by Jack Lynch
Many of our special days and celebrations as children are still around know, mostly the religious events that we observed. We always loved Shrove Tuesday, also known as ‘Pancake Tuesday,’ the day before Ash Wednesday. We called it ‘Skelleging’ day and it was the day when young school girls were fair game to be caught, tied with ropes, and have their heads put under water from public taps, available around the town. Something I’m sure would not go down well these days! I don’t know what the origins of it were, or why it was a tradition but everyone in the town was aware that this was a common game on this day. Usually the boys were kept back in school by the teachers on this day to allow the girls to get home before we got loose. I think some of the girls looked forward to the game, as there were plenty of them who walked ever so slowly home that day who were caught and drenched amid screams and laughter.
Getting back to Roger, we gave him some consolation when we caught three girls one Shrove Tuesday, all sisters, whom we tied to the trees in the pathway to the Baths, giggling and shrieking, and then we went on to annoy Roger. We teased and taunted him until he chased us. As he ran after us he saw the girls tied up and freed them one by one – taking his vengeance out on them as he released them with a clobber. We stood a short way off doubled over laughing as the girls planned their revenge. Roger had a wire-haired terrier that frightened us by growling and running after us, we didn’t know if he would bite but never let him get close enough to check.
As we got older our toys often became more sophisticated. We got wooden boxes from the shopkeepers to make ‘coaches’ as we called them. We used a wooden box, a shaft, two axles, and four pram wheels plus a piece of rope and some nails to make karts that we’d recklessly speed down the hill in. I was the coachbuilder, as I was mechanically minded, and loved tinkering with tools. ‘Sunlight’ soapboxes were the best boxes for coaches and a various mixture of pram wheels would suffice if four identical wheels could not be scrounged. I had great fun with these carts, especially coming down hills, and there were plenty of these in Cobh. The reason I selected the ‘Sunlight’ soap boxes was that they were the most convenient size for me to sit comfortably in, and the sides did not interfere with my arms when I was steering the coach. If we ever needed help in making these coaches there was always a wealth of helpful adults on hand to assist. Diana Foley, who helped mammy with the cleaning in our house when we were growing up, was always interested in seeing what latest things we were getting up to. We all loved Diana and she was great fun; she played games with us and took care of us. She made artificial flowers with crepe paper and I thought she was a genius. Her father helped me to file down the thickness of some oversized axles to fit small wheels. He also carved aeroplanes, and wind mills from wood and gave them to me.
Holidays then we always fantastic fun, we never went far but it still always felt like a world away when we did leave Cobh. During the late thirties and early forties our family went regularly to my Grandfather’s farm, in Kanturk, for holidays. The O’Regan family still have the farm in Paal, Kanturk. During my school days I spent many happy days at the farm during the summer holidays with my brother Anthony, my sister Eileen, and all my first cousins. I slept upstairs in the farmhouse when we were there and had to climb a ladder to get up to the beds. The pillow-cases and sheets we used were made from white flour bags, which were washed in hot water fortified with washing soda to remove the manufacturer’s name from the bags, and they were then sewn together. Sometimes the pillow-cases were used to make undergarments for the women. Mattresses and pillows were stuffed with feathers and down and I sank comfortably into them. The farm fowl supplied all the stuffing materials. Sometimes, the quills of these small feathers stuck into me. All in all, it was very comfortable and warm and I always slept well there.
It was great to be part of the farm community then. Being among horses, donkeys, dogs, cows, bulls, chickens, geese, and ducks etc was wonderful, especially with the lovely continuous sunshine. I cannot remember one wet or windy day, during my annual holidays in Kanturk. I had so much fun drawing the hay, collecting eggs from the stalls and sheds, jumping and rolling in the hayloft, and often getting stung with nettles and thistles hidden in the hay. It was all part of the experience and made for memorable times.
Every morning I would wake up to the sounds of cocks crowing, hens clucking, cows mooing, and the odd bull roaring in the haggard. The donkey added to the chorus of sounds. Farm activity was always audible and visible. Ducks waddled around, and chickens spent their time pecking away at the earth. Pigs snorted and squealed. Dogs barked and granddad shouted at something or other. It was a haven of colour, noise and busyness that we all adored. There was also the lovely smell of burning turf and chopped wooden blocks.
