Epiphany

She looked up from her chair by the window, as though she’d just awoken from a pleasant dreamless nap when I walked into her room overlooking the lake. She was fully dressed, her hair washed, looking radiant. At 91, she still cut a dash. ‘Happy New Year’ she beamed, drawing me into a warm, heart-felt hug, surprising me by her strength and her awareness of the date.

‘I brought you a little present Mum’, I said. Her eyes twinkled, a little girl smile. I opened my bag, carefully setting out two, too-dainty Waterford crystal glasses that I’d picked up from her house a little earlier. They sparkled in the pale winter sunlight that reflected off the frantic little waves dancing endlessly across the lake outside.

She edged a little closer, my co-conspirator, as I reached into the bag again, rummaging for the little bottle of Baileys I’d bought in McInerneys on the way to the nursing home. ‘Ooh, that looks nice’ she cooed, eyeing the festive bottle, anticipating the molten delight inside, ‘I don’t know when I last tasted Baileys, must be years. Dad used love a glass when he was in the nursing home, do you remember, how he’d lick his lips afterwards, he really looked forward to his night-cap and a chat before bedtime, he’d love to be here with us now, listening to all the news.’

I poured a measure into each glass, the scent of coffee and chocolate and whiskey immediately filled the room, banishing the other smells that mark a long-term stay home, conjuring up a party atmosphere, excitement in the whiff. ‘Slainte’ I said, ‘Happy New Year’ she replied, ‘To absent friends’, I toasted, as we both raised the glass to our lips, sipping the café-crème delight, a burst of delicious flavours and memories suddenly all conjured up together in the delicate glasses. She took a tiny sip, delighting in the taste, savouring the Baileys in her sore mouth, loving the salve and the change, smacking her lips and her eyes together, all smiling. She sat back against her pillow, replacing the glass carefully on her day-table. She’d hardly drank a drop, I noticed.

‘I haven’t seen you since your trip to New York. Tell me all about it, what did you do, who did you meet?’ Though it was almost two months ago, and I’d told her a half-dozen times already, I proceeded to tell her again of the weekend I’d spent visiting friends in Manhattan, the business function I went to, the chilly weather, the Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings.

‘Sweet Potato, they must be nice,’ she said, drying her lips with a tissue, ‘I cannot imagine what a sweet potato tastes like, must be odd putting butter and salt on something sweet, you wouldn’t do that to a strawberry, or a bowl of trifle.’ She took another tiny sip, delighting again at the treat. ‘Did you have a nice Christmas?’ she asked, ‘were the girls home? Is everyone ok, at home, in your house?’ Her face changed, as a tiredness came over her. ‘Yes, we were all home for the holidays Mum. We had a lovely Christmas. The girls really enjoyed meeting you on Christmas day at Mary’s house, after the Christmas swim at Blackrock, they thought you looked great.’ She pressed her head back against the pillow, concentrating, as though waiting for a small pain to pass.

‘I don’t remember Christmas. I don’t remember meeting your lovely girls. Isn’t that terrible? How are her children? Is everyone ok?’ She looked so vulnerable, so innocent and fragile, needlessly worried. ‘Yes Mum, everyone is fine, thank God.’ She relaxed, tried another sip, again, hardly a drop, but nonetheless delicious.

‘Swimming on Christmas day! Did you do that? The water must have been terribly cold, brr! ! love my room here, its so warm and cosy, you don’t even hear the wind here and look’, she pointed out the window at the aurora of pastels the sunset was creating, ‘look at the gorgeous colours, purple, pink, silver, the blues, the reds, all changing and matching, like a fashion parade. I love this time of day, I love this view, the colours are so striking, every evening is different, it is so nice here.’

She gazed out the window, lost in her reverie, in her thoughts. I looked at her face, so soft and beautiful. She was silent, lost in the moment, content, as she drifted away to another place, hypnotised by the kaleidoscope the sunset on the lake was creating. Inside her gaze, I imagined her remembering her life, as a young girl, a beautiful woman, a nurturing mother, a businesswoman, a wife, a mum, a grandmother, a great-grandmother.

We sat together, silently, comfortable, my hand on hers, surrounded by the scent of the Baileys and the fresh flowers my sisters had brought. I wanted that moment to last forever, to remember this peace forever, our shared happiness, imprinted in my mind, soothing my heartache. It struck me it could possibly be my last shared sunset with Mum. For a moment, I was incredibly, profoundly sad. We sat, and looked and listened. A flight of crows passed by the window, silhouetted in the sunset, heading for the nights roost. A few cars passed, their lights replacing the sinking sunset’s glow.

It seemed like an age before she looked up again, strong again, gazing intently at my face, wordlessly reassuring me, startling me.  ‘What day is it?’ she asked, breaking the silence. ‘Today is the 5^th of January, mother, and tomorrow is Little Christmas.’ ‘Little Christmas’ she repeated. I raised my glass, motioning her to do the same. ‘Lets have a toast Mum, a special toast for today, for you.’ She raised her tiny, almost-full glass. We clinked. ‘Cheers’ she said. ‘Cheers Mum. Here’s to Nollaig Na mBan’. She looked at me, quizzically, ‘Nollaig na mBan?’ ‘Yes mum, you know, Nollaig na mBan. Women’s Christmas, remember, the day the women of the house get to put their feet up and their men get to wait on them, hand and foot, for the entire day, doing all the house work, making the dinner, a day off for the women, just for them, a big thank you for all their hard work over Christmas.’

She looked back down at her glass and raised it up, excited now. ‘Imagine that? Women’s Christmas, a day off, just for us? Whoever would have thought of that? What a smart idea. I’ll certainly drink to that! Slainte! To tomorrow! To Nollaig Na mBan!’

I went to leave. ‘You’ll come again tomorrow, won’t you? We have so much to talk about and I want to hear all about that swim and tell your girls to be careful out there, in Dublin, in London. Tell them to enjoy the present moment, who knows what tomorrow may bring.’ ‘I will Mum, I will, love you Mum, till tomorrow then, love you.’

***

First published by Brian Nolan, on January 6th 2014. Mum, Josephine Nolan, nee Brody, passed away on March 16th, 2014, aged 93. Air dheis De go raibh a h-Anam dilis.

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Thanks for visiting; 

First published by Brian Nolan on 6th January 2014. 

All Rights Protected

''Galway Walks, Walking Tours of Galway''

see www.galwaywalks.com 

Other blog at www.galwaywalks.blogspot.ie 

Contact; galwaywalks@gmail.com Phone 086-3273560

"Anois teacht an Earraigh" or ''Cill Aodáin'' by Anthony Raftery, Antoine O' Raifteiri

I was reminded of what little credit I give sometimes Ireland's forgotten writers and poets, especially those who wrote in Irish, 'as Gaeilge'. This struck home when I read again Galway's blind poet, Anthony Raftery's ( Antoine O' Raifteiri ) beautiful poem, Cill Aodáin - though perhaps it is better known by the poem's first line, the joyous announcement, "Anois teacht an Earraigh" (Now Cometh the Spring).

