my time ; The Pale referred to Dublin.   My family of origin is of Connaught and the saluation 'To Hell or to Connaught' is familar with all of its complications! Fortunately for me; religion was more of a curiosity than a necessity and the strongest influences were cultural and sporting events.  However, my lack of knowledge of christian church structures, names and boundaries were a definite handicap.  It took months of frustrating labour before I understood an area I call the parish of Eastersnow is the Protestant term.  This same territory is identified by the catholic church as Ballinameen & Kilcola.I have set down below some extracted information regarding the various redistribution of lands and ownerships relating to Eastersnow, Clogher and a brief outline of Connaught.ROSCOMMON: 


According to Ptolemy (AD 168), Roscommon was inhabited by the Auteri, who occupied also the present county of Galway. Among the native septs by whom it was afterwards occupied, the O'Conors enjoyed the supreme authority in the central districts, the Mac Dermots in the northern, and the O'Ceilys or O'Kellys in the southern.

After the arrival of the English in the country, Murrough, son of Roderic O’Conor, King of Ireland, during his father's absence, persuaded Milo de Cogan to undertake an expedition into Connaught, who having come to Roscommon was there joined by Murrough, and their united forces commenced a marauding campaign through the neighbouring districts.

In 1204, this part of the island was ravaged by William Bourke Fitz Aldelm; in 1216, Athlone castle was erected by King John of England; and in 1268 Robert de Ufford, Lord Justice, commenced construction of Roscommon Castle, which shortly afterwards fell into the hands of the natives.

The erection of the county into shire ground must have taken place at a very early period, as notices of the sheriffs of Roscommon and Connaught are found among the records of the reign of Edward I., into which counties the portions of the province that acknowledged the English supremacy were divided.

A CLASH OF CULTURES

Medieval Ireland was marked by the existence of dozens of kingdoms, each ruled by a king who in the early medieval period was technically the highest nobleman in the Tuath.

Most kings were subject to over kings, who were the policy-makers of the time. They based their authority over other lords and kings on ties of blood relationship and alliance. The integrity of such alliances partially depended on the power and personal qualities of the over king.

The ruling kindreds of the Irish kingdoms were often caught between the forces of internal division and outward stability.

The rule of inheritance and succession stimulated competition among relatives and expansion by the kindred’s branches. Yet it also gave the kindred as a whole a measure of stability and flexibility, as the kindred hardly ever died out in the male line. Several royal dynasties remained in control of an area for many centuries.

The English, since the late 1530s, under the Tudors of England, had been expanding their control over Ireland.

To incorporate the native Irish Lordships, they granted English titles to Irish Lords.  Shane O'Neill of Ulster is a good example of the difficulties this caused – Conn Bacach O'Neill, Shane's father, was created the first Earl of Tyrone.

However, whereas in Gaelic custom, the successor to a Chiefship was elected from his kinsmen, the English insisted on succession by the first-born son or primogeniture.

This created a conflict between Shane, who considered it his natural right to be Chieftain of his clan and an "affiliated son" or adoptee of his father Conn Bacach.

Shane's mother Lady Alice Fitzgerald, Tyrone's first wife, was the daughter of Gerald FitzGerald, 8th Earl of Kildare. His stepmother was the daughter of Hugh Boy O'Neill of Clanaboy. She died while Shane was young and Shane, following Gaelic custom, was fostered by the Donnelly (Ó Donnaile) family, who raised him until his early teenage years.

During his trip to the English court to receive the title of earl of Tyrone, Shane's father Conn 'Bacach', who had just lost his eldest son and was in open conflict his surviving sons, was accompanied by the fosterling Feardorcha (translated into English as 'Matthew'), a youth who, until he was sixteen had been acknowledged as the son of a Dundalk blacksmith. Feardorcha's mother Alison Kelly was Conn Bacach's current mistress.

When Conn was created Earl of Tyrone, Feardorcha was declared to be Conn's heir in English law, disinheriting all of Conn's surviving sons, including Shane.

Under English law, Feardorcha, titled Baron of Dungannon from Conn's principal house in Tyrone, was intended to succeed him as 2nd Earl of Tyrone. However, Feardorcha was ambushed and killed by Shane's foster brothers, the Ó Donnaile, in 1558, some months before the death of Conn Bacach, and the claim to the earldom passed to Brian, Feardorcha's eldest son, who was later killed in 1562 in a skirmish with Turlough Luineach.

The claim to the earldom now passed to Feardorcha's next son Hugh O’Neill who had been removed to The Pale in Dublin by Sir Henry Sidney. Hugh was later transferred to the English Court in 1559, and was brought up there while Shane established his supremacy in Ulster.

