All Around Me Hat....

I Wear a Tri-coloured Ribbon O.....

The wonderfully quaint old woman wandered quietly around the town humming and singing very softly to herself.   Strange, but it seemed that she walked on air as her movements were otherwise totally silent.   It was also quite obvious to those of us children who looked at her with sideways glances and enquiring eyes that ‘she was not all there’.   Needless to say but we always gave her a wide berth whilst the adults on the other hand gave her a knowing nod with the men raising their hats and caps to her.   It was as if they treated her with some form of reverence and a great deal of respect.

To us seven or eight year old boys she was amusing in a curious sort of way as we did not know anything about her and kept our distance every time she approached us on the pavement.   She was very small, about five feet tall, weighed no more than six stone with a beautiful complexion.   It was not that she ever said or did anything to cause the apprehension that we always felt – it was just that she was odd to our childish unknowing minds.

She was always immaculately clean and her clothing, although old, was also spotlessly clean.   She always wore a broad-rimmed straw hat and would you believe it but she had a large green, white and gold ribbon tied around it.   It was also obvious that she regularly changed the ribbon as it was forever crisp as new and brightly coloured.

The time I speak of is around 1952 back home in Ireland.   It was a time of hardship especially for the older generation.   The old lady was about sixty-two or three which is not old nowadays.   It was then of course after the sufferings of the recent World War.   She was needless to say not the only ‘character’ in the town in those days, if in fact she deserved that title, for there were numerous veterans from both wars including many with shell-shock and missing limbs.   Artificial arms and legs were a rarity and unaffordable in those days.

We also had the so-called ‘sane’ characters such as the ‘Sheriff’ who came in from the country by bus every Saturday dressed in an authentic cowboy outfit.   There were also the ‘Mario Lanza’ impersonators on the street corners singing their lungs out with renderings of the great hits of the day.   Thinking back, the town was a hotchpotch of such odd individuals when all is said and done.

However, the old lady with the ribbons on her bonnet was not to be confused with the others.   She had an air of mystery about her which made her seem more spiritual than odd.

Once whilst standing behind her in a shop I heard her speak in a most beautiful accent.   She spoke in Gaelic to the assistant who did not have any idea what the lady was talking about.   Without thinking, I interpreted what she had said much to the surprise of not only the assistant but also the old lady.   The smile on her face was quite serene and beautiful.   She thanked me in Gaelic and bought a small bar of chocolate which she presented to me.

As I left the shop she was standing outside on the pavement and called me over.   She began to speak rapidly in Irish which was much too fast for me to understand.   I apologised and she changed to English.   She asked my name, my age and the names of my parents.   It seemed that she knew my father who was also a lesser-known character in the town but not up to the standard of the Sheriff or any of the Mario Lanzas.   We parted with good wishes in Gaelic and I thought no more of the incident.   However, I made up my mind that in future I would always stop and speak to her whenever I saw her in the street.

About a week later, my mum spoke to me.   “I hear that you are in favour with Miss Deignan, the old lady with the tri-colour on her bonnet, according to what she said to your father?”   I asked her who she meant and she mentioned the old lady in the shop.   “She is a lovely old woman mum” I said quietly “and she gave me a small bar of chocolate for helping her”.   “You are a good lad Michael for if ever a person deserves help it is herself” mum said almost in a whisper.  

“Why does she always wear the ribbon mum?” I asked truly interested.   “Now keep it to yourself” mum began “and say nothing to your father.   You see he is what’s called a Loyalist and all for the Royal Family.   You know, you must have really impressed her for her to even speak to him at all.   You see she is one of the truest Republicans that I have ever known”.   “Why not tell dad?” I asked.   “Well, you know he carries the British flag every November on Remembrance Day – well she is the direct opposite.   She wears the tri-colour to show her republican views” mum again answered in a whisper.

“They say” mum continued “that she was engaged to be married in 1916 to a fine young man.   When word arrived about the Uprising in Dublin that Easter, he up and left to join the Rebels.   He died in the GPO in O’Connell’s Street on Easter Monday.   She went into shock when she got the news and it took her years to recover – if in fact she ever truly did.   You see, she wears the ribbon on her bonnet to tell everyone that she is still very proud of him right to this day.   She never met another young man and never married”.

