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'