Books of Survey and Distribution were compiled around 1680 as the result of the wars of the mid-seventeenth century after the Cromwellian Conquest of Ireland, when the English government needed reliable information on land ownership throughout Ireland to carry out its policy of land confiscation.


They were used to impose the acreable rent called the Quit Rent, which was payable yearly on lands granted under terms of the Acts of Settlement and Explanation.

It is possible to discover to whom, if anyone, the confiscated lands were granted so that we have a record of landowners for 1641 and 1680. As a result, it is possible to determine the amount of lands lost by the 1641 owners after the Irish Rebellion of 1641 and to discover the names of the new proprietors.

CROGHAN VILLAGE 1837

CROGHAN, a village, in the parish of KILLUKEN, barony of BOYLE, county of ROSCOMMON, and province of CONNAUGHT, 4 miles (N. by W.) from Elphin, on the road to Boyle.

It is an improving village, containing about 20 houses and cabins, the property of Guy Lloyd, Esq. Drugget, frieze, and flannel are manufactured here.

Petty sessions are held every Tuesday, and fairs on the Wednesday after Trinity-Sunday and the 28th of October, for fat cattle, for which the October fair is considered to be one of the largest in this district.

There is a constabulary police station, and a dispensary; and a loan fund was established by Mr. Lloyd, in 1833, with a capital of £500.

In the village is the R. C. parochial chapel, a spacious and well-built structure; and in the immediate vicinity is Croghan House, the handsome residence of Guy Lloyd, Esq., who has effected considerable improvements in the neighbourhood.

EASTERSNOW (1837), a parish, in the barony of BOYLE, county of ROSCOMMON, and province of CONNAUGHT, 3 ½ miles (S. S. E.) from Boyle, on the new line of road from Tulsk, through Shankill; containing 1951 inhabitants. 

It comprises 3199 statute acres, of which the greater part is under tillage, and there are several large grazing farms; about one-tenth is bog, and there are some quarries of good limestone.

To the west of the church are the Cavetown loughs, bounded by hills and plantations. At the head of the largest is Croghan House, the seat of the late R. Mahon, Esq., now the property of Guy Lloyd, Esq., and on a hill beyond it is an obelisk, forming a conspicuous landmark.

On the opposite shore is Clogher, the seat of J. Dick, Esq. The other seats are Camlin, that of J. Irwin, Esq., and Granny, of T. Irwin, Esq.; and on the road to Elphin are several neat residences, on the property of Viscount Lorton.

The living is a vicarage, in the diocese of Elphin, episcopally united, in 1813, to the vicarage of Kilcola, and in the patronage of the Bishop; the rectory is impropriate in Lord Crofton. The tithes amount to £60. 16., one-half payable to the impropriator, and the other to the vicar; and the tithes of the benefice amount to £62. 14. 2., to which is added £39 per ann. from the Augmentation fund.

The glebe-house was erected by aid of a gift of £337, and a loan of £70. from the late Board of First Fruits, in 1821. The church, a very plain edifice, is situated in a deep hollow near the southern extremity of the "Plains of Boyle," of which this parish is considered to be the limit.

In the R. C. divisions the parish forms part of the union or district of Croghan and Ballinameen. The parochial school, and a school under the patronage of Mrs. Irwin, of Camlin, afford instruction to about 80 children; and there is also a private school, in which are about 30 children.

In Cavetown are some caves partially filled up; they are said to extend to a very great length. There are also some scarcely perceptible vestiges of an old castle, called Moylerg, which is said to have belonged to the Mac Dermotts.

Cavetown House

Ireland of The Welcomes.....

My buddy Tricia owns a bed and breakfast which beautifully reflects her bubbly and charming enthusiasm.  The house nestles up a winding lane and is wedged between two hills that offer shelter  and a sense of being snuggled into the landscape . 

Tricia is a dynamo and combines her family life with a busy schedule of work.  I met her last night at a house party and as five of us sat around the fire we exchanged stories of how stressful life becomes when our children are engaged in so many activities and how ‘you’d meet yourself coming back’ when on the road, not to mention the dreaded ‘car pool’!

Last week, Tricia had a booking for her B & B; a Mother and Son visiting from Scotland.  They were to arrive last Tuesday, meanwhile; back at the ranch a child announced that there was a football match and furthermore, another child required a lift, oh, and by the way a new mouth guard was required together with football socks.  Exasperated but focused Trish organised a schedule, a trip to Sligo was required; The Child was delegated with the task of getting the socks and Trica would get the mouth guard and both would reconnoitre at the car park for a speedy trip back home and thence to pick up the neighbours child.  The time frame was tight; no further shopping was to be done, no loitering; get the items and ‘Get out of Dodge’ as fast as possible.

Mistake.

