Of
The Travelling People....
Old Paddy Riley was regularly seen sitting on the steps of the fountain
outside the Town
Hall on Main
Street back home in Ireland whenever the weather was
fine. He was considered old in those days, in his late fifties
I would say, but still had a long brown beard.
Few people ever
acknowledged him as he was what is known in Ireland
as a ‘Tinker Man’. My
old mom, (God rest her soul) spoke
very highly of him and in fact stood firm on
the fact that she considered him to be one of the
finest gentlemen in the town. More than one of the neighbours took great exception to
her statement but in truth, she could not have cared less....................
You see, during the war,
Old Paddy would occasionally slip her a couple of rabbits that he had snared to
feed her now growing family. Dad was away in England in the Royal Air Force and
things were tight. A rabbit stew with tons of potatoes,
carrots and absolutely beautiful dumplings would feed a family for a few days.
Although he never asked
for payment, as soon as Dad’s money would arrive from England, she would send
one of us boys over to Paddy with half-a-crown. Before
taking it, he would always turn his head towards our home opposite and wait
until mom nodded her head.
Mom always encouraged us
to talk with him and to listen to his ‘wisdom’ about
the countryside. I quickly learned most of the country lore
that I now hold very precious from Old
Paddy. Oh
to hear some of those stories just one more time......
Although now living in a
small house in town, he was always restless and forever walking the
countryside. You see, he was a ‘travelling man’ and had a small horse
drawn caravan in which he and his family used to travel the roads of Ireland doing farm work
for the many farmers who knew that they could trust him to do a fair days work.
He picked potatoes,
cabbages, carrots, turnips, and beet and helped in the harvesting and thrashing
of the corn. They all liked him, for unlike most of the
casual labourers of the time, Old
Paddy never took any alcohol. He never swore
or raised his voice. As my old mom said, he was a perfect
gentleman.
Once you could get him
talking about the ‘old
days and the old ways’, Old Paddy would take a long time to get
going, but once started, a true smile would come upon his face and his eyes
would light up. The
transformation was amazing and us young ones would sit there mesmerised for
hours and hours listening to his stories.
As soon as spring
arrived and the potato sowing season began, Old Paddy and his family would load
up the caravan and hit the road. Away out the country they
would drive with two small Jack
Russell Terriers trotting along under the axel of the
caravan. A few people, but always my mother, would stand on
the kerbside and wave them goodbye. I do not know how
she knew, but she was always there when they were
leaving. They would be gone until well into late August
or September.
He was able to tell
stories of his ancestors and although they sounded far-fetched at the time, I
have since discovered that there was more than an element of truth in
them. When Cromwell (spit and curse at the mention
of his name) came to Ireland
in the 1600’s Paddy’s
family were landowners of some note.
They and thousands of
others were forced off their land and exiled to Connaught. It
was from him that I first heard the expression that Cromwell is supposed to
have used “To Hell or
to Connaught”. The land there is of poor
quality and within forty or fifty years the land could not
provide sufficient food for the growing families.
Many took to the road
where they became casual labourers for the ‘new’ landowners. Others
became repair men working on farm equipment and household
wares. That is where the name ‘Tinkers’ came from he told
us. They would repair almost anything but particularly pots and pans
with tin.
This went on for a
hundred years or so until the countryside was plagued with the Blight and the years
of the Great Famine came
to take its toll on not only many of the tinkers, but tens of thousands of
ordinary people.
Far more tinkers
survived as they were less dependent on farmed food. They knew
every wild berry, mushroom, greenery and such which they augmented with wild
birds and animals. They survived until they were pushed from
pillar to post by the ‘new’ police
regulations. Many were forced to emigrate whilst others were
forced into permanent housing. The likes of Paddy never got used
to it................
So there he sat, on the
steps throughout my boyhood with us listening intently to his words of
wisdom. As I got older, the strange thing is that Old Paddy
did not seem to do so. He
looked exactly the same as he did when I was boy.
Twenty years later
before I left home to come to London,
I was passing the Town Hall
and sure enough, there was Old
Paddy sitting on the steps. I purposely went
up to him and said ‘hello’. He
looked at me and I noticed that old light come into his eyes that I had known
as a child.
“So you are off to
London then Michael” he spoke
softly, “to become a
Policeman. That’s good, your old mom must be very proud of
you”. I stood there and could not
speak. I
shall never know to this day how he knew as mum kept it a
secret............................
Two years later on a
holiday home, when I passed the Town Hall on a fine summer’s day, I intended to
have a few words with him. The steps were empty..............
I crossed the road to a
friend who had a grocer’s shop opposite and asked what had happened to Old
Paddy. All my friend said was “Who on earth is Old Paddy?” As
I tried to explain to him, I suddenly realised that he did not have the
faintest idea of whom I was talking. I might as well have been asking him
who was Santa Clause.
And you know
something? I think that my friend missed a very large
part of Irish life by never having known Old Paddy. He
was one of the truest and purest gentlemen I had the pleasure of knowing in my
life.....................
------------------------------------
There is a beautiful version of the
song Freeborn Men by Luke Kelly
on the following link:
Freeborn Men....
I’m a freeborn man
of the travelling people,
Got no fixed abode, with nomads I am numbered,
Country lanes, and byways, are always my ways,
I’ve never fancied being lumbered.
Oh I knew
the lanes, and the resting-places,
Where the song birds sang, when winter days were over,
Then we’d pack our load, and be on the road,
Those were good old days for the rover.
And I
knew the places, where a man could linger,
For a week or two, for time was not our master.
Then away we’d jog, with me horse and dog,
Nice and easy, no need to go faster.
But I’ve
known life hard, and I’ve known life easy,
And I’ve cursed the times, when winter days were dawning,
Yet I’ve laughed and sung, through the whole night long,
Seen the summer sunrise, in the morning.
So all
you freeborn men, of the travelling people,
Every tinker, rolling stone, and gypsy rover,
Wind of change is blowing, old ways are going,
Your rambling days will soon be over.
------ Mike--------
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