Marrie Walsh - An Irish Country Childhood: We Were So Young Back Then and Every Day Was a New Adventure

I N 1868, WHEN my grandfather decided to build his house of local stone and mortar with a roof of thatch, he first of all sent for the parish priest, as was the custom, to bless the site and advise on where the dwelling was to be constructed.

A site had already been chosen by the family on the opposite side of the road, which was then a pathway. The priest forbade my grandfather, Shaun, from building his home on this proposed site, giving no explanation, save to add that on no account was he ever to house either man, beast or fowl beyond the pathway, The priest then pointed out a suitable location and duly blessed the piece of ground and the chosen builders.

Then began the process of digging out the foundations, removing tons of earth and rock as the chosen site happened to be a hillock. However, when the house was finished, the surrounding ground levelled and stone walls built to shore up the loose soil, it fitted snugly into the remainder of the hillock, protected from the inclement weather and the chilling high winds which were prevalent in winter in our part of the country.

This house my mother eventually inherited with a few acres of land, and this was where I was born, the ninth child in a family of fourteen.

The windows were situated at the south side of the house, and looking out of any of them you were at eye level with a field which was called GarraiBan or White Garden. Lifting the eyes to the distance, you beheld the hills known locally as Cnoc-na-Suile (Hill of the Eyes), as the two bumps gave the impression of two eyes peering down on the village. Standing at the front door and looking right, about half a mile as the crow flies, lay the Trassey Hills, where the gentle breezes flitted along the hillside, caressing the wild grass and heather, throwing up shadows that moved like waves on a seashore, and changing colour as they sailed along before being lost in the distance.

To the back of those hills stretched the majestic range of the Ox Mountains, like a nursemaid protecting her charges. The unusual colour of this quartz formation seemed to be navy blue, but the weather was constantly playing games, mixing the colours according to its mood.

This was the glorious sight I first saw from the safety of my mothers arms and which is imprinted on my memory. They were our roots, always there, always reliable, almost an extension of the family. As a child, I would sit on the stone wall as if hypnotised, imagining that the world ended where the mountains and the sky met and wishing I could stand at the top and touch the heavens.

In the opposite direction, away in the distance, could be seen NephinBeog and NephinMor (Big and Small), or the Bean and the Babog (Woman and Child) as they were affectionately called. These acted as weather barometers, as the first snows were visible on the Bean days before they fell to the ground. When the clouds covered the top of the peak, then rain could be expected. There were streams and rivers galore for us to play and splash in, with plenty of lakes where otters and water hens abounded.

As we were a large family and were not the possessors of a big farm, it was essential to cultivate every bit of arable land possible. We were surrounded by acres of common land and shroicks or rough land, where heather and wild grass and rushes grew in abundance. Certain families had a share in this so-called no-mans-land with only a bog-hole or stream to mark its boundaries. So when cattle were put to graze on these strips of land, they had to be constantly watched to keep them confined to their own piece of grazing.

It was a monotonous chore for us children so it was up to ourselves to find a way of relieving the boredom. There were plenty of bog-holes to jump, and also flax holes. These were relics of bygone times, when flax was grown locally and had to be seasoned in deep holes in the marshes. They were now death traps, rumoured to be bottomless, and we were forever being warned against playing near these swally-holes, as they were called. We were also told that a monster called the alpluchor lived in those holes and that he was always waiting for man or beast to drop in so he could feast on their hearts, his favourite food. We listened, but we did not always obey.

The hot summer sun baked the crust that formed on the green, spongy, bubbling mass of fungi in the holes. It was like a witchs cauldron, and my brothers and I would take a running jump, landing in the middle of this crust. It would sink with the weight of our bodies, and up again it would pop, propelling us to the other side. We had found a perfect trampoline, and as we were out of sight of our homes, our parents were not aware of the danger we courted.

When the small rivers ran shallow in hot weather, we would build a courigh, or barrier, with stones and clauber damp pieces of grassy earth from the river bank to stay the flow of water. We would put lime into a sack, then secure the sack between the stones with the bag mouth opening into the flow of water. When the water volume built up, fish unwittingly became trapped in the bag. The lime stunned them and we would take the trout home to be fried in home-made butter.