15 minutes after the allotted time, no sign of the Child, Trish is stressing and when the said Child strolls across the car park she’s met with a barrage ‘Get it, seatbelt, what kept you? Do you think I’ve nothing better to do? Jeeze, I’ve no petrol! What part of hurry up did you not understand? What do you mean you’ve not eaten…….’

The traffic is dreadful, and now the schedule is completely out the window.

Back in Boyle, the train slows to a halt and dispatches the two Scottish visitors.  The Mother is hoping to trace her ancestors who came from Arigna.  For years, she’s been planning this trip.  Her son is with her to lend his support and he’s an experienced traveller.  There’s a problem.  No Hire Car awaits them and the company cannot figure out the issue.  Mother is tired so son hires a taxi to bring them to Tricia’s house.  Gratefully they disembark and are greeted by Tricia’s mother who makes a welcome cup of tea and shows them to their rooms. 

Tricia is still barrelling along the roads trying to make up time and is now buzzing with frustration and stress.  The Child is telephoning The Friend and yelling at her to ‘get a grip’ and be ready and waiting at the gate for her lift to the football.  The car tears around the S bend and gravel and stones flying they pull up at the front door.  The Child runs up the stairs to get her kit bag and Tricia fills the kettle to boil as she reads the instructions for the mouth guard ‘Immerse in boiling water for 3 minutes to soften, then place in mouth immediately to impress’.  As the 3 minutes are up;  there’s footsteps on the stairs and as the door opens Tricia extends her arm upwards as she bent to the press beneath the sink; ‘Put this in your mouth, and don’t say another word to me’.  As she straightened up and turned around she was eyeball to eyeball with her Scottish lady guest who mildly retorted ‘I just came downstairs to introduce myself’.

The following morning, the guests from Scotland were still without a hire car.  Our small county is a network of narrow secondary roads and without transport cannot be mastered.  Over tea, the guests outlined their mission and despair.  They had very little information of their ancestors and only knew of the area as Kilronan, somewhere in Roscommon.  With the assistance of the internet, they had planned their two day trip with meticulous attention.  A plane trip, a train journey and a short drive to Tricia’s with a map to guide them to Kilronan.  Their family ancestors were Miners and that was all they knew. 

Undeterred, Tricia volunteered to bring her guests to Arigna and Kilronan.  Up the Iron Mountain the local community built an interpretive centre in one of the disused mines.  As Tricia and her guests followed the guide around the mine, the Scottish Lady was overcome with emotion to see how her ancestors had forged a living underground and in primitive conditions.  Emerging into the daylight with tears coursing down her cheeks she found Tricia who volunteered that she had made some enquiries and invited the Scots to visit a graveyard down the hill.  And there they found the family grave and paid their respects.

A restorative afternoon tea in the palatial surroundings of Kilronan Castle completed the outing and the following morning Tricia drove them back the winding road along Lough Key’s shore to catch the train back to the city.

 I’d love to see the review of their trip to Ireland on the Internet!

From Manhattan to Tullyboy

Imagine our great joy on the return of our eldest Ellen daughter from NYC and her immediate offer to join us in Dickie’s to celebrate a surprise birthday for our neighbour Rose Callery.  The Callery family have been connected to our family as friends over three generations so with great heart and Sarah’s fiddle tucked into the boot we chuntered along to play our part in the proceedings.  As it happens, both Sarah and I were to join in another celebration; the home coming of The Moylurg Ceili Band who had won the All Ireland senior competition in Derry the previous week. 

Dickie’s was full to the brim and the joyous laughter, singing and conversation reflected merrily on Rose as she sat regally beside her husband, sister and the co conspirators of the surprise party.   Party pieces were recited; Sarah, Charlie and Breege played a few tunes as the Callery girls distributed trays of food over creamy pints and shortly after eleven Sarah and I decided to scoot over to Kingsland to see ‘The Moylurgs’. My Reason For Living, and Ellen accepted a lift from a neighbour and wished us goodnight as they expected to be home well before us.

As we travelled along the Knockarush Road, Sarah regaled me with stories from children and families she had met that day as she worked in the café in Tullyboy Farm.  Hoarse with laughter, she kinked and coughed as she relived the adventures.  Suddenly, we both saw flashes of white along the road and as I sharply slowed the car down we could see approaching like a pair of racehorses, two runaway calves.  Keenly aware of the potential danger to motorists, I urged Sarah out of the car and pressed a torch into her hand ‘what’til I do’ wailed she as I turned the car and got ahead of the calves, leaving her on the road behind.  ‘Find a gate to open or a drive to get them off the road’ sez I.  After some tribulation, we found a boreen and Sarah remained at the head of the road as I set off to find Matt O’Dowd.  