"Anois teacht an Earraigh, beidh an lá dúl chun shíneadh,
Is tar eis na féil Bríde, ardóigh mé mo sheol...."

Yes, you know it too, or at least remember all or some of it. Reading it, or hearing in in my mind's eye or ear, brings me right back to my primary school days. You too? You can probably remember also the smell of chalk-dust and perhaps even the smell of the class-room's turf-fire and feel the cool, hard wood with the shiny patina on the old twin school desks with the ceramic ink-wells under your oh-too-cold bottom and your skinny legs with the knee-high socks and the long short pants. Enough of that trip down memory lane...'an bhuill cead agam dul amach?'

Sure we all learned it by rote in National School, as we did much of our 'learning'. Problem is, even though I knew the poem, I felt little empathy with it. I didn't realise then that his words were straight from the heart, and as rich and clear a description of Paradise or the Promised Land as any poet had ever imagined. Perhaps it was the cold classroom, or the fear of punishment, or the 'having to learn a stoopid Irish poem' attitude we all had, but so much of what we were taught could have enriched our lives so much more, had we but cherished it, or been taught how to love and appreciate it.

Antoine Raftery was born in an impossibly overcrowded 'tigeen' on a shared small-holding in Killaiden, near Kiltimagh in 1784. He had 8 brothers and sisters, but an outbreak of small pox took the entire family and left Raftery blind. He learned to play the fiddle and was a natural bard. Blind Raftery became the wandering bard of the west in the early19th century, moving from parish to parish, leaning on the generosity of the local folk who gave him shelter, food and drink, in return for his music and stories. Newspapers were not common and news was spread by word of mouth back then, or in songs and poems, as Raftery did. Like the bards of old he told and retold tales of valiantry, victory, wrong-doings and tragedy to the farmers and anyone who would listen, give him a bed for the night and share a jug of Poitin.

Raftery was well loved by the country folk.  He was illiterate, and thusknew all his poems and songs by heart, recounting them at will, or composing new ones on the spot for a challenge or for sport. He had no end of inspiration, what with rebellions, hangings, murders and evictions being so commonplace in that turbulent time, post the bloody rebellion of 1798, the consequences of which he witnessed first-hand in Mayo. He walked a land that had seen terrible retribution, with gallows and gibbets at every crossroads. Later on he saw the rise of land agitation, the Whiteboys and the beginnings of the land league. He composed hundreds of poems, many of which, thankfully, have been handed down and saved. His tale of the tragic drownings at Anaghdown ( Eanach Dhun ) in 1828, is a classic even today.

Raftery stayed in houses he knew he would be welcomed in and looked after. They were not 'Big Houses' per se, but confortable tenant farmers houses mostly that he stayed at. One such house was O'Dwyers in Duniry, near Abbey on the road between Loughrea and Woodford. Even today, the memory of his annual visits there is still remembered. He had many such stops along his well-travelled roads of east Galway where he spent much of his later life, but eventually he himself wore out. He was reputedly 'fond of the dhrop', and cranky, with a sharp tongue and caustic wit, so perhaps his true friends were few. Poor Ratfery fell ill and died in a cow-barn in the village of Craughwell one snowy winter's day in 1835. He was buried at night by torchlight, for reasons I still don't understand, in a small ruined church-yard cemetary between Craughwell and Labane.
So much for his wish to go home to Mayo and 'be amongst his people'.

Were it not for the poems that have been handed down to us by people who cherished his wonderful words, and the collectors who wrote them down, we may never have had the chance to get to know again his poem about the approach of Spring.

Co-incidentally, last Saturday, (19 February 2010) the Irish Times newspaper published a variant translation in English of his poem. I love how Raftery sets his sights (though he was blind) on the small, simple pleasures, much as we all do and did when visiting someone who was ill or just plain old. Take a minute out of your busy day to read these 16 lines and remember warmly your family and friends who may have shuffled on lately. Or perhaps, they have just gone to Mayo!

The Blind Poet's Vision of Spring;
With the coming of spring the light will be gaining.
So after Brid's feast day I'll set my course -
Since it entered my head I'll never rest easy
Till I'm landed again in the heart of Mayo.

I'll spend my first night in the town of Claremorris
And in Balla I'll raise my glass in a toast,
To Kiltimagh then, I could linger a month there
Within easy reach of Ballinamore.

I testify here that the heart in me rises
Like a fresh breeze lifting fog from the slopes.
When I think on Carra and Galen below it,
On Sceathach a' Mhile or the plains of Mayo.

Killeadan's a place where all good things flourish,
Blackberries, raspberries, treats by the score,
Were I to stand there again with my people
Age would fall from me and I would be restored.

Anthony Raftery (1784-1835). Translation by Michael Coady


The Full Irish version of "Anois teacht an Earraigh" Cill Aodáin
Anois teacht an Earraigh,
beidh an lá dúl chun shíneadh,
Is tar eis na féil Bríde
ardóigh mé mo sheol.
Go Coillte Mach rachad
ní stopfaidh me choíche
Go seasfaidh mé síos
i lár Chondae Mhaigh Eo.

Fágaim le huacht é
go n-éiríonn mo chroí-se
Mar a éiréonn an ghaoth
nó mar a scaipeann an ceo
Nuair a smaoiním ar Cheara
nó ar Ghaileang taobh thíos de
Ar Sceathach an Mhíle
nó ar phlánaí Mhaigh Eo;

Cill Aodáin an baile
a bhfásann gach ní ann,
Tá sméara is subh craobh ann
is meas de gach sórt,
Is dá mbéinnse i mo sheasamh
i gceartlár mo dhaoine
D'imeodh an aois díom
is bheinn arís óg.

Bíonn cruithneach is coirce,
fás eorna is lín ann,
Seagal i gcaobh ann,
arán plúir agus feoil,
Lucht déanta poitín
gan licence á dhíol ann,
Móruaisle na tíre ann
ag imirt is ag ól.

Tá cur agus treabhadh
is leasú gan aoileach
Is iomaí sin ní ann
nár labhair me go fóill,
Aitheanna is muilte
ag obair gan scíth ann,
Deamhan caint ar phingin cíosa
na dada da shórt.

Anthony Raftery is not well represented in stone or bronze today in Ireland, though his beautiful words live on through the generations. His statue in Craughwell, his grave in Killeenin cemetery, near Craughwell, Co. Galway and a bronze statue in Kiltimagh, Co. Mayo, Ireland.

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Thanks for visiting; 

First published by Brian Nolan on 1st February 2012. 

All Rights Protected

''Galway Walks, Walking Tours of Galway''

see www.galwaywalks.com 

Other blog at www.galwaywalks.blogspot.ie 

Contact; galwaywalks@gmail.com Phone 086-3273560

Titanic - The Galway Connection

GALWAY'S CONNECTION TO TITANIC

  

RMS Titanic was the greatest ship of her age. Thought to be unsinkable, Titanic was 882 feet long (this replica model, pictured above on the Prom in Salthill, was built by a Men's Shed project in Lahardane, County Mayo, to mark Titanic's 100th anniversary in 2012 is 1/10th scale). The real Titanic was built in Belfast to be the fastest liner in the world. Titanic struck an iceberg some 200 miles off Newfoundland, at 11.20pm on the night of the 14th of April 1912. She sank at 2.20 am on the morning of 15th April 1912, while on her maiden voyage to New York, from Southampton, England, via Cherbourg, France and Cobh (Queenstown), Ireland.