Now the strange thing is that how I managed to grow up without going crazy about Irish politics I shall never know.   My dad’s family were all truly staunch Loyalists whilst my mum and her family were totally committed to an Irish Republic.   I never got involved in either side but I do know that when I left to join the London Police, mum was more than a little disappointed in me for a year or two.

Oddly enough, when I began working in the East End of London, I honestly believed that every second person I spoke to was completely mad which reminded me of my hometown and kept the pangs of homesickness at bay.   However, nowhere over the many years since I first spoke to the old lady in my home town have I met such a wonderful person who was so proud of her beliefs.

‘All around her hat she wore a bright coloured ribbon o,

T’was all for her true love she never more would see’.

------------Mike-------------

Uncle Tim - the Hod-Carrier...

A Wide Awake…..

(Wishing you all, wherever you are, a Peaceful and happy Christmas

and a wonderful New Year)…

Alcohol  and ‘hod-carrying’ have never mixed and the two should be kept miles and miles apart. Just in case anyone does not know what a hod-carrier is, well let me put it this way. When a bricklayer is building a high wall someone has to carry the bricks up the ladder. The faster the bricklayer is, the faster the carrier has to run up and down the ladder. It is not a job for the faint-hearted.

My Uncle Tim was an expert in both fields. He was one of the best hod-carriers in all of Dublin and one of the best pint drinkers in all the Dublin pubs. He loved his Guinness and now and again a drop of the ‘hard stuff’ – that’s Irish whiskey, be it the real McCoy or the illegal, home-made, type known as 'potteen'.

He could carry more bricks in a day than most good bricklayers could lay in two days and the site foremen on the building sites were only too willing to pay Tim the ‘double-bubble’, or double time, in order to get the job done when time was of the essence. He could keep two, or if hard pushed, three bricklayers busy all day from eight in the morning until six at night. Then it was straight home for his only meal of the day followed by two or three hours in a pub. Any pub would do.

He was what is known in Dublin circles as a ‘dacent man’ who would never see anyone go without when he had money in his pocket. Auntie Betty didn’t mind what he did with his money provided she was first in the queue on a Friday night for the housekeeping money. They had lived in 22 Walkin’s Street, off the Rotunda for all his twenty-eight years of marriage. He was a ‘Jackeen’, or as they are called more often nowadays, a ‘Dubb’, through and through.

The worst day of the week for Uncle Tim was always the Mondays. You see, he would have been drinking all day Sunday and always had a fierce hangover. When it got too bad for him, he would have a couple of swigs of the ‘creature’, (that’s another nickname for the whiskey), to get himself started.

"Be Jazus" said Tim, one cold Monday morning as he stood in the March frost on the building site, "but the shakes has got me to-day". He slipped around the back of the building they were working on and had an extra large swig from his half-bottle of whiskey. He was beginning to feel a little better when the two bricklayers climbed the ladder to the second floor scaffolding. Tim stuck a dozen bricks on the hod and gingerly began to climb the ladder. He was shaking and although it was bitterly cold, he began to sweat like a pig. "Bloody hell" he exclaimed as his foot slipped off the rung of the ladder causing him almost to drop the hod and bricks.

No sooner had he deposited the bricks with the bricklayers, he was down again to refill the hod. His second trip up the ladder was worse than the first but he made it. The sweat was rolling down his face despite the frost in the air. He continued working for the next hour or so.

It must have been about half-past nine when the bricklayers were having their first mugs of tea in the old hut that Tim decided to get well ahead of himself. If he continued working the hod, he could have a few hundred bricks up on top before they restarted working.

He was all alone with no one in sight and had just got to the top of the ladder when his foot slipped. Rather than drop the hod and bricks he held on tightly but without warning, the rung of the ladder he was standing on snapped. Poor Tim sailed through the air, landed on the hard ground amongst some rubble quickly followed by the hod and bricks. He lay there with several large cuts and bruises to his head.

On hearing the racket outside, two of the bricklayers and the site foreman came running out where they found poor old Tim. They checked for signs of breathing but found none and likewise for a pulse of which there was no trace. Poor old UncleTim was dead.

Arrangements were made to have his body taken home and all Auntie Betty said on seeing him was "Sure he asked for it. He was begging the good Lord to bring his punishment down on him, with his swearing and drinking and gambling". Without any further ado, one of the neighbours was sent to O’Neill’s Pub to get Dr. O’Grady to sign the death certificate.

