Wheels Within Wheels

by Dervla Murphy

  Wheels within Wheels

  The Making of a Traveller

  DERVLA MURPHY

  In Memoriam

  K. R. D.

  F. J. M.

  R. A. L.

  G. C. K.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Plates

  Copyright

  1

  At 7.45 on the morning of November 28, 1931, a young woman in the first stage of labour was handed by her husband into Lismore’s only hackney-car. The couple were slowly driven east to Cappoquin along a narrow road, in those days potholed and muddy. It was a mild, still, moist morning. During the journey a pale dawn spread over the Blackwater valley, a place as lovely in winter as in summer – a good place to be born.

  The woman had waist-length chestnut hair, wavy, glossy and thick. Her features were classically regular, her wide-set eyes dark blue, her complexion had never known – or needed – cosmetics. She had an athletic build, with shoulders too broad for feminine grace. On the previous day, impatient because the baby was a week late, she had walked fifteen miles.

  At five foot six the husband was no taller than the wife. ‘Beauty and the Beast,’ his mother had observed objectively when the engagement was announced. But this was unfair. He was well proportioned and muscular, with thick black hair, dark brown eyes, a straight nose, an olive complexion – not handsome, yet striking enough in a quiet way. He was earnest though not humourless and firm in his convictions to the edge of intolerance. His manner was difficult and as an essentially lonely introvert he found it easier to listen than to talk. Even at the door of the maternity home he had no ready words of encouragement for his wife. ‘I’ll pray for you,’ he assured her solemnly. Then he retreated into the hackney and asked the driver to drop him off at the County Library headquarters in Lismore. It was a Saturday and if he started work at nine o’clock instead of ten he could, with a clear conscience, knock off at twelve instead of one. Characteristically, he did not consider granting himself any compassionate leave in honour of the occasion.

  This was before the Universal Telephone era and at 12.30 Dr White appeared at the library door. An archetypal GP – florid, white-haired, stately, kind – he was accustomed to dealing with son-hungry farmers. ‘Well now,’ he growled, ‘I don’t know if I should congratulate you or not.’ (My father at once visualised some ghastly deformity.) ‘It’s a daughter you have. Came at a quarter to twelve. Strong child.’ (This was also before the days of universal weighing; babies were either strong or weak.)

  My father’s reply is not recorded. But as he and my mother had been referring to me as ‘Dervla’ for the past eight months he perhaps felt no great disappointment. At once he set out to walk the four miles to Cappoquin, carrying a bulky parcel which a more practical man would have put in the hackney-car that morning. It contained the nine records of Beethoven’s Choral Symphony. By the time we met I had suffered my first misadventure, a badly burned bottom caused by a burst hot-water bottle. (For more than thirty years the scar faithfully registered severe frosts.)

  As a child, it delighted me to hear my mother describing the celebrations that followed. When a gramophone had been borrowed she and my father settled down to hold hands in the firelit dusk while Beethoven expressed their feelings about parenthood and I, in a cradle beside them, expressed mine about burnt bottoms. At that time childbirth was considered an illness and occasionally a nurse would look in and remark ineffectually that my mother was a patient and should be resting. Then Dr White himself arrived to end this unseemly gaiety. I had been lulled to sleep: but the moment Beethoven stopped I started. So the Murphys won that round, when my mother indicated that she found the ‘Ode to Joy’ a lot more restful than a howling infant.

  Two days later I was christened in Cappoquin’s parish church. At first the priest refused to baptise me, insisting peevishly that ‘Dervla’ was a pagan name and must be changed to something respectably Catholic like Mary or Brigid. My father, however, would not give in. He recalled that a sixth-century St Dervla was reputed to have lived in Co Wexford and that from Ireland the name had spread throughout Europe. Then he carefully explained, to an increasingly impatient curate, that Dearbhail meant True Desire in Gaelic and that the English, French and Latin versions were Dervla, Derval and Dervilla. Finally they compromised; my birth certificate names me as Dervilla Maria.