There were 2,223 passengers and crew aboard Titanic when she sailed from Queenstown (899 crew and 1,324 passengers) on the morning 12th of April 1912.

In total, 1,517 people died when Titanic sank (685 crew and 832 passengers). 120 Irish passengers boarded Titanic at Queenstown (42 survived, 78 died). 37 of the Irish passengers were from Connacht.

Nine passengers on Titanic were from County Galway. 2 others aboard had a very strong Galway connection.

Hanora "Nora" Healy, 29, of Athenry, Co Galway boarded the Titanic at Queenstown as a third class passenger. Her ticket cost £7-15s. Nora escaped the sinking in lifeboat 16. She died 11 March 1919 aged 36.

Andrew ‘Andy’ Keane, 20, Derrydonnell, Athenry, Co. Galway. He was a keen hurler and brought 2 county medals and a dozen hurley sticks with him on Titanic. He died in the sinking. His body, if recovered, was never identified.

Margaret Mannion, Loughanboy, Caltra. Co. Galway. She survived the sinking and returned to Ireland in 1919. She married Martin Hopkins of Ahascaragh. She died in Clontuskert on 15 May 1970.

Ellie Mockler, 23, Caltra, Co. Galway. She survived the sinking and in 1917 became a Mercy Nun in New York. She died in 1984, aged 95.

Martin Gallagher - Currafarry, Caltra, Co. Galway. A hero of the tragedy, he saved several women to escape certain death by helping them into lifeboats. He died in the sinking. His body, if recovered, was never identified.

Thomas Smyth – Chapelfinnerty, Caltra, Co Galway. He died in the sinking. His body, if recovered, was never identified.

Thomas Kilgannon - Currafarry, Caltra, Co Galway. He died in the sinking. His body, if recovered, was never identified.

John Flynn, Carrowhakin, Clonbur, County Galway. He emigrated to America some years previously and was only home on a visit. He died in the sinking. His body, if recovered, was never identified.

Patrick Shaughnessy, 24, Tynagh, Co Galway. He died in the sinking. His body, if recovered, was never identified.

Other Galway Connections;

Bruce Ismay, head of the White Star Line, the company that owned ‘Titanic’, was a captain of industry, an extraordinary entrepreneur, and the driving force behind the new breed of luxury liners purpose built to race across the Atlantic. He was vilified after Titanic sank and shunned as a social pariah. He left his life in London and moved to Connemara where he mostly lived from 1913 

Eugene Daly -Athlone, Co.Westmeath. 
A weaver and a talented piper, sailed on Titanic. Luckily he survived the sinking by clinging to an upturned liferaft. He testified at the Titanic hearings in New York. He married in New York and in 1921 returned to Ireland initially to Athlone. Later, he settled in Galway city and after his wife died in 1961, he flew back to America where he lived with his only child, Marion Joyce, in Missouri. He died on 30 October 1965. (see his story, Erin's Lament, below)


The Piper on the Titanic;

Erin’s Lament, Galway’s Gain - A Titanic tale

In April 1912, Eugene Patrick Daly, 29, a weaver from Athlone, County Westmeath, Ireland, was travelling to New York City, just one of 113 Irish passengers who unfortunately chose the Titanic to emigrate to the USA. He boarded the Titanic on the 11^th of April, 1912, at Queenstown (ticket number 382651). The ticket cost him £7-15s (seven pounds and fifteen shillings) or almost 6 months pay for a working man.

It has been confirmed in eye witness accounts of the Titanic’s call to Cobh, that Daly played "Erin's Lament", "A Nation Once Again", "Boolavogue" and other well known nationalist tunes on his uilleann (elbow) pipes (a traditional Irish instrument) for his fellow steerage passengers, as America, one of the two tenders to the Titanic steamed away from Queenstown harbour, bound for the gleaming liner that lay at anchor far out in Cork harbour, near Roches Point. It was both a heartening and a poignant moment listening to those traditional airs as the passengers left Ireland, most of them for the last time. In the Titanic Movie one of the band who played the dance music that Rose and Jack enjoyed below decks was playing an uileann pipes, no doubt a reference to Eugene Daly.

When Titanic sank, Eugene Daly was cast into the waters and no doubt he thaough his hour had come. However, amazingly Daly survived the Titanic’s tragic sinking by clinging to an upturned collapsible lifeboat (Collapsible 2). He credited his survival to his heavy overcoat. It had been his grand-father's coat and his mother had insisted on his wearing it. Though frost-bitten and near death, he was rescued, but he lost his precious pipes. He would later file a claim against the White Star Line’ for $50 for their loss. Similar pipes, possibly Daly's, were recently salvaged from the Titanic wreck and are now in the Titanic Museum collection.

Eugene Daly got married in America to Lil Caulfield from Co. Mayo, and whether he was homesick or inspired by the Irish Free State, he returned to Ireland in 1921. He suffered terribly from paronia on the return ship journey and never again set foot aboard a ship once they arrived home. With his new wife he moved to Galway where he found work in the Galway Woolen Mills. He lived at 7 St. Johns Terrace in Galway and was a popular musician in the city, playing pipes and flute in ceili bands around the city.

In 1961, after his wife died, he emigrated one last time to the USA, to Missouri, but this time by plane. He lived out his last days there with his only child, his daughter Marion Joyce.

Eugene testified at the Titanic Hearings in the Waldorf Astoria Hotel New York and his description of the sinking, the inadequate lifeboats and especially his eye witness testimony of a ship’s officer shooting third class passengers who were trying to board a lifeboat has been relied on heavily by historians of the Titanic and is the stuff of film legend now. His credible eye witness testimony of the chaotic scenes and passenger discrimination onboard Titanic was instrumental in the passing of new Lifeboat laws for passenger ships.  He helped save many lives in subsequent ship wrecks because of the new Lifeboat laws.

His account of the tragedy was used as research in many movies and stories about the great liner. He was unique amongst survivors in his willingness to recount the story whenever asked, as most other survivors, no doubt suffering from post-traumatic shock, or grief, rarely or never uttered a word on their brush with death when Titanic sank.

Eugene Daly died on 30 October 1965 aged 82. He is buried in St. Raymond’s Cemetery in the Bronx

Notes;
He lived at 7 Johns Terrace in Galway's 'West' district. He played music in Galway at various halls, but strangely never played the uileann pipes again, preferring to play the concert flute instead. He was invited as a guest of honour to the opening of the film about the Titanic, 'A night to remember' at The Claddagh Palace theatre in Galway and it is said he attended the showing every night of it's run there. 