Now Dr. O’Grady was also an Olympic Drinker but always ended up with only a Silver medal against Uncle Tim’s first prize Gold. This morning was no exception. He too had been drinking all day Sunday with Uncle Tim and had merely ‘topped-up’ with four or five pints of Guinness already. He also liked his whiskey ‘chasers’. To put it mildly, he was at least half-blind drunk when he arrived in Uncle Tim’s bedroom.

"Arra now" he cried with his bowler hat in his hands "sure don’t go crying tears all over the place Betty. Get the neighbours and we will give auld Tim a wake that would indeed wake the bloody devil himself". I stood in the corner and was only a little surprised that he did not lay a finger on poor Tim. Instead he went into the kitchen, took a book of forms out of his leather Gladstone bag and immediately signed a death certificate. He spoke as he wrote. "Cause of death: multiple traumas to the skull resulting in at least two fractures". "There you are Betty,that should be good enough for you to get the insurance" he said as he handed Auntie Betty the slip of paper.

Literally within a couple of hours, poor Tim was laid out on the bed in a beautiful new white sheet. The neighbours had arrived with different things to eat. There were cakes, which were being saved for Easter. There were all sorts of cold meats – most likely leftovers from Sunday’s dinner. A large punchbowl had been borrowed from O’Neill’s pub, which only ever saw the light of day after funerals, weddings and Christenings. It’s contents were almost ninety-nine percent pure whiskey, with just a drop of lemonade added as an excuse.

The kitchen was packed with people smoking their pipes, cigars that had also been saved for such special occasions, and some strange smelling tobacco cigarettes. There were as many strangers as there were friends and it seemed that all you needed to attend was to have once met someone who had once met Uncle Tim. Auntie Betty didn’t mind as she had drunk a large glass of whiskey when Tim had first been brought home. There was some dancing, singing and storytelling. I heard things about Uncle Tim that were so far-fetched that even if the storyteller had sworn on a stack of bibles, I still would not have believed them. According to one fellow, Tim had been a hod-carrier on the Empire State Building in New York City and had carried bricks for ten different bricklayers at the same time – and that included, according to his story (or should I say lies), he had to climb fifty stories to get to where they were working.

As soon as lunch was over and even more bowls of punch had been made and drunk by especially the women, the sounds of crying could be heard from several directions. The men were pouring themselves pints of Guinness from a couple of barrels in the corner but they were not making a good job of it. The ‘heads’, that’s the top white portion, were what was known in the trade as ‘Archbishops hats’ – four times bigger than a priests were.

Mrs. O’Brien from next door suddenly began sobbing as if it were her own husband that had died. She began to mutter something about ‘love for Tim’. Mrs. McGee from across the road knew only too well what she was on about and shouted to her "Will you not be holding your gob Biddy". Biddy, without any warning, threw herself on the bed beside Uncle Tim and everything went as silent as the tomb. Mrs. McGee jumped and I really believe she meant just to slap Biddy on the face to get her out of her condition. In fact she hit her so hard that Biddy’s nose started to bleed.

"Be Jazus" screamed Mickey O’Brien, Biddy’s husband "sure now yez are both out of order. Get back here Biddy". Biddy walked over to Mickey and hit him such a wallop as I have never seen before or since in my life. Mickey fell like a sack of coal onto the floor unconscious. With that all hell broke loose. Every neighbourly or family feud that ever existed came to the fore with women fighting like Kilkenny cats and men using their walking sticks or anything else that came to hand. It was as good a ruction as I have ever seen in my life.

As with all ‘good’ Dublin fights, soon the bottles and glasses began to fly about the room. Mickey O’Brien got up off the floor and realised what was going on. He saw his chance to get his own back on Mickey Maloney who he had always suspected was ‘at it’ with his wife Biddy. He threw a full glass of whiskey across the room at the other Mickey.

The glass and its contents hit the wall above the bed and nearly knocked the picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus off it. The whiskey flew around the place with most of it landing on poor old Uncle Tim’s face.

"Mother of Jezus" a chorus rang out and at the same time, total silence followed. There he was, Uncle Tim sitting up in bed and looking around the place. "What the bloody hell is going on here?" he croaked "sure it looks like a wake yez are having. Did yez all think I was bloody dead?"

With that he was handed a pint of Guinness and a glass of whiskey as some of the men told him that the reason they were celebrating was the good fortune that Tim had at work when he ‘should have been killed from that big fall’.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Dr. O’Grady was searching Mrs. Finnigan’s purse for the Death Certificate. If the Irish Medical Council discovered his mistake, sure he would definitely have been ‘struck off’ again - - - - - - for the fourth time.