The lights were on at Tullyboy but the doors were locked so, unusually for me, I made my way to the front door and through the curtain framed window I could see Matt leaning forward in his armchair with his elbows on his knees and his face framed by the cups of his large hands.   I tapped a friendly but brisk tattoo on the window and Matt threw himself out of the chair, came to the window, stepped back and then realizing it was me, he came to open the door.  His wife,  Eileen, burst into a spontaneous and highly contagious laughter on hearing of the runaway calves and insisted that Sarah and I come back to the house when our mission was accomplished.

Meanwhile, Sarah and her new suede red pumps were traversing a boreen, and as I caught up to her, I could hear her throat and chest gently wheezing from her exertions and helpless laughter.  Mission accomplished we repaired back to Matt and Elieen who were both in the kitchen.  Tears of laughter followed as Eileen explained that Matt had been watching a thriller on the telly and my knock at the window and occurred at an intense moment.  A happy hour passed as we laughed ourselves to exhaustion and arrived home delighted with our adventure

Thoughts for a stranger on St. Patrick’s Day

Whilst visiting Catherine, I casually enquired if she knew anyone in a parish located in south Roscommon.  Not only did she know the area but to my alarm, her lips quivered and her breath shortened with emotional turmoil. 

After a time she remarked, ‘Ah, sure every cripple has their own way of walking’ and proceeded with her story. 

Over sixty years ago, in the late 1940’s a wife left her husband and removed herself to the farthest end of the county.  To leave a wife was commonplace.  Many families were reared by their mothers whilst the father went to the UK or America for work.  Some fathers returned regularly, others not at all.  Occasionally as children got to employable age, they went to join their father and found they had half siblings or that they were going to live with ‘a widowed cousin’ and her family.

Leaving a husband was very rare and for the middle class; deeply shameful.  Appearances were to be maintained and when a family was in a position of respect or power, any deviation from the norm was viewed with appalled fascination.

 Fortunately for our Runaway Wife, not only did she have a profession, she was acknowledged as an accomplished and beautiful woman.  She was also materially comfortable.  These attributes were a gift and a curse.  There would be considerable gossip to be sure.  Added to this mix was a conundrum, The Runaway Wife had a protector; The Parish Priest. 

The Runaway Wife continued her work as a teacher until her retirement in the 1960’s.  She became a school principal, won several accolades for music, bought her own car and home and when I met her in her eighth decade she was poised, elegant and erudite.

Fast forward forty years to Ireland in the 1980’s.  A teacher in a Convent school was dismissed for breaching the ethos of the school by having not one, but two children with her partner who was a separated married man.  This young woman appealed her case and failed right up to the High Court of Ireland.

Now I never experienced any difficulties during my school days but over the years I’ve heard highly emotive and painful recollections from individuals who really did experience physical and emotional abuse from teachers, their peers or indeed members of their own family.  

I’ve also experienced the singular pleasure of meeting some retired teachers who made a point of apologising, in person, to former pupils for any harm they may have inflicted on them as children.  I sat for hours listening to young adults explaining how one ‘bad’ teacher affected their entire perspective.

The Runaway Wife suffered her own indignities as did her progeny.  Few dared to confront the adult but speculation was rife and meted out to the children.  They would ask their mother ‘what is a bastard?’ response; ‘a child without a father’.  The children knew they had a father but couldn’t provide evidence of his existence without saying ‘he’s at home’ therefore making themselves transient visitors in their current abode.  ‘What’s sex?’ was another query; remember this is in Ireland in the 1940’s.  Response; ‘Sex is the difference between a man and a woman’.  Each question had an answer but somehow there was something in the ether which was inexplicable.

No one has the franchise on emotional pain.  When I carelessly asked Catherine about that little parish on St. Patrick’s Day, she opened her mind and her mouth and said it was time that this memory came out.  As she spoke, I saw a frightened little girl who had lost her father, home, siblings and friends simultaneously.  I heard her puzzlement and fear and she was unable to separate fact from fiction.  Who was the villain?  What was the cause for the flight?  Sixty years later she was looking for an answer but then quoted Rudyard Kipling’s IF.....

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Stoicism me Arse!

Don’t talk to strangers ‘Patsy Hanley’

Sandymount Strand, Dublin 4

My parents were avid; possibly rabid listeners of traditional irish music.  We lived in Sandymount in a house overlooking the Irish Sea and lived a pleasurable life of existence. 

Over the wall at the end of our garden were Claremont Club and Railway Union with their tennis courts, cricket crease, rugby and hockey pitches.  There was even a Bowles green and of course a clubhouse and pavilion.

My altogether sophisticated musical palet at the age of 15 consisted of Marc Boland, The Doors, Carole King, The Rolling Stones

This ultra cool and happening place interspersed with  peaceful gentility could change overnight.  Many nights and mornings we came down to the large kitchen and find it strewn with empty Powers Whiskey bottles, Guinness and Smithwicks carcases all  stacked neatly in a corner and various instruments of musical destruction were lined up like a baggage cart in a railway station.  The Culchies had arrived and something musical had or was about to kick off. The regular suspects were Jimmy McGreevy, Big Tom Mulligan, Fred Finn & Peter Horan, Tommie Flynn & Josie McDermott. Molly O;Gorman from Kilkenny, and of course all the Regans, my mother's cousins would dock on their way from England.  