Recently, I heard a story of how local children in the early sixties would chide him as having been a coward and dressing up in womens clothing, confusing him with Bruce Ismay, perhaps and not knowing the full story of his bravery and character. They taunted him with cries of  'Did ya get a white feather for your birthday from the Queen?' and worse I am sure. In Missouri he is remembered as a daily mass-goer and a community volunteer. I am not able to throw any light on why he is buried in the Bronx. His house in John Street is still there today. 

I tell this story and many more about Galway and its interesting past on my 'Walking Tours of Galway' and my 'Fireside Tours' at O'Connors Pub in Salthill. For more information see the Galway Walking Tours website www.galwaywalks.com or email me at galwaywalks@gmail.com for tour times and booking. Galway Walks - more than just a leisurelay stroll!

The above notes and story were prepared by me for the exibit of the replica Titanic at the Prom opposite the Aquarium.

Here's what was on show then:

From Mayo to Galway - with love, ' The Titanic' on the Prom!

Visitors to Galway, and locals alike, might be surprised this week by the graceful presence of the Titanic, 'moored' on Salthill's promenade, one of Ireland's best known seaside resorts. The replica 1/10 scale model of the famous ship, is on loan to Galway from the Mayo community of Addergoole, who celebrated the centenary of the ship's sinking last April. The commemorative events in the tiny Mayo village of  Laherdane were the focus of national and international media coverage, and 'the boat on the bay' is already attracting hundreds of curious onlookers to Salthill. The Titanic replica is 88 feet long, and is accurate in every detail, down to the portholes, smokestacks and anchors, and the decks are fully illuminated at night. 

Eleven young emigrants from Mayo lost their lives on the ship, a tragedy which devastated the local community, and prompted a group of local men from Addergoole to build a model of the liner. They worked tirelessly and in secret over a period of eight weeks, to ensure that the replica was in place for the opening ceremony in April this year. The 'gift' from Mayo is an acknowledgement and mark of respect to the nine Galwegians who boarded 'The Titanic' at Cobh in April 1912, six of whom lost their lives. "It was a real labour of love," according to Brian Nolan from Salthill, who is also a founding member of the Addergoole Titanic Society, "and while the locals are missing it terribly, it's great to be able to recognise Galway's loss on the Titanic too," he said.

Martin Gallagher, from Galway, was one of those who selflessly helped up to nine women into lifeboats before he lost his life. Another of the more well known Galway connections to the ship is Eugene Patrick Daly, a weaver, originally from Athlone, but who subsequently settled in St John's Terrace, Galway., where he worked at the Galway Woolen Mills, and was also a popular local musician.  Eugene testified at the Titanic Hearings in New York, and his credible eye witness testimony of the chaotic scenes and passenger discrimination onboard the Titanic was instrumental in the passing of new Lifeboat laws for passenger ships.

The West of Ireland connection to the ship extends to Connemara where Bruce Ismay, owner of the White Star Line, lived for thirty years.  He escaped the stricken ship on the last lifeboat, but his reputation never recovered.

In spite of it's tragic history, the Titanic and it's present-day replica continue to fascinate and attract the interest of passersby. Managing Director of Salthill Tourist Board Roger O' Sullivan, was impressed by the efforts of the Mayo community to keep the story alive, and he took the initative to bring the ship to Salthill in memory of the lost Galwegians. "The Titanic is just one of many welcome visitors to Galway this week, and is a continued boost for local business who are delighted with the increase in trade," he said. The arrival of the ship was celebrated at a launch in the Galway Business School in Salthill on Friday, where the Mayor of Galway Terry O'Flaherty welcomed the local tourist initiative.(pics in circulation)  

Situated on the prom, opposite the Aquarium, it's an ideal spot for a fun day out, with many visitors already enjoying close access to the ship for family photos. Titanic memorabilia and souvenirs are available from 10 am in the adjoining tent where talks on the boat's history will take place each evening at 7.pm, beginning on Saturday August 4th,and continuing until August 20th. 
Volunteers who would like to take part in promoting Galway's historic link with the ship, are invited to contact Brian Nolan directly on 086 327 3560.

The replica is now housed in a warehouse in Castlebar, awaiting sailing orders. Who knows where it will go next (after necessary repairs and refurbishment!

The Winter Solstice, Yule and An Mairgead Mór

Over most of Western Europe, particularly in those areas connected with the ancient Celts, December 21, the shortest day of the year fell during the Druidic festival of 'Yule'. Today it is better known as the festival of the ‘Winter Solstice’.

‘Thoul’, an ancient word for wheel, has been handed down to us as Yule. The sun was likened by the Celts to a wheel, traversing the heavens, giving long and short days. The shortest day, and thus a good reason to be of good cheer in anticipation of longer days ahead, was known as Yule. This celebration of light survives in many of our Christmas traditions with the hanging of mistletoe (a white berry), Holly (a red berry) and the lighting of the Yule-log, whose faint light kick-started the longer days Spring. It was an exciting festival for the ancient Celts, coming as it did at the darkest time of year.

In Ireland Yule was eventually replaced by the Catholic traditions surround the religious feast-day of the Immaculate Conception, on the 8th of December and the longer festival of Christmas. However, outside the city, the old pagan traditions continued to be marked by the holding of the Mairgead Mór or the "Big Fair Day, in country towns all around Ireland.

"Brian Nolan, a Loughrea, County Galway native, remembers it as a day of great celebration, when farmers would converge on town to sell their crops, livestock, and poultry, and women would come with them to spend their "butter and egg money" on holiday gifts and goodies.

According to Nolan, "Mairgead Mór was an amazing sight to me as a child in the early 60s before marts and supermarkets modernized everything. On that day, everyone came to town — the ruddy-faced, wool-capped men with their sturdy womenfolk; the too-thin gaggles of wide-eyed children — on horses, in donkey and cart, on bicycles, and on foot, and everyone carried something for the fair. They arrived before dawn, and left, a mess of straw and leavings behind them, after dark".

"Geese by the hundred, turkeys and chickens by the thousand, all 'live,' tied to the back of upturned donkey carts between loads of turf. Mounds of potato sacks brimmed with Kerrs Pinks and Banners from Clare; huge heads of cabbage and turnips; bunches of parsnip and carrots, and the very rare bushel of brussels sprouts. Wheels of hardy cheddar, and what seemed like acres of flats of eggs in hues of brown and white, with the bigger duck-eggs, bluish in the winter sunlight".

"The fowl would be raucous, hog-tied or closeted in bushel baskets with their heads poking out, or in more modern times, poking their heads out of car-boots, and all cackling and clucking and gobbling away to their hearts' content. The 'townies' and some city market buyers made their canny way, back and forth between the rows of sellers, examining here, feeling there, commenting on the size and weight, and what they were fed on, and whether they were spring or summer birds".

"Amid all that was the excitement of the shops, the bustle of the women going in to settle their account with the harvest, butter, and turkey money enabling them to pav down their tab and get some new clothes for themselves and the children, now wide-eyed in expectation and appreciation of the beautiful goods and sweet chocolates they were able to see and touch now and maybe even take home".