-------------------------

Suggested by an old Irish song:

TIM FINNIGANS WAKE:

Tim Finnigan lived in Walkins Street, a decent Irishman, mighty odd,

He had a brogue so rich and sweet, and to raise in the world, he carried a hod.

You see, he’d a sort of a tippling way, with a love for the liqueur poor Tim was born,

So to help him on with his work each day, he had a drop of the creature every morn.

Whack fal a toura loora laddie, whack fal a toura loora lay,

Whack fal a toura loora laddie, whack fal a toura loora lie.

One morning Tim was rather full, his head felt heavy which made him shake.

He fell from the ladder and he broke his skull, so they carried him home, his corpse to wake.

They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet, and laid him out upon the bed,

With a barrel of porter at his feet, and a gallon of whisky at his head.

Whack.........................................................................

His friends assembled at the wake, and Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch,

They first brought in tea and cake, then pipes, tobacco and whisky punch.

Then Biddy O’Brien, began to cry, such a nice clean corpse did you ever see,

Ah Tim movourneen, why did you die, arra hold your gob said Mrs. McGee.

Whack........................................................................

Then Mickey O’Brien takes up the job, he says now Biddy, you’re wrong I’m sure,

Biddy hits him a skelp in the gob, and laid him out upon the floor.

Now soon the war, it did engage, ‘twas woman to woman, and man to man,

Shillelagh law was all the rage, and a row and a ruction soon began.

Whack.......................................................................

Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head, when a naggin of whisky flew at him,

The whisky landed on the bed, the liqueur scattered all over Tim.

Now Tim revives, see how he rises, Timothy rising from the dead,

Said whirl me whisky round like blazes, thundering Jazus do you think I’m dead.

Whack..........................................................................

----------Mike-------------

Beauty is in the Eyes of the Beholder...

Sweet Memories of Madame Perrot.........

Madame Perrot was reputed to have been one of the most beautiful women in Paris, France in the 1920’s and 30’s. She had socialised with the highest ranking politicians and the wealthy of her era and travelled all over the world. Although it was said that she had been engaged to be married whilst in her early twenties she had never committed herself to a lasting relationship. She was having too good a time……

I first spoke with her when I was only ten years old in 1950 back on the outskirts of my hometown in Ireland. I was having one of my ‘rambles’ not far from home and stopped as usual close to her beautiful thatched collage not far outside town. The other children of the neighbourhood called her a ‘witch’ but even at such a tender age I did not believe them. I was, and probably still am at the age of 70 able to accept people as I find them and not as described by others.

You see, it was said that whilst undergoing surgery in France – people called it a ‘facelift’ – she was left badly scarred and as a result had left there and taken up residence in the cottage. She did not have what one would call friends and never had visitors.

One of the local women worked a couple of days each week as a domestic servant and collected groceries for her. Apart from that she spent all of her evenings alone and most of the day tending her beautiful garden. It was the garden that always gained my attention – especially in late spring – when the flowers and shrubs began to bloom and the fruit began to appear on the raspberry, gooseberry and other fruit trees and bushes.

At those times I would stand with my head resting on the low wall and watch for hours with longing in my eyes for just a taste of the fruit that was there in abundance.

I had only seen Madame Perrot from a distance and as she always wore a large bonnet and veil hanging down over part of her face I never saw the disfigurement that the older people spoke of when her name was mentioned.

The late spring of 1950 was a glorious one with the promise of a beautiful summer to follow. In those days, and things have not changed much since, I was a loner and preferred my own company whilst searching out bird’s nests close to home. However, I always had time to stand and examine Madame’s garden and drool over the fruit as it ripened.

It was one Saturday whilst I took up my usual spot overlooking the garden that I first came face to face with Madame. She had been tending the garden close to the wall and I had not noticed that she was in fact kneeling whilst she removed some weeds. As she stood up we came face to face and our eyes met even though hers were hard to see behind her veil.

She seemed surprised that I did not run away. Instead I nodded to her and politely said “Good afternoon Madame – your garden looks quite beautiful”. She stood there and for the first time in my life I heard her speak in a most wonderful accent.

She asked “Thank you but who are you my little friend?” I replied with no trace of fear in my voice “I am Michael Madame and I am pleased to meet you”. She seemed surprised at my answer and smiled beautifully – clearly visible below the veil.