As I put on my school uniform and headed along the sea road to school, I was filled with resentment for I knew that the house, which was substantial, was going to turn into a smoke filled, full bore Fleadh.  Anyone up from the west for a recording gig at Ceomhaltas or with Ciaran Mac Mahuna was going to end up in our house sooner or later. 

On my return journey home, I spotted a familiar face on the bus….It was Patsy Hanley from Roscommon and I got the feeling he was a bit directionless so having introduced myself as a daughter of Peter & Renee,  we established that Patsy was a ‘bit late’ for a recording at Ceomhaltas.  Being polite, I offered to bring him and when he’d finished his gig I then realized he hadn’t a bed for the night.  So, there was only one thing for it; I’d bring him home.  Well no girl was as well praised for initiative and courtesy that night.  I was a mighty girl altogether!

Sarah & Pat Sweeney

Forty years later at the behest of John Carlos, I brought our Sarah to Strokestown.  She’d just got a fiddle and John said she’d have to try a session sometime.  In the door,  Patsy Hanley is ensconced and giving it full bore.  The place was packed and with a shake of his head he indicated to Sarah to sit beside him.  She went to great lengths to explain that she was only scraping the fiddle and couldn’t play anywhere near real musicians.  Patsy turned to face her and asked ‘who are you’ and Sarah pointed out me as her mother.  ‘I see’ sez Patsy…. ‘I suppose she told you not to talk to strangers too’.  With a laugh Sarah agreed and Patsy retorted ‘Well don’t heed her, when she was your age, she recognised me on a bus and came with me to a recording and then brought me home to her mother and father at about two in the morning”

Trasa Canney, Patsy Hanley, Sarah Egan & Pat Sweeney

Last night, my good buddy Ann Smith had organised a 2016 Celbration Concert so we hit off to Tuam.  There was Patsy, Pat Sweeney and a host of singers and dancers lined up to do their bit, if not for Ireland, sure Tuam would reap the benefit.  

Ann asked Sarah who was she playing with which put her off balance, we’d only come to show our support and hear a few tunes. 

No way was Sarah going on that stage but Patsy slid down beside her, for a big man he’s very gentle with his gait and in a matter of fact and conversational tone asked her to play a few tunes.  Pat Sweeney followed with a pincer movement of mischievous banter and her ladyship bounced up to the stage with them.

As they gathered the tools to exit the stage after the set Patsy said ‘Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk to strangers; sure all you have to do is play music with them, just don’t start picking them off the bus !”

HARRY BRADLEY & LEONARD BARRY TAKE THE KINGDOM OF MOYLURG

Kerry County refers to itself as 'The Kingdom', We in Eastersnow have no such delusions of grandeur but when the blood is up.....

Many thanks to Matthew Gammon for taking some photos.

Our lovely pal Harry Bradley used to live up the road from us here but like all true minstrels, 'tis hard to keep them to ourselves and since he was awarded The Gradam in 2014 he's been hard to track down.

In the meantime, one lovely night in The Dock in Carrick-on-Shannon after a performance of  'The Pipes, The Pipes' we were introduced to Leonard Barry an 'outrageous' Piper from Kerry.

There are few people who appeal to both My Reason For Living and myself simultaneously but Mr Barry was unique in that regard.  His interest and knowledge of Gaelic football almost led to a domestic as we vied for his attention and when he spoke fondly of "Our" Harry he was 'made up' in our eyes.

After a memorable night of tunes in Cryan's with Tommie Guihan, Mick Mulvey and Leonard, Mick enquired if we were having another house concert soon and I invited Mick to organise one himself and asked Leonard if he'd be up for giving one a go.

Leonard Barry
Picture by Matthew Gammon

And so, the weekend after Roscommon GAA unbelievably won a senior league match in Kerry, against Kerry; Leonard arrived with "Our"Harry to Knockroe and thus began an intense and compelling night of music.

Leonard's 'outrageous' piping and Harry 'The Compressor' Bradley took no prisoners.  Rhythmic, pronounced and filled with the fine lace detail of ornamentation the two players were perfectly matched.

Some of the company who were sitting around the wall in the kitchen had various ailments; bad backs, injured feet and walking aids were strewn in the hallway and at one stage they were so intent on the music that they looked for all the world like a pew of penitents in a prayer circle and were just short of holding hands and roaring Hallelujah!


A slow air by Leonard silenced the house and as the last note hung in the air there was a lot of clearing of throats and blowing of noses.