December 21st was one of the most important dates in the Celtic calendar as it marked the celebration of a farmer's success and the approach of the New Year. The Mairgead Mór did not always co-incide with December 21, in fact it was usually held on the Wednesday or Thursday that fell in the week after the next Sunday after December the 8th, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.  So it was held approximately a week or so before Christmas, giving folks enough time to kill, hang and pluck their turkey or goose.

These days In modern Ireland, the Mairgead Mór is no longer held, it's now just another big shopping day before Christmas, but in country folks’ minds, the time for cutting mistletoe is nigh and they’d best be getting the turkey ready for market’ Today, the 18th of December would have been a perfect Mairgead Mór.

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The story above is typical of the tales I tell on my Galway's Horrible History Walks around the city. Please visit my website http://www.galwaywalks.com for more information on these fun and fact filled walks.

This particular story 'Mairgead Mór', which I wrote over a decade ago, appears in edited form in Margaret Johnson’s latest cook book, ‘Christmas Flavors of Ireland’ which is available now through her website or on Amazon.  The book is delightfully written and presented and would make a lovely Christmas gift.

It is published by Ambassador International., Belfast, N. Ireland 

Margaret M. Johnson

www.irishcook.com

www.margaretmjohnson.com

Duffys Circus - One Night and One Night Only

You should've seen their faces as we waited in the lee of the huge Big Top to get to top of the the box-office queue and take our seats inside the coloured canvas-covered arena. The boys clutched their Circus tickets tightly, €15 each for them, through Ticket-master no less! Used to be they cost ten shillings or ten pennies! They stared fascinated at the posters either side of the entrance, showing brave lion-tamers and daring fire-eaters, while as each minute passed they were being wound up further by the sound of trumpets blaring brassy tunes tunes, tunes only circuses play, sending excited pulses out to us through the flaps of the canvas dome.
Finally we entered the tent, and picked our way up the tiered benches to where we sat amidst the smell of sawdust and wet grass rose up to greet us as we took in the scene. The boys were beaming with expectation from the stories they's heard in school, vying to see cast of characters and curiosities that makes the Circus special; acrobats and trapeese artists, tumblers and jugglers, llamas, elephants, camels, lions and tigers, miniature horses...and big-footed Clowns! The Circus is come to town, same as ever it was, and the smell of sawdust, and oh so-expensive candy floss and the wind howling, rain spattering on the canvas tent, held up by huge poles and guy wires, garishly painted hard bench seats tiered around the arena, and the Ring-master, with his red coat-tails and top hat and booming voice...'Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, it is my pleasure to present to you, and at great expense, the finest troupe of circus performers gathered together under one big top, from the 4 corners of the world, from Mongolia, from the Steppes of Russia and the sands of Arabia.... Duffys Circus'... transported me right back to the Fair-green in Loughrea, and the open-mouthed, wide-eyed stares of a little boy in short pants, vying with his friends to volunteer to help erect the big top with the 'carneys' in the hopes of a free ticket, or a chance to pet the animals, fascinated by these exotic visitors in their painted caravans and sequinned women!

A dreamed-of escape from the bleak 1960's reality of grey old Ireland. The Circus, a window to another world...Aaaah, Priceless!

Tales from the Bog

Four years ago, when we had only been living on this boggy hillside outside Galway city for 6 months, one day in April, I got a phone call from the Gardai (Irish police).
'Aaah, Hallo, is that Brian Nolan?'
'Yes, this is he. Who's this?'.
'This is the Guards!'
Instant stocktake occurred in my brain. My son 8, was safe in school. My 2 daughters, the more likely suspects, were also both safe in School. My wife, was at work. My criminal past came rushing back to me, a veritable train-wreck of petty crime. How could they possibly know about my unpaid parking ticket in Tullamore in 1992? Or the time I set fire to the 'banned' bonefire at the Stoney Brennan festival in Loughrea in 1975? Maybe it was the time I borrowed Jack Martin's 20 year old Mini for a thristic joy-ride in 1981? Hmm, what could possibly be wrong?
'How can I help you Guard?' I replied, trying to sound confident, but really full of trepidation, as anyone who receives a phone call from the 'authorities' is, by whom one is considered guilty until let off the hook.
'Do you live at Paddys Cross, Barna?'
'Yes I do?' Shoot. He knows where I live and that I have a car parked round back that isn't taxed.
'Is there anyone in the house now?' Blast, he is there now at the house, going to tow the car and serve a search warrant for the 2 bottles of Poteen under me bed.
'No Guard, there's no one in the house, and I'm at work in Galway' Hah, nothing they can do if  there's no one home. I could sleep in my mother-in-laws house for a week or so, y'know, 'til the heat is off.
'Why?' I ask sheepishly. Just a hint, thats all I need. Jeez, thats it, the feckin' dog isn't licenced! Blast it, the last of the free rangers on Barna bog, caught at last. Poor Puff, probably have her in the dog-catchers van now, and the Paddy wagon is there, waiting for me. Probably spotted the dog on Satelite feed from NASA. The Guards are gone all high-tech now, wouldn't put it past them. Why don't they licence cats? The bog is feckin' alive with feral cats, escapees from mollycuddlin' matrons in Knocknacarra and Rahoon. Note to self, call local TD and try to get Cat Licences on the national agenda. €10 a year for each cat in the country would pull us out of recession.
'Your xxxx aaa aaaa on fire' the guard replied
'Sorry Guard, what was that you said?' I was distracted by a cat crossing the road in front of my car, missed him, dammit.
'Your House is on Fire!!!'
'What? How? Who? How bad is it? Is the dog ok?'
'Well the house isn't exactly on fire...'
'Oh thank God!'
'The whole mountain is...., like, on fire that is!'
'What???'
'The whole place is ablaze. You'd best get out here, fast as you can.'
And so began my first Bog Fire experience.

When I got home, driving through a thick and choking fog of smoke, the whole mountain was indeed on fire, or rather, the whole bog was. 'Seems some idiot farmer in an effort to clear some furze and heather on his holding, set a controlled fire to clear the nuisance weeds and improve his land. Though illegal to do so, it is not uncommon. However our idiot hadn't reckoned on the sudden change in weather and a gusting gale had came out of nowhere, as it often does on this western atlantic coast and it fanned the small brush fire, like a blacksmith with a bellows, within minutes it had become a roaring freight-train inferno, which rose up on the horizon and set off across the mile or so of soggy, boggy hillside, straight towards us. In a matter of fifteen minutes it had blazed a track a 1/4 mile wide, straight to our little hamlet of houses on the hillside at Aille.

A bog-fire is a force to be reckoned with. Terrifyingly fast, it burned everything in its path, trees, bushes, garden sheds, bicycles, fences, hedges, lawns, birds nests, rabbits warrens and the the extension on our neighbors house. My house was thankfully ok, but the fire had come within 10 feet of the house and thankfully stopped just 5 feet from the recently filled oil-tank for our home heat. All the lovely 30 foot tall scots pine trees and rampant rhodedondron bushes around the houses were gone, in a flash and a burst of blazing fire, gone in seconds in front of us, exploding 20, 30 feet into the air, gone in a flash. There was nothing anyone could do, poof! Gone! Left behind the still-travelling fire was a blackened smouldering expanse of devastation, worthy of a description in McCarthy's 'The Road'.