“I see you often Michael as you tend my little garden with your eyes. Do you like it?” she asked. “Oh yes indeed Madame” I replied with a note of true genuineness in my voice, “I always like it but especially at this time of the year”. “You have an eye for beauty Michael. Perhaps we should have met many years ago” she quietly spoke having given a deep sigh.

Although I was only ten years old I immediately understood what she meant. “But beauty is all around us Madame” I almost whispered “I can see beauty in everything”. “Including a frog or toad Michael?” she asked. “Oh yes Madame” I laughed, “even one of those”.

“Is it not time that you should be home?” she asked. As I guessed that it was now about five in the afternoon I agreed. As I made to leave she called after me “Perhaps you could come and visit me tomorrow afternoon?” she asked. “If you please Madame: that would be very nice”. As I moved away I shyly waved back to her.

I had made up my mind that I would not tell anyone other than my mother what had happened or about my visit the next day. When I did tell Mum, she was delighted and we promised to keep the secret to ourselves.

That night I had the most wonderful dream. In it, I dreamt that I was lying in the sunshine in Madame’s garden eating all sorts of exotic fruits. In it, Madame did not wear a bonnet or veil and her face was beautiful – more beautiful than any face I had ever seen before. She had long flowing shiny black hair down to her shoulders and she wore a beautiful summer dress. That dream is still as fresh in my mind’s eye today as it was when it happened all those years ago………………….

After Mass on the Sunday I stayed close to home in an attempt to keep my Sunday clothes and shoes as clean as possible. Time dragged and I could not wait until dinner was eaten and I could make my way to visit my new ‘friend’.

Eventually, at about two o’clock, Mum winked at me and I quietly made my way out the back door and walked briskly out the road to keep my appointment. When I reached Madame Perrot’s I looked over the low wall and saw her sitting some distance away. I panicked when I thought that she might have forgotten my visit. I did not call but stood in my usual place with my eyes fixed on her.

It seemed like only seconds when she stood up and gave a beautiful wave towards me. I honestly felt that she had been looking forward to my visit. She waved towards the side gate and I entered. As I approached her she called out “Bonjour Michael – you are welcome to my home and garden”.

I felt totally at ease and wished her a good afternoon. She invited me to sit on the grass where she had laid a rug and I noticed that there was a bowl of freshly picked fruit including strawberries. She must have seen the look in my eyes as she immediately said “You may have some if you wish”. 

As I ate a strawberry – one of the very few strawberries I have enjoyed in my life – I said to her “The only strawberries I have ever tasted before were the small wild ones that grow in the forest”. She looked shocked then quietly said “From now on Michael, whenever you are passing you may come into my garden and pick any fruit you like, I will give you a note to that effect”. 

I was quite shocked at her generosity and said “If I may Madame, I would like to take a few strawberries for my mother”. “I knew it from the first moment I spoke to you Michael that you think more of others than you do of yourself. You shall have a bowl of strawberries, gooseberries and raspberries for her and later in the year, you may have all the apples and pears you can carry – all with my compliments” she appeared to be delighted at the idea.

At that moment for some unknown reason she moved the veil from her face and onto her straw bonnet. I saw the scars on her face around her eyes, nose and forehead. They were quite horrible but did not shock me.

She looked at me as she did so then asked “Are you not shocked Michael?” she asked. “No Madame, I honestly thought that they would be far worse”. She did not replace the veil but laughed out loud. “Where were you when I was going through all the agony when first it happened Michael? All my so-called friends avoided me like the plague and those I met could not look me in the face. Oh for the innocence of childhood. Thank you Michael, you have made my day”.

We laughed for a long time then she asked me all about my family and school. She promised that she would teach me French in the years to come and I told her I would teach her Gaelic. Again we laughed………..

That Sunday in June 1950 is one I shall always remember. I had made someone who thought little of herself a very happy person and as she said herself, made her laugh for the first time in almost thirty years…………….

When it was nearly time to go, she walked me through her cottage where I saw some of the most beautiful furniture and fittings I have ever seen in all my life. It was like a palace. Although I did not know the possible value at the time, I now reckon that the contents at today’s prices would be in the region of three quarters of a million pounds.