Harry Bradley
Picture by Matthew Gammon

A short reprise and then off in a gallop with some exuberant reels. It's difficult to connect the words exuberant and control in the same sentance but musically that's what I could hear as  I foosthered in the kitchen; Leonard mentioned Kerry and in a fit of what I can only describe as euphoria I shouted 'Up Roscommon!' to the amusement of our guests and the loudest guffaw of laughter from My Reason For Living who knows that I have always supported my County of birth,  Dublin, for football and Rugby.

Harry gave us a solo run and I watched Tommy Guihan feel every note, breath and octave as the music cascaded over us all and I thought to myself that somehow our former Kindom of Moylurg had retained some of its glory with the visitation of the men of Ulster & Munster.

To complete the evening, we rambled to the last bastion of social civility in our parish; Dickie Beirne's Emporium at Eastersnow.

Picture by Matthew Gammon

More tunes intersperced with creamy pints, sandwiches and the perfect encore of Eastersnow was requested by The Lady of The House.

As we meandered over the top road home by the lake I was filled with contentment and murmered 'Up The Kingdom' into the starry sky and welcomed the thought of my warm bed.

The Drunken Landlady

When our family owned a pub in rural Ireland we also owned the grocery, petrol pumps and fuel store.  Business was excellent and over time we came to know family preferences and eccentricities.

The grocery shop was to the left of the building with the public bar adjoining; next to which was a hallway and a separate entrance to the 'Select' Lounge.

Ladies never entered the public bar and most would travel by bicycle or 'shanks mare' (on foot) to the shop.

On occasion, a husband and wife would travel together by ass and cart. Most families didn't have access to a car so the tractor was another mode of transport.

If a couple travelled together, more often than not, the husband would go to the bar for a pint or a quick half one whilst his wife entered the shop.  Some couples arranged to meet at a designated hour and the wives would have a chat whilst their shopping lists were attended to.  My mother attended the bar and my father tended the shop.  The arrangement worked well.  Both my parents were very easy on the eye and attracted the opposite sex.  My father was mischievous; my mother forthright and her people were from close by.  Both were quick to give a riposte and lively on their feet.  My mother hated the tedium of the shop where everything was weighed up both metaphorically and physically.  Both my parents despised meanness either by nature or design but my father was much more philosophical and didn't rise to the bait as quickly as my mother.

Two widowed women used to meet regularly in the shop on pension day.  They were friends for a lifetime and lived at opposite ends of the parish.  Both enjoyed a libation but for fear of condemnation; they never drank in public.  An arrangement was proposed to my father to place a 'Rum & Black and a Brandy and Pep' into the ladies bathroom when the ladies presented their shopping lists.  My father obliged and they would take it in turn to visit the bathroom. Two 'rounds' would be imbibed in quick succession as to delay too long in the bathroom would draw undue attention to patrons in the bar or shop.

Having settled their respective bills and organised their purchases the widows would gaily hit for home and for a long time this happy arrangement ran smoothly to the satisfaction of all.  My father informed my mother of the arrangement 'just in case' and indeed it was wise as one day he was absent and my mother arrived to the shop counter.  The widows made enquiries as to his welfare and my mother assured them that all was well and that he'd left 'a message' for them in the bathroom.

As my mother was tending to all counters single handily, and in order to save time; she measured out four glasses behind the bar counter comprising two Brandies & Pep and two Rum and Blacks, placed them on a tray and deposited them on the toilet cistern.  As she travelled up the counter through the Select Lounge, and Bar; the Widows were mirroring her journey outside the building and travelling in the opposite direction.  Mother stopped to 'top' a few drinks and then purposefully returned to the shop to tend to the shopping lists.  Busily she traversed from the shop to the bar with an occasional foray to the fuel pumps and when my father returned a couple of hours later she was both relieved and glad to see him and headed to the kitchen for a well deserved cup of tea.

As my father took over, one of the bar customers who had been sucking on a few pints for a couple of hours remarked that Mother was a mighty woman altogether; good looking, a hard worker and a stomach of a cow.  Not a very poetical description and requiring some explanation for my father.  'Well' sez the barfly 'any woman who can down four drinks in half an hour takes some batin, but your woman can take two brandies and two black rum at the same time, sure she must have two stomacks'

A Lesson on Loyalty.

Trying to come to grips with colloquial language is a challenge for everyone but I do think that in Ireland we have an extraordinary range of dialects and expressions which only appear apparent when there's a stranger in the company

My Uncle Liam is a great man for stories which he tells with confidence and great humour.  A lot of the following observations came from his time working in Dublin.  He was born and reared in Connaught and had no experience of living in a town so when he was catapulted into the city community of Dublin he had to learn on the hoof.  Liam was a Garda and his secondment to leafy Dublin 4 was sedate and civilised.  His area encompassed the Embassy Belt and the hoi polloi  of Dublin.  This area was populated with professionals, ambassadors, convents, hotels all set in a village type setting.  Those appointed to this area were the cream of the crop,  Tall, upright and a credit to their organisation and the community they served.