I rushed next door, where my neighbors were distraught. The fire had run up an ornamental shrub beside their house, set fire to their garden shed, caught hold in the plastic soffit of the eaves of the main building and was now burning merrily away under the roof. As I arrived, the abiding memory of the fire met me. Rill and Tina were holding each other, crying, clutching a few treasures, a laptop, hand-bags, a TV. Bill was nowhere to be seen 'Wheres Bill?' I shouted. Suddenly, Bill emerged from the house, coughing and choking, dragging their terrified dog behind him, pulling the terrified, old dog along by the belt he'd taken from around his waist, and as a consequence, Bills pants were down around his ankles! Quite a scene! Easily the most memorable sight of the whole fire, frightening then, but amusing now, in retrospect.

Worryingly, the fire in their eave was now smoking out through the roof tiles. There was no water pressure. Not a drop in the taps. The garden hose dripped when it should have showered. I ran back and forth with buckets of water from a small tank at the back of my house and we tried to hold the fire back but to no avail. By the time the fire engine arrived (having had to come across the city at rush-hour, and secure several other houses in danger) the whole back of the house, a new extension, was badly damaged. They quickly got it under control and slowly moved along the road, securing the remnants of other several fires near houses on our side of the road, while also ensuring the now sated fire didn't jump the road to grow again and devastate another village.

Fires sprang up all over the mountain, intermittently blazing up before being doused by the now-blackfaced firemen, as the night dragged on and the wind grew and lulled. The firemen worked tirelessly at the heavy work of beating the flames and mouldering embers all across the bog. I remember in one surreal moment seeing a cluster of them at the back of one of the fire tenders, in the dark, talking among themselves as they took a water-break, their blackened faces invisible in the night, with just the glowing ends of their fags floating in mid-air to show where the men stood.

By 3am the next moring, some 12 hours after the fire started, the Fire Chief finally declared the fire out and the fleet of tenders went home, leaving us to wonder and breathe relief in the midst of a blackened, dead, foul-smelling landscape that defied description. The mountain smoked and smouldered for a full week afterwards as the turf under the surface embered away, slowly being quenched by the dampness of the underlying bog.

Mary and I were so disapointed. Our house and our lifestyle had been in jeapordy. We never thought for one minute that something so inherently wet as a bog could burn at all. For weeks, nothing moved in the dead bog. No birds, no foxes, hares or rabbits, not even the feral cats. The bog was stunned into quietude.

Later as we came to understand and appreciate our narrow escape, we learned that clearing the top 'dead' vegetation comprising heathers, sedges and grasses as well as furze and gorse by fire is common everywhere bogs are grazed. Seasonally, Spring and Summer, the bog is quite verdant and farmers get good grazing for cattle, particularly the rough breeds favoured here in the west of Ireland. After each 5 or 6 years of grazing the bog develops a dead brown under growth, an impenetrable cover which chokes the lights access to the smaller grasses below the top cover. Burning this 'dross' off is the only practicable way to clear it and renew the healthy grasses below. And despite the Green Party's attempts to curtail it, bog-burning is still an annual event, though usually on a smaller scale.

Amazingly within 2 months of our bog fire, the bright green shoots of new grass grew into the blackened bogscape. By August the entire hillside behind us was ablaze not with fire, but with green grass, flowers, and yes, birds, frogs, newtss and insects. Within 2 years you couldn't have guessed it had happened at all, save for the blackened skeletons of the Scots pine that march along the horizon where the sky touches the bog.

I have wandered the boggy hillside often since then, marvelling at the bogs powers of renewal and regeneration. The birdlife is amazingly diverse, pheasants, rooks, magpies, ravens, cuckoos, hawks, snipe and many smaller birds are all back rearing their young. Hares, rabbits and foxes leave trails that point towards healthy populations. The bog cotton this past June, or Ceann Amhain as the locals call them, whitened the whole hillside in a riot of waving white. The heather was in abundant flower all August. The cows and their calves graze the hillside, back and forth, obviously savouring the delicious bog grass. This autumn the blackberries, sloes and hawes were so bountiful that the birds are well catered for no matter what the winter brings.

It got me thinking, what else could be sustained from such a bog and from such a life-cycle?

Tourism is an obvious industry that could thrive in the bog. tourism of a special sort, walkers, dreamers, folks with an hour or a day to kill and a willingness to get out on the land and close to nature. I had visited the rather fascinating wind-farm at Inverin (see photo) where 7,000 homes derive their electricity from 5 beautifuly elegant turbines in the bog. The turbines make a sound, as they turn, but it was not loud, unless you stoop to listen under the softly whooshing vanes and frankly, the bog itself is full of strange noises. If anything, the slender white towers lend the whole place a Quixotic feel.

I also have been to see Cnoc Suain, the bog interpretative centre in Spiddal where one can see first-hand the flora and fauna and tradition of a bog community. The 16th century clochan village has been lovingly restored and now provides employment and education, with very little impact on the environment.

Turf Reeks on the bog roads are rapidly being depleted by farmers bringing in the now dried sods of turf, some for their own use and others for sale to folks who still use turf as their main fuel, for heat and for cooking.

The practice of bringing a sod of turf to school was almost universal in country areas, as the only heat in most 2-and 3-room rural national schools was an open fire, fed by donations of a pupil-brought sod of turf each month. (My dads school, Duniry in Galway, was heated this way until 1970).

In Waterford some schools had cast iron stoves as co-incidentally Stanley stoves is a Waterford brand and though it was 'the poor man's AGA', it served the kitchens of Ireland well for over a century, cooking other icons like Brown Bread, Soda Bread, Griddle Cakes, Champ, Boxty, Irish Breakfasts, Lamb Stew and freshly caught Mackeral with aplomb! Stanley amazingly is still made in Waterford (see www.waterfordstanley.com). Their 'range' of ranges and stoves is still popular and with the rise in oil, gas and electricity prices, their future is...ahem.. 'glowing'!

As for the lowly 'sod of turf', the bogs of Ireland are now ecologically protected as areas of Special Scientific Interest. Like the Amazon basin not enough is know about our bogs. Bog oak Carvings dating from 5,000 BC now grace art galleries and homes worldwide (see www.bogoakcarvings.com ).

And for those suffering from Acne, Psoriasis and other skin diseases another iconic Irish brand 'ÓG', have just launched a range of Turf-based Body Masks, (see http://www.ogireland.com ).

So, from the ashes of a turf-fire, or from a raging bog-fire, much like the Phoenix, so much good can come!