I said my goodbye and made my way home with a basket containing as much fruit as I could carry together with a large bunch of flowers for my mother. I knew that Mum would be delighted not only for the flowers and fruit but more so for the fact that I had spoken with a lonely old woman who up to that day had spent almost all of her time on her own. I knew that Mum would be proud of me for doing so.

I also carried the handwritten note from Madame that gave me authority to pick fruit from her garden in the future. I was not to know then how important that note would prove to be in the not too distant future……………

I had arranged to visit Madame again on the following Saturday and spent the week at school with my secret totally intact. Mum had told the family that a friend from out the country had called at home and given her the fruit and flowers.

It was on the Wednesday that for the first time in my young life my mother called at my school and when I saw her talking to my teacher I knew instantly that something was seriously wrong. The teacher called me to the front and I left the classroom with my mother.

As we came out into the playground Mum spoke with a quiver in her voice. “Something terrible has happened Michael. Madame Perrot’s cottage is on fire and she was trapped inside. I am sorry but she died in the fire”. I began to cry inconsolably and as we ran down the road I knew I had to make my way to the Madame’s house.

As we arrived the Fire Engines were still at the scene. The thatch was almost completely gone with most of it having collapsed inwards. It was still smouldering. I saw that the entire house was gutted but it appeared that Madame’s body had already been removed.

A true friendship, possibly the first adult friendship of my young life, had been shattered forever. I was to cry many a tear for that very reason over the years to come……………

I did not visit the garden until the following year at my Mum’s suggestion. As we entered the garden area we were challenged by a man who appeared to have some connection with the property. I showed him the note and after examination he merely said “Ok, carry on but the land has been sold so you will not be able to visit next year”. With that Mum and I picked as much fruit, flowers and shrubs as we could carry. The shrubs were planted in our small garden back home and flowered for years afterwards……………………………………      

Each spring they were a constant reminder of a truly dear friend whom although I had only known her for a short while, she has remained one of my dearest memories as such for the past sixty years…….

------------Mike---------------- 

Carrickfergus...

An Irishman’s Lament…..

(Tenha um Natal maravilhoso e um Feliz Ano Novo tranquilo....)

"Just a couple of more nights, please God, then I will lay me down to rest in peace". 

Sheamus McSweeney lay on his dying bed with not a single friend in the world, let alone in London to see him on his final journey. "Sure ‘twas the curse of the drink" he said aloud as if someone was listening to him. Even his landlady did not want to come near him for fear that she might catch something or other. 

For a man of 52 he looked older and more decrepit than many a man of 75 did. Yes indeed, it was the curse of the drink and the hard living that brought him to this – "But sure now, doesn’t it come to everyone in the end, whatever his age" he again spoke out loud.

It was a different man from the one who had left his native home in Carrickfergus, County Antrim at the age of 18 and took the ferry to Liverpool. He had worked on the shovel for the first ten years or so and although he earned top wages, he failed to save a single pound note. He then moved into labouring on various building sites throughout the whole of England never staying more than a few months in a single place. 

It was as if he was running away from something – or someone.

When leaving home he had promised to write to his childhood sweetheart Margaret but never seemed to have had the time or the inclination to do so. He was too fond of looking after himself and not worrying about anyone or anything else. In fact he did not know whether his father and mother or his two brothers and two sisters were still alive or not. In the 34 years he had been in England he had not sent as much as a postcard to any of them. In fact he spent all of his time in public houses drinking himself into oblivion.

He knew that he was an alcoholic but never dared admit it.

Oddly enough, he still dreamed of strolling down the coast road for a night out with his friends in the seaside town of Ballygrand. He could even, during the same dreams, smell the sea. "Sure now, weren’t they the grandest times" he would always say when he remembered his youth.

He had courted Margaret for two years and they had an ‘understanding’. When he could not get any employment in or around Carrickfergus he decided to go to England.  He had promised that he would save up as much money as he could and return home within a year or so when they would be married. 

"Castles in the air" someone once said to him when he told them of his lost plans.

Even when he met a fellow Ulsterman and they formed a loosely called partnership in the building trade, he could not stay off the drink for two days in a row. He had been made foreman and was earning a fantastic wage but when he was unfit for work several days in a row after he had been on a ‘bender’, the two split up and went their separate ways. It was rumoured that the partner was now the owner of a multi-million pound operation. The thought of it just added to Sheamus’ bitterness.