One rather upset lady approached Liam  with a difficulty.  She was most apologetic to be troubling The Guards and with some encouragement outlined her sorry tale. She had attended Dublin's Bird Market and purchased a Canary complete with cage and all accoutrement's as a gift for her niece.  The bird sang prettily but had difficulty with one of his legs and couldn't swing on his perch.  So Liam was dispatched to escort the lady back to the seller to question the sale of faulty goods.  On arrival, the lady complete with her fur coat and Garda escort arrived to the stall and outlined the difficulty.  Unconcerned the seller responded 'Jeasus Madam, did ya want a singing canary or a dancing one"

Uncle Liam was promoted and his next position was in less salubrious surroundings.  In the late 1940's a large block of Corporation Flats were built in Dublin to replace tenement houses and a second development took place in the early 1950's.  All of the accommodation was for families and as with every community, those in the first block of flats felt more "established" and somewhat superior to the younger families who arrived nearly ten years later.

Once a month, the State Child Benefit was paid. In Dublin, the payment was called 'Micky Money'. Mothers would dress in their best and any non school children would be brought for the walk to the Post Office to collect the much welcomed money.

As the mothers cued greetings and news would be exchanged.  Observations and enquiries regarding the progress and welfare of children, husbands and extended family members would be eagerly sought.  The arrival of a new family was a source of great anticipation and source of gossip.

As the 'Established' mothers took precedence in the que, a young mother was observed, nicely dressed and pushing a pram.  An infant was snug in the pram,  two other children held onto either side of the pram, a fourth child sat on a board across the pram and the mother was heavily pregnant. Two of the older mothers greeted her and as one returned from the post office counter with her money she paused and asked in a loud voice 'Well Mary, and how are you, things are going well for ye in Fertility Flats' to which the young mother riposted 'Well I can tell ye now Kathleen, its a lot more fun than yer having in Menopausal Mansion's as she circled her pram and brood and swept out the door towards the shops.

A further promotion saw Liam back in Connaught.  He'd never lost contact with his old friends and looked forward to the experience of working at home.  It was a swift learning curve.  Liam had forgotten the nuances of the countryside.  In Dublin, directness or at the very least outright defiance was the norm.  Country life was embroidered with many layers which Liam had to learn all over again.

There's always a family in a parish who despite their lack of funds, property or material wealth they contributed by their labour to assist or improve their community.  A lot of these families were very large and the greatest compliment to be paid to the mother would be the public utterance, 'Fair play to you Mrs Donnelly, ye've reared ten childer and not a Bowsie amongst them'.  A 'Bowsie' is Dublin slang for a messer or individual who committed some minor act of mischief.  On the other hand, 'A Right Bowsie' defined acts of criminality or physical assault.  In rural districts a Boyo or Bucko held the same status as the Bowsie.

All things being equal, and to somewhat balance a community; there's the family known to be light of finger or adverse to work.  The mother tried her best to keep control of her family  and was seen to do so.  One day on the Mickey Money cue, one of her high profile miscreants was spotted by the Guards.  Full of bluff and thunder; he knew his rights and fired out an alibi that he was assured his mother would give him.  Enquires were made to find the Mother and bring her to the Garda Station.

The poor mothers loyalty to her son was severely tested. She could not endorse his behaviour either way.  To bring the attention of the Guards to the family was both hurtful and damaging.  Meanwhile, the son realised that the one person who loved and believed in him most was now dragged into a scenario which was entirely his fault.  Whilst sitting in the Garda Interview Room, a wise and experienced Garda listend to the tale of  woe from the son robustly defending his mother and wishing to extract her out of the situation he had placed her in , he admitted his offence as his Mother entered the office.  The Garda replied  'Son your mother is true to a fault; sure she could throw out nothing' thus praising the Mother and shaming the son.

'MAKING A PRIEST' IN IRELAND.

In Ireland, a great aspiration and achievement of many Irish families was the 'making of a priest. Strong farmers and tradespeople, shop owners, teachers or police families were the preferred backgrounds of the potential seminarians.  These families could be relied upon to finance the seven years education before ordination.

For these families, the eldest son would be selected as the heir, and the younger sons would be encouraged to follow up on family links in associated professions.  Daughters could marry or enter a convent; both options held in high social currency.

A priest, a teacher, policeman or merchant were the middle class in Ireland and they held enormous power in a parish.