  Although my mother’s recovery was rapid we were not allowed home until December 12. Then my first journey took me through countryside that had scarcely changed since Thackeray described it in 1842: ‘Beyond Cappoquin, the beautiful Blackwater river suddenly opened before us, and driving along it for three miles through some of the most beautiful rich country ever seen, we came to Lismore. Nothing certainly can be more magnificent than this drive. Parks and rocks covered with the grandest foliage; rich handsome seats of gentlemen in the midst of fair lawns and beautiful bright plantations and shrubberies; and at the end, the graceful spire of Lismore church, the prettiest I have seen in or, I think, out of Ireland. Nor in any country that I have visited have I seen a view more noble – it is too rich and peaceful to be what is called romantic, but lofty, large and generous, if the term may be used; the river and banks as fine as the Rhine; the castle not as large but as noble and picturesque as Warwick. As you pass the bridge, the banks stretch away on either side in amazing verdure, and the castle walks remind one somewhat of the dear old terrace of St Germains, with its groves, and long, grave avenues of trees.’

  From that bridge it was about a quarter of a mile to my first home on the eastern edge of Lismore. There my parents had rented half a decaying mini-mansion. The other half was occupied by the owner, an obese, elderly, gossipy widow who always smelt of camphorated oil. Her habit of glancing through opened letters, and asking our maid what the Murphys were having for dinner, did not endear her to my mother. At this stage my parents were of enormous interest to the townspeople. And their odd status within the community was greatly to influence my childhood.

  Forty years ago the Pale was still a psychological reality and my parents therefore ranked as ‘foreigners’ in Co Waterford. As far back as the genealogical eye could see both their families were of the Dublin bourgeoisie, only rarely diluted by Huguenot, Scots Presbyterian and Italian-Jewish blood. Among their forbears were printers, ironmongers, doctors, linen weavers, civil servants, cabinet-makers, architects, silk-merchants, musicians, soldiers and sailors. There were no priests or nuns on either side that I ever heard of – unusual in Irish families – and the only known deviations from the bourgeoisie were an eighteenth-century Earl (of Belvedere) and a nineteenth-century kitchenmaid (of Rathmines).

  Inevitably, then, my parents were without any ready-made social niche when they migrated south. On one side of a deep rural divide were the gentry and aristocracy, mainly Anglo-Irish and Protestant, and on the other were the farmers and tradesmen, mainly native Irish and Catholic. No true middle class had yet evolved – we missed out on the Industrial Revolution – and professional men were usually the sons either of impoverished gentry or of prosperous farmers. Such people tended to retain their inherited attitudes and interests which, on most points, did not coincide with the attitudes and interests of the young couple from Dublin.

  When my parents arrived in Lismore on their wedding day – being too poor to afford even a weekend honeymoon �
� they found a build-up of suspicions resentment. The previous county librarian had been a popular local figure since the 1870s. He had recently reluctantly retired, leaving nine books fit to be circulated, and the townspeople were furious when an aloof young Dubliner was appointed to replace their beloved Mr Mills. A secure job with a salary of £250 a year had slipped from the grasp of some deserving local and they smelt political corruption. It mattered not to them that no local was qualified for the job, and what little they knew of my father they disliked. His family was conspicuously Republican – a black mark, not long after the Civil War, in a predominantly Redmondite town.

  During that summer my parents often travelled together around the county setting up embryonic branch libraries in villages and rural schools. Sometimes they slept in the back of the small library motor-van to economise on petrol – thus saving money for the purchase of extra books – and twice the van was stoned after dark by hostile natives. No doubt wisely, my parents chose to ignore these demonstrations.

  My father’s temperamental reserve must have exacerbated the situation. It was impossible to entice him into a pub and this fact alone, in a society which quite often confuses virility with a capacity for strong drink, aroused the scorn of many local males. Teetotalism on religious grounds would of course have been understood, and in some circles admired, but it was soon known that at home my parents drank wine on special occasions, as when entertaining friends from outlandish places like France, Germany or Poland. (They had first met as adults in Poland, where my father was on a cycling tour and my mother on a walking tour. It was then almost twenty years since their last meeting at a children’s party in Rathgar.)