Bells and Whistles

I was awoken today at a very early hour by Connemara's dawn chorus, a tuneful cacophony of sparrows, robins, crows and magpies practicing their wild songs across the bog here at Barna, alerting me to the new day's dawn. This morning's wake-up call also reminded me of my childhood, growing up in the middle of Loughrea, a small town on a beautiful lake in the eastern part of County Galway, where the dawn's arrival was heralded not by the birds, but by the sound of a train whistle from the railway station and the ringing of the church-bell on St. Brendan's Cathedral.

The Loughrea Railway was unusual in that it had a steam engine for much longer than most lines, until well into the sixties in fact, before finally being serviced by a diesel engine. Our railway line was a branch line, the last of its kind in Ireland and the UK and the line went from Loughrea to Attymon, a mere 12 mile spin really, across rolling countryside, past castles and cottages, bogs and tidy, stone-walled fields, to connect our sleepy market town to the bustling thoroughfare that was the main Dublin to Galway rail line.

The train left Loughrea each morning at half-seven on one of several round-trips to the little station-hamlet of Attymon, picking up passengers, school-children and parcels along the way, tooting at every level-crossing, startling the grazing sheep and cattle in the fields alongside the rail line. Each time as the train was about to depart, the driver would sound the 'hurry up and board' warning to the late-coming passengers, by giving several short blasts on the steam engine's whistle, to announce the train's imminent departure. This unique sound, not so loud, more joyful than urgent, echoed across the 'Walks', over the river and the walls beyond the old town moat, across the vegetable gardens, up around the massive chimney stacks atop the tall slate roofs of the shops and woke me from my slumber in my bedroom facing north across the widest part of Main Street and towards the railway station. I had little need of an alarm clock back then.

People nowadays forget how quiet Ireland was in those days. There were few cars on the road, no commuter traffic to Galway and almost no activity in the towns until te shops opened at 9.30am. Barring daily mass-goers and a very small cadre of other folks, like the railway station staff and the altar boys and Priest at the church, no one else was awake, or up out of bed, let alone dressed and ready for work before 8.30am. And I mean nobody. There were no shops open. The daily newspapers were usually delivered from Dublin on the train at 9am and as for coffee, forget about it...no-one drank coffee!

By the time I was nine years old, I like many other boys, became an altar boy, serving first as an candle-holding acolyte for the interminable evening Rosary and Benediction services, before being promoted in due course to serve the packed Masses in Latin on Sunday mornings, with our backs to the fasting congregation, the priest too, before the welcome changes of Vatican II turned him around to interact with his flock. The mass in Latin was, as you can imagine, a very different experience for a ten-year old boy whose grasp of foreign languages stopped at his struggle to remember the lines of Anach Cuain. The cadences and rythm of the Latin mass were reverential and even soothing, prompting one Kerry friend of mine, Nick Murphy, to remark once to me over a pint in New York in his broad Tralee accent, 'Yknow Brian, when the mass was in Latin, we used to be praying like hoors!'

There were maybe forty altar boys serving in the cathedral. The Carmelite Abbey had its own altar boy regiment and the rivalry was always there between the two sets. The altar boys were divided into four sections, A, B, C and D. I was in Section B, low man on the totem pole at the start, but making your way with experience up to section head-boy, which carried with it the allocation of duties. There might be six or eight altar boys at any mass or rosary, even more at 'big events' like Christmas or Easter or a Popes requiem and everyone had a job to do.

We wore black soutanes, and a starched white surplice on the altar. Those clothes and the mandatory black sand-shoes, which were never to be used for playing soccer, were kept at each boys home in a tiny little suitcase, our very own holy kit-bag. On big church occasions, especially 'High Mass', perhaps at Easter, or for 'Adoration', we wore the crimson-red sutanes which were kept in the huge closet in the sacristy, making us feel as important as the priests.

The servers duties all had names and included cruets, napkin, paten, thoorable, incence, bells, gong, crucifix, epistle, torch, taper, snuffer.and if the Bishop was saying mass, train. Every altar boy had his role before, during and after the service and there was practice for the boys in the Cathedral every now and then, where we practiced the responses in Latin and later in English for the various ceremonies, marching in order, genuflecting in unison, bowing graciously, striking the gong, ringing the bells, lighting the incense, the secret rite of the action of the thoorable, which we all called 'the trouble' and more. Being a boy, like all boys, lighting and snuffing out candles were my favourite jobs. The thoorable was one I have to practice for.

The thoorable is that ornate, brass incense-burning container that the priest blesses a congregation or even a coffin with, by waving it in several sets of three motions, causing billowing clouds of sweet-smelling insence smoke to engulf the altar. The beautifully cast brass burner hangs at the end of four long strands of golden chains, into which the lighted charcoal and fragrant incense were put, the top locked down and then the chains folded in such a way as to clink against the vessel when used in a blessing, clinking and smoking and generally fumigating the entire church, and the congregation. I often wondered if it was simply a fragrant blessing or the clergy's polite way to disguise the church-goer's odours which must have been pretty overpowering in the pre-deodrant sixties. Either way I am transported back to those days every time I smell a joss-stick or light the barbecue coals.

Serving mass had a few benefits. We got to go on the 'Server's Tour' each summer, usually to somewhere exotic like Achll, or Shannon, or Salthill. Chocolates and fizzy drinks were the main fare on those trips, and maybe a few illicit cigarettes. If you were lucky enough to serve at a wedding mass you might receive a gratuity, perhaps as much as a shilling or a half-crown. Some requiem masses also brought a gratuity. Once I got a crisp orange ten bob note for serving a Latin mass for a visiting American priest, three years after Latin masses had ceased. I suppose I was amongst the last of the Latin Mass servers and therefore had cornered a commodity...hmm, that's another skillset for my resume, I must remember to update it.

At Easter and Christmas a few of us would also be asked to serve mass in the Mercy Convent or in St. Brendan's Nursing Home, or 'The County Home' as it was then known as. Both venues were vied for as after the mass, the servers were always treated to a slap-up feed of boiled eggs and cakes. Heaven!

The Cathedral's four Altar Boys or Server's 'Sections', A, B, C and D, rotated the daily duties, morning, evening and Sundays amongst them. Every four weeks it would be my section's week to serve  the daily 8 o'clock morning mass. Because we lived so close to the church, once the train whistle blew, I'd be up out of bed, quickly pull on my clothes, hardly stopping to wash my face, before heading off down to St. Brendan's for my favourite altar boy chore, to ring the 'ten-to' bell for the eight o'clock mass.

During the winter, the darkness of the morning, the dusting of frost on the footpaths, or maybe the wisps of fog drifting in off the lake, often set an eerie scene as I walked alone, my boots echoing in the empty streets, whistling to myself  for company, for bravado, past the Church of Ireland chapel and graveyard, past the Cinema, down to Barrack Street and the darkened and locked Cathedral.

The cathedral's Sacristan usually had the mornings off, so you would have to get the key of the church from the priest, or whomever answered the door of the Presbytery and then you headed on over by yourself with the huge front-door key, to open up 'God's house', on your own! You, a ten year old boy, who definitely believed in ghosts, monsters and the divil himself. Sometimes there would be a coffin in the church, left there overnight in the sanctuary. Once you were inside the church you had to make your way in the pre-dawn darkness to the ladies side chapel where the light switches were. Your footsteps echoed in the vast space and every sound was amplified, matched only by the thumping of your heart. Only once did I get really spooked by a noise high up on the darkened pulpit, but remembering back, I can still feel the hairs standing on the back of my neck. It was always a relief to find the light switches and turn on the aisle lights, banishing the goblins in my head!