"How come fate dealt me such a rotten hand" he would regularly complain to any fellow drinker who bothered to listen to him in the pubs. He never once admitted that every problem he ever had was self-made. Even when he ended up several times in hospital having had blackouts, he blamed something else other than the alcohol for putting him there.

As for religion, he had not been to Mass for over thirty years. "Me old mother would turn in her grave" he said aloud at the thought of it. Considering he did not know whether or not she was alive or dead made no difference whatsoever to him.

At the thought of religion, he began to try to remember some of the prayers he knew as a boy. They were all jumbled up and bits of one led into another. You see, the bold Sheamus knew only too well that he was dying.

He fell into a deep sleep and began to dream once more of Carrickfergus and Margaret. He was healthy once more and in his mind’s eye, he was also sober. Within his nightmare he began to dream of tombstones and graveyards and it frightened him into wakefulness. He sat up in bed and decided that he was fit enough to go down to the pub for one last drink.

As soon as his foot touched the uncarpeted floor of his little room and he put his weight on his feet, he collapsed in a heap. Ten seconds later he was dead.......

At precisely the same time, in his hometown of Carrickfergus, his mother, now 73 years old was talking to a woman in the market place. As she put her hand to her forehead, she declared "Good God Almighty Margaret, but someone has just walked over my grave. I had the shivers for a second. It must be the ghost of someone passing over. Now tell me girl, how are your grandchildren?"…………………

---------------------------

There is a beautiful version of the Song, Carrickfergus

by a Dubliner, Paddy Reilly,  on

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKAJpHTkzL8

Carrickfergus.

I wish I was in Carrickfergus
Only for nights in Ballygrand
I would swim over the deepest ocean
The deepest ocean, my love to find.

But the sea is wide and I cannot swim over
And nor have I the wings to fly
If I could find me a handsome boatman
To ferry me over my love and I.

My childhood days bring back sad reflections
Of happy time there spent so long ago
My boyhood friends and my own relations
Have all passed on now like the melting snow.

So I’ll spend my days in this endless roving
Soft is the grass and sure my bed is free
But to be home now in Carrickfergus
On the long road down to the salty sea

Aah but in Kilkenny it is reported
On marble stone there as black as ink
With gold and silver I would support her
But I'll sing no more ‘till I’ve had a drink.

For I'm drunk today and I'm seldom sober
A handsome rover from town to town
Ah but I am sick now my days are numbered
So come all ye young men and lay me down.

-------Mike---------

The Tale of Nancy Myles..

For the Love of Auld Dan….

Daniel (Dan) Myles could trace his ancestors back to before Oliver Cromwell (curse and spit at the mention of his name), in the 17^th century, when he came over from England and kicked all the farmers off the fine lands in Meath and surrounding fertile counties. His family were forced to move to Connaught but the land there only seemed to grow bigger rocks. Although most of his relatives had taken to the roads to survive, many of them remained in and around Galway.

Mary O’Connor, his wife, could also trace her family back to the same time but as with Daniel, there were no records to vouch for their family tree, instead the details were handed down from father to son, or daughter in this case, generation after generation. She had married Daniel in an unusually quiet ceremony at the Parish Church in Durrow, County Laois, on a fine June summer’s day in 1950. Although they did not think themselves any better than other tinkers, they were not the types of people to waste money on such festivities. They were highly respected among the Tinker fraternity. 

Both sets of parents bought them a new caravan and a fine three-year-old horse. Other family friends helped to furnish and decorate it.

On the 1^st day of June 1953, they were blessed with a healthy daughter. She was baptised Nancy Mary Myles. Dan was always boasting that she was a true Queen the day before Queen Elizabeth was crowned in London. In fact they both treated her as if she was the Queen of All the Tinker Clans.

Her mother taught her how to read and the ways of the road and whenever they were casual workers harvesting in a particular area, Mary always managed to get Nancy into the local village school for a few weeks at a time. They followed the harvesting and planting throughout Ireland and occasionally during really hard times, Dan would travel to Scotland for the potato picking. It was hard work but brought in a little money.

When Nancy was five years old, her mother contacted Tuberculosis and was bedridden for many weeks. She would occasionally seem to be better but always ended up worse than she was before. She died on Christmas Week in 1958 with Nancy holding one hand and Dan the other. Dan was completely broken-hearted and although Nancy was only five, she took it upon herself at that early age to ‘look after Dan ‘till the day he died’.