  As for my mother – she smoked oval Turkish cigarettes specially sent from Dublin, and drank China tea, and preferred her cheese to be smelly. Also, she discussed in mixed company such obscenities as breast-feeding, and walked alone for miles all over the countryside like a farmer’s wife – except that she didn’t have to – and instead of saying ‘good-evening’ like a decent Irishwoman she said ‘good-afternoon’ like the gentry. Worse still, she had had the misfortune innocently to refer to Lismore as a ‘village’ within days of her arrival, and this monstrous faux pas – Lismore has been a cathedral town since the seventh century – was at once misinterpreted as a typical example of urban condescension.

  My parents’ poverty rendered their eccentric bourgeois tastes even less acceptable. Many initially saw them as penniless upstarts who just because they came from Dublin thought they could impress Lismore with their high-falutin’ ways. But there was a certain lack of logic here. No newcomers out to impress the natives would have travelled from Dublin on their wedding day in the cab of the lorry that contained all their worldly goods.

  Those goods were a large golden collie named Kevin; a solid three-piece chesterfield suite which remains as good as new to this day, apart from superficial damage inflicted by countless generations of cats; a single bed which provoked ribald comments as it was being unloaded but which seems not to have impeded progress since I was born nine and a half months later; two trunks of clothes and blankets; one tea-chest of crockery and saucepans; one cardboard carton of stainless steel cutlery; one tea-chest of records, and a gramophone; twelve tea-chests of books; fourteen handsomely framed Arundel prints and an original surrealistic painting, by a Hindu artist, of the source of the Ganges; one inlaid Benares brass coffee-table and two silver-rimmed Georgian beer tankards; two kitchen chairs and a kitchen table with a loose leg; one round mahogany dining-table and one very heavy black marble clock which suffered internal injuries on the journey and has never gone right since. This last item was a wedding present from our only rich relative, my mother’s grand-aunt Harriet. Unluckily grand-aunt Harriet was mad as well as rich and when she died at the age of ninety-eight she left all her thousands to the Archbishop of Dublin.

  On the domestic scene my mother was a cheerfully incompetent bride. Helping my father to pioneer a rural library service was more to her taste than cooking his meals so she engaged an efficient general maid named Nora and, before my birth, devoted most of her energy to working as an unpaid library assistant. Soon the unfriendly natives were being disarmed by the dedication of this young couple to the people of Co Waterford. Also – to be less sentimental – in small communities hostility soon wanes if it cannot be seen to be having an effect. And my parents – deeply in love, enthusiastically absorbed in their new task, willing to be on friendly terms with everybody yet preferring nature-worshipping walks to social gatherings – were not easy targets for those inclined to attempt ostracism.

  A romantic approach to nature was one of the strongest bonds linking a couple who in most ways were utterly unlike. Few Dubliners would then have taken happily to life in the country. Now it is ‘trendy’ to move out of the city, but fashionable migrants are never completely divorced from urban life; they can and usually do select which amenities they wish to take with them. It was different in the ’30s. Lismore is some 140 miles from Dublin and during the early years of their marriage my parents could not afford to run a car or even to pay train fares. There was no electricity in the town and of course there were no television or telephone links with the outside world. There were no theatres, cinemas, concert halls or restaurants within reach. Until they had saved enough to buy a wireless – one which I still use every day – they were dependent for entertainment on their modest record collection. And they had no congenial companionship, apart from occasional guests who never stayed long and went away marvelling at the Murphys’ capacity for enjoying life against such gruesome odds. But to my parents the odds were not at all gruesome. As Thackeray appreciated, West Waterford is extraordinarily beautiful – and that made up for all that they had left behind.