Next up, you and whomever else of the altar boys was early, had to ring the ten-to bell for mass. The bell was high up in the steeple. The steeple on St. Brendan's was so tall that the fourteen foot tall cross on top of it looked smaller than a man when viewed from the ground. The ornate iron cross could be seen from miles away, as indeed could the sound of the bell be heard, when it was rung. An old friend of my father's, Michael 'Big Spit' Ryan, told him that when the cross was hauled up to the top of the steeple in 1901, that Lord Clanrickarde himself arranged for a team of twenty huge shire horses to pull the cable onto which the massive iron cross was attached. the cable went through a pulley on scaffolding at the top of  the spire. He told my father that the lead horse was almost all the way down at the boys school on Piggott lane before the cross was at the top of the steeple on Barrack Street.

That had to have been some sight. I often wondered who the brave men were atop the scaffolding that day, man-handling the base of the cross into the huge spud-stone on the top of the soaring steeple. Perhaps they were the same breed of men who were famously photographed sitting nonchalantly on the girder suspended in mid-air, high above the Rockefeller Building in New York in 1930. Two of those brave iron-workers were from Shanaglish, near Gort in county Galway, so I suppose it is possible?

High inside the spire hangs a huge, cast-bronze bell. I don't know it's provenance, but it has a beautiful peal when rung properly. Tolling the bell was one of those 'secret rituals' that only the altar boys were initiated to and guarded greatly. The bell which one had to toll, was invisible to the ringer, being housed high up in the very tall steeple of St. Brendan’s. To ring it, one had to pull on a massively thick rope, that dangled down to within a few inches of the tiled floor of the foyer below the steeple, and high above you, maybe fifteen feet up, the rope disappeared through a circular hole in the wooden ceiling, from where it went up another 40 or 50 feet to the canti-levered axle on which the great bell squng. I only ever saw the bell once, it was huge, or so it seemed to be so to me. I suppose I weighed only 5 stone back then, and the bell probably many, many  times that. It was a Samson and Goliath task for a small boy to ring that bell.

For the ten-to bell, you rang the bell twenty-one times. In order to get the bell to ring properly, you had to get it to swing hard, to and fro on its curved axle, to hit the static clapper. I would start this process with some small tugs on the rope, and as the bell began to sway, the movement of the bell would lower and raise the rope, higher and higher in successive motions on its curved axle, until you, holding on tight to the rope, found yourself being lifted high up towards the ceiling and back down again on the rope, hanging on for dear life as you struggled to stay in touch with the bell's peals, counting to 21, hoping for no double rings, or false rings, and then at 21, dropping to the floor and slowing the bells progress by double pulling on the rope to interfere with the swing.

Usually it took two or three of the smaller lads to get the momentum up for the bell to ring. They would be whooshed up to the ceiling, their soutanes flapping and unceremoniously dropped down again for each peal. And on the last pull, you had to be aware of the joke we always played on any new-comers, where you alone may be left holding onto the rope, while the others broke their sides laughing at you, having left go of the rope, hooting as you shot up and hit the ceiling with a thump on the return swing.

Inevitably, on one of my first mornings, I had to toll the bell on my own, being the only server to turn up for that morning's mass. I was only 10 and was so small, I had the nickname 'Mouse'. I had no helper and I was so afraid of the bell and so nervous, that I failed entirely to make it ring at all despite my best efforts. I had to be rescued from my embarrassment by a kindly adult, Tom Scully, a regular early mass-goer who with one tug got the bell in motion.

After that I vowed to get the 'swing of it' and in time, I did. It took a few rather jarring efforts for me to develop my own style and confidence, but eventually I became quite a competent bell-toller. It gave me such a feeling of power, controlling this huge alarm-clock and waking up everyone in the town. It was a responsible job and we took it seriously, mostly. I remember one unfortunate boy getting his times wrong and ringing the ten-to bell an hour early, at ten to seven, much to the confusion of the regular early mass-goers, and the chagrin of the apparently late priest!

Later as I got better at the ringing, I would be allowed to ring the Angelus at noon and at six. That took more concentration, ringing the 3, 3, 3, 9 sequences just right. The sound of the bell ringing was so loud that you often lost count as your own ears started ringing in time with the church bell. Woe betides you if you forgot what you were ringing and went to 19, 20, 21 or more bongs. There is no room for artistic licence in the Angelus!

Ringing the 'Death Knell' for someone’s requiem mass was the plum job. This entailed ringing the bell once, then a pause for maybe ten seconds, then another peal, continuing this for maybe five or six minutes, longer if the dear departed was someone important or a relative slipped you a tanner (old six-pence) to keep it up a bit longer and really let everyone in town know it was Johnny's or Mary's last mass.

My father, like many of the men in Loughrea back in the sixties, was mad into Greyhounds. We often had three or four dogs in training for racing or coursing, and a brood-bitch or two with a litter of seven or eight pups in the back-yard, all at the same time. We were not alone in this, as the Scullys and the Kellys also had greyhounds nearby.  The Sweeneys next door to us, now the AIB bank, had a huge Alsatian dog called Rajah. Brogans on the corner had a terrier called Bosco and every second house had another mutt. The McInerney's donkey, that lived in a stable in the laneway at the back of their shop, completed the Main Street menagerie. As soon as the church-bell would start to ring these competing choirs of dogs and donkey would start to howl and bray until the bells ceased. You wouldn't hear the like from hungry wolves in the Klondyke. The 101 Dalmations movie always reminds me of them, but their chorus was easily the least tuneful performance I have ever heard. Whatever chance you had of sleeping through the train whistle and the church bells, you had none at all when the 'choir' chimed in.

Nowadays, when I stay over in Loughrea I am awoken not by the bells and whistles of my youth, but by the sounds of the early-to-work commuter traffic. The last train pulled out of Loughrea in the late 1970's, the once proud station and the manicured platform lie abandoned. The rail line was taken up and the permanent way is now the new road to the motorway. Sometime in the 1990's the great bell on St. Brendan’s was silenced forever, for health and safety reasons I expect, given the craic we boys used to have ringing it. It was replaced by a pre-recorded peal paen of an inferior kind. Somewhere in the sacristy, there is an electronic timer that sets the carillon off at appropriate times and at such a low decibel that most mass-goers and yes, even the dogs sleep through it. The donkey is long gone, and so is McInerneys on Main Street. I cannot imagine Extra-Vision having a donkey and cart for DVD deliveries and pick-ups, though it might just be the tonic to improve their business.

Progress is in the beholder's eyes, or ears in this case. I miss those bells and whistles that filled my young head with dreams. I wonder how my own ten year old boy would enjoy the stuff I loved back when I was his age?