Nancy was quick to learn and at every opportunity she would watch other travelling girls and women cooking the main midday meal. She became an expert at making do with very little. Dan worshipped the ground she walked upon and her feelings of love for him were no less.

He trusted her implicitly and when she was no more than thirteen years old, he often came home to find some of the tinker boys sitting around the caravan making eyes at his daughter. She was always pleasant and mannerly towards them but was too busy looking after her father.

When she was eighteen, many young single men of the travelling people would call on Dan and seek his permission to visit Nancy. His answer was always the same – "Ask Nancy yourself".

Nancy had learned the art of dressmaking from another travelling woman and she was always immaculately dressed. She had grown into a stunningly beautiful woman who was the envy of both men and women of the travelling folk.

Her beauty always preceded her wherever they went and people would stand on the pavement of villages through which they travelled. She had a beautiful smile for everyone and rapidly became known for her beauty throughout the whole of Ireland.

On one occasion when they were camped on the outskirts of Ballinasloe on horse-fair day, several arguments broke out among the young men about who was the most beautiful tinker woman of them all. There were many fights to prove the point but Nancy won hands down...............

Whenever news came to Nancy that some old travelling folk were ill, Nancy would get Dan to make a detour in order that she visit them and do whatever she could to help them. She had learned the art of herbal medicine making and her expertise was sought far and wide. As she grew older, not only did she become more beautiful and sought after, she also developed a serene aura about her.

It was in October 1974 when Dan, while poaching in a swollen river, fell in and caught pneumonia. All efforts by Nancy to cure him were of no avail. She even drove the horse and caravan to the local village and paid good money to see the local doctor but all the medicine in the world could not halt what was about to happen. Dan died at the stroke of midnight on the last day of the month.

Nancy was totally devastated and heart-broken. She immediately began to lose interest in life in general. She kept herself to herself and would not entertain callers. When Dan was buried in the local cemetery she did no more but drove the caravan out into the countryside, released the horse into a field and then set fire to the caravan as was the tinker tradition. She had read somewhere many years before that this was what should be done.......................

She disappeared out of sight and all the efforts of friends and extended family to trace her throughout Ireland failed. It was as if she had never existed. She was never seen or heard of again..............

Since that day, at every horse-fair within and without Ireland, where tinkers congregate, stories are told of Nancy and the love that she had for her old father Dan. The deeds she accomplished in her life have grown in the telling but there is little or no doubt, that tinker generations in the future will continue to sing the praises of Nancy Myles, the Queen of all the Tinkers……………

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Suggested by an old Irish Tinker song:

The Tale of Nancy Myles….

Nancy was a tinker girl, who roamed the country roads,

And I will tell you how she came to be a legend in her time,

And the reason I have come to know, is because a tinker told me so,

And who was there to better know the tale of Nancy Myles.

Nancy’s father, Tinker Dan, he was a poor but honest man,

Drove a horse-drawn caravan, all through the Emerald Isle,

And when Nancy was no more a child, well Dan, he didn’t have the time,

Men would come from far and wide, to be with Nancy Myles.

Before the age of 21, a hundred men had come and gone,

But none of them could win the gleam of love that was in her eyes,

And sure any man who loved her then, he never was the same again,

His memory was haunted, with thoughts of Nancy Myles.

In every town and village too, the fame of Nancy grew and grew,

Soon her name was spoken, around many a camp fireside,

And at Ballinasloe, on horsefair day, when every tinker had his say,

Many a fight was fought to win, the court of Nancy Myles.

But I hope that you don’t get me wrong, for Nancy was the sweetest one,

Heart so full of kindness, and as charming as her smile,

She was known throughout the land, as queen of all the tinker clans,

It was the dream of every man, to marry Nancy Myles.

Before the age of 31, a thousand men had come and gone,

But none of them could win the gleam of love that was in her eyes,

And sure any man who loved her then, he never was the same again,

His memory was haunted, with thoughts of Nancy Myles.

But then there came the saddest day, when Nancy’s father passed away,

The loss it grieved her dearly, for he was her only pride,

Family friends and courting men, they never saw her smile again,

A change had taken place within the heart of Nancy Myles.

Before the age of 41, Nancy she had come and gone,

They searched the country over, but not a trace of her they found,

But Nancy’s memory will live on, as long as tinker men are born,

Proudly they will sing this song, of tinker, Nancy Myles.

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A lovely version of the song by Brendan Shine can be heard on the following link:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=0Zl-qwI97Is

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