  Two miles south of Lismore a wooded ridge – Ballinaspic – forms the watershed between the Bride and the Blackwater valleys. Standing on a certain gatepost on Ballinaspic’s crest one can survey the whole sweep of West Waterford, and always I feel an intoxication of joy as my eye travels from the coast near Dungarvan to the Cork border near Macollop. There are profound differences between one’s responses to familiar and unfamiliar landscapes. The incomparable grandeur of the Himalayas fills me with a mixture of exaltation and humility. But the beauty of the Blackwater valley is so much a part of me that it inspires an absurd pride – almost as though I had helped to make it, instead of the other way round.

  Looking across that fertile valley from Ballinaspic one sees three mountain ranges. The Comeraghs, above the sea to the north-east, seem like the long, casual strokes of some dreamy painter’s brush. The Knockmealdowns, directly overlooking Lismore, are gently curved and oddly symmetrical and display as many shades of blue-brown-purple as there are days in the year. And the Galtees – more distant, to the north-west – rise angular and stern above the lonely moors of Araglen. Opposite Ballinaspic, another long, heavily wooded ridge separates the lower slopes of the Knockmealdowns from the lushness at river-level and is marked by several deep glens, each contributing a noisy stream to the quiet width of the Blackwater. And south-east of Ballinaspic, amidst a calm glory of ancient woods and irregular little fields, one can glimpse the marriage of the Bride and the Blackwater – after the latter has abruptly turned south at Cappoquin.

  Due north of Lismore a mountain pass forms the letter V against the sky and is known, with un-Irish prosaicness, as the Vee. Less than three hundred years ago wolves were hunted hereabouts and not much more than one hundred years ago evicted peasants were forced to settle on the barren uplands of Ballysaggart. More fortunate settlers arrived in 1832, a group of Cistercian monks who were presented with a mountainside by Sir Richard Keane of Cappoquin. Ten years later Thackeray observed that ‘the brethren have cultivated their barren mountain most successfully’, and now the grey Abbey of Mount Mellery stands solitary and conspicuous against its background of blue hills – an echo of those ancient monasteries which once made known, throughout civilised Europe, the name of Lismore.
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  In the seventh century St Carthage founded a cathedral and college in Lismore and by the eighth century the place had become a university city where in time both King Alfred the Great and King John (while still Earl of Morton) were to study. In 1173 the ‘famous and holy city’ was ransacked by Raymond le Gros; and when King John replaced the razed college with a castle it, too, was destroyed. Soon, however, the local bishops had built another castle, which Sir Walter Raleigh eventually acquired. But Sir Walter was not a very competent landowner and in 1602 he gladly sold his castle, surrounded by a little property of 42,000 acres, to Richard Boyle, First Earl of Cork. Some two hundred years later an heiress of the Earl of Cork married a Cavendish and Lismore Castle is still owned by the Devonshire family. Thackeray observed: ‘You hear praises of the Duke of Devonshire as a landlord wherever you go among his vast estates: it is a pity that, with such a noble residence as this, and with such a wonderful country round about it, his Grace should not inhabit it more.’

  Between the sixteenth and twentieth centuries West Waterford had to endure less than its share of Ireland’s woes. The Villiers-Stuarts of Dromana and the Keanes of Cappoquin always lived on their estates and generally were compassionate landlords – while the Devonshires, though absentees, were not more than usually unscrupulous. Moreover, a local historian, Canon Power, noted that the region ‘seems to have been largely cleared of its original Celtic stock on the conclusion of the Desmond wars and … the first earl of Cork was able to boast that he had “no Irishe tenant on his land”.’

  This successful mini-plantation may partly explain a scarcity of Republicans in the area. Many local families had not been settled in West Waterford for as long as the main land-owning clans; and in the absence of inherited resentments – based on racial memories of conquest and land confiscation – unusually harmonious relations developed between landlords and tenants. But one has to grow up in a place to be aware of these nuances. My parents, looking in from outside, recognised none of the benefits that for centuries had been made available to both sides by West Waterford’s feudal system. Judging the rural social scene by urban standards, they saw only arrogance and profiteering on the one side and spineless servility on the other. And nowhere a slot for themselves.