For families without connection, a son or daughter with a strong vocation could be offered a place with with a Missionary Order for a small contribution.  Our story begins with a family who had a modest holding of 5 acres and the determination of the family to survive on this holding and to make something of their family by 'making a priest' of the eldest son.

The family lived just above sustenance level and to increase their income the woman of the house developed a large clutch of hens to sell eggs and occasional chickens.   The home diet consisted of soda bread, porridge, cabbage, potato bread, and no egg could be spared for the family.  A piece of cured and salted bacon hung from the ceiling and if an unexpected caller arrived, a sliver would be cut and hastily thrown onto the fire to create the smell of cooking meat.  The neighbours had cottoned on to this subterfuge and grudgingly admired their ambition but also felt that they were getting ideas above their station.

The Fair Day dawned and the farmer and his wife headed with their ass and cart loaded with the eggs and chickens for sale.  As they approached the main road, the husband gave a shout, stopped the cart and vomited violently onto the roadway.  A number of neighbours travelling before and behind them, stopped to enquire and offer help to the weakened man as he climbed back up on the cart and all the while his wife fussed and fluttered around the eggs and chickens and bewailing the loss of her husbands breakfast, now splattered on the roadside.  She declared to all and sundry that he'd eaten his usual repast of porridge, soda bread, tea and two boiled eggs with which her neighbour, who had been standing by  the roadside remarked 'Begob Mam, didn't he behave well to holt on to the eggs!'

I never did hear did they manage their ambition but I looked up the costs of 'making a priest' in 1958 and they were as follows;


Capuchins – £1,000 for entire course 

Oblates – £1,500.
Passionists – £250 per annum (no separate accounts kept for students).
Redemptorists – £150 per annum.
St. Patrick’s Foreign Mission Society – £98 per annum (no separate accounts kept for students).
St. Columban’s Foreign Mission Society – £150 per annum.
Maynooth College – £150 per annum. This figure does not include the cost of books, clothes, travel and the many other necessary personal expenses of every student. According to a recent survey, about £900, on the average, is contributed by his parents towards the total cost of a student’s education while in Maynooth College.

The Irish Have Long Memories...

My brother and his wife had visitors from Canada.  They had never been to Ireland before and when we joined them for a barbeque my brother told them that I was the one who’d explain about the Bricklieve Cairns which overlooked his house.

\Photo credit; Kiaran McHugh.com

The Cairns are known as Carrowkeel and through carbon dating it has been estimated that they are over five thousand years old and predate the Egyptian Pyramids.  Carrowkeel is one of the largest passage tomb cemeteries in Ireland.

We headed up the mountain by car and took the short walk to the cairns which have majestic views over Lough Arrow, Lough Key and the counties of Sligo and Roscommon.  Jim and his wife were suitably impressed by the location and ancient monuments and I did my best to interpret their significance.

Over dinner Jim asked how long were our family living in the area and we explained that we were ‘Blow Ins’.  Naturally, this expression was foreign to a Canadian and our children were aghast; ‘Blow Ins?’ this was their home.

As we stood in the bright sunlight I explained that our mothers’ people came from 5 miles over to the east and our fathers’ people came from 14 miles to the west of where we were.  Our mother was Roscommon, and father Sligo.  Jim just about collapsed with laughter and made the remark that we spoke of living 5000 years ago as if it were yesterday and limited our residency by milliseconds.

Our conversation expanded as our guests tried to come to grips with our status.  ‘Is a Blow
In illegitimate or somehow lesser than a local? who or what determined territory? Were we Irish at all?’
So I told the story of our grand uncle who was driving his car in Leitrim.  At the time there were very few cars in the countryside and the traffic hazards consisted of sheep, cows and the odd stray goat on the road.  Vehicular congestion comprised of two neighbours chatting as their donkeys grazed on the roadside whilst the men sat on their carts and enjoyed a smoke.  Uncle Martin nearly drove up their arses and just managed to avoid a collision as did another car coming behind him.

Naturally this drew the attention of neighbours in the adjoining field who were saving hay and a gaggle of men and women formed around the near accident.  Conscience clear, pipes smoked and it being near tea time the crowd dispersed.  One of the labourers was heading to the town and the second driver of the car offered a lift which was declined with courtesy.Martin was still chatting and as he drove slowly forward, the man heading to town signalled him for a lift.  On reaching the town Martin casually asked why the passenger hadn’t taken the first lift offered and he responded ‘era you couldn’t take a lift of that fella, his people stole the horses off The French’.

Now, if you don’t know your history and you’re not Irish this story is nonsensical.  In 1798 when French troops sailed to Ireland to support Irish rebels against the British forces they landed on Killable Bay in County Mayo, and travelled through Sligo and Leitrim to the scene of their final battle and defeat at Ballinamuck, in County Longford. Martin’s passenger in one sentence had obliterated any opportunity for the other car owner to forget his pedigree.