My uncle Paddy, aunts, and grandfather had their chores to do every day and we’d go and help each of them at various stages throughout the long days. I’d watch as my aunts baked bastable cakes, and I’d always get my own piece of dough to make a biscuit for myself. The bastable dough was put into a three-legged pot, covered, and hung over the big open fire in the hearth, and then glowing embers were placed over the cover. Fresh red-hot embers were added from time to time.
Blowing the bellows to keep the fire glowing gave me heaps of pleasure. It depended on how much elbow grease I put into it to see the variation in the colours, and height of the flames. The pots were black due to the long use over the turf and wood fires. Coal coke was also used when it was available. The bastable and other cakes were delicious when freshly baked, especially when buttered with their own homemade country butter which was quite salty. Home-made blackberry jam was a delight and was easily made as there were plenty of berries available in the hedgerows around the farm. Crab apple jam was a great favourite.
Collecting eggs was one of my enjoyable pastimes. I went into the shed and cow stalls where the hens laid and I collected the warm eggs in my hands - about half dozen eggs at a time - and then carefully took them back to the kitchen. During one holiday I went to the cow stall, collected the eggs, and instead of walking carefully I ran straight out the door and into a heap of cow dung about fifteen inches high! I didn’t see it on my way into the stall. The shock and shame of it! I was up to my knees in steaming hot, fresh, cow dung, which had been swept into a heap that morning. I smelled to high heaven, but didn’t let go of the eggs. I knew I would never live it down, and all in the house kept reminding me to watch out for dung heaps in teases and taunts that went on for the duration of the holidays.
My brother Anthony and I had our first and last milking chore on the farm. When the cows were ready to be milked I took the end cow, whilst he took the second cow down from mine. We drew up the three legged stools, and sat down and then squirted a little milk to moisten the teat, as we had seen our uncle and aunts doing. They used the buckets to collect the warm milk and there was lovely foam at the top of the bucket as the milk flowed quickly. We decided to squirt milk at each other, under the cows’ bellies. We both started to tug on the cows’ teats and milk started to flow, usually into our faces, from both directions. We found this hilarious until suddenly, my cow got fed up because I must have tugged too hard on her, and she gave a big moo and kicked out. I got a fair belt from her and it stopped my messing straight away.
In those early days, my grandfather used to go into town at weekends for his pints. Normally, he went alone on the horse and cart. There was no car or other transport on the farm. He used to spend hours in there chatting to the locals and enjoying himself. When my brother Anthony won the all Ireland boxing title in 1940, at four stone four ounces, aged just ten years old, my grandfather took him to the pub and boasted about his boxing champion grandson. Of course granddad got plenty of free pints and boy did he milk it! We used to wait up for him to come home. He always did but was usually asleep on the cart after his fill of pints and Dolly, the mare, knew her way home. She used to safely deliver him after each trip, none the worse for his visit to the pub.
During those summer holidays in Kanturk I
always looked forward with excitement to going to Mass every Sunday in the pony and trap. The trap was cleaned for the occasion and we all piled into it and listened to the clip-clop of Dolly’s hooves as she trotted along on the country road in the beaming sunshine. Sometimes, she lifted her tail and left off wind, which made us duck down laughing in case anything else was discharged. We met lots of farmers at Mass, and grandfather bragged about his grandchildren.
One of the most important days in the summer was when the hay was being cut and saved. It was a most enjoyable period for all the children who watched all the activities under continuous sunshine. We enjoyed watching the threshing machine going full belt when the corn was ready for saving. In the early days the binding was done by hand, until machinery took over. As I watched the tractors going all out, and steam engines chugging away, I felt exhilarated. It was a treat when I saw my grandfather cutting the hay, using Jacko the stallion, and Dolly the mare, to pull the mower. My aunts came out to the fields where the action was taking place and brought with them strong tea, homemade brown bread, bastable cake, and some bottles of Guinness for the men. My cousins, brother and sister, and I got homemade lemon juice, made from fresh lemons. I thought how lucky we all were to be in this environment and how most of our school friends would never have the opportunity to savour all of this.
During the drawing in of the hay I went out with everybody and helped. They gave me a two-prong fork and I gathered loose hay and built it into a mini haycock. I was also allowed to stand on the float and spread the hay as it was thrown up onto it. The float is a flat cart without sides. Gradually, the hay built up and as it rose I got higher and higher on it. Usually, I had a two-prong fork to distribute the hay evenly across the float. Once, when I was just about to finish levelling the hay on the float, Dolly, who was hitched to the front, moved and caused me to tumble off the top of the haystack. As I fell to the ground, I saw the twin spikes of the fork come towards my side and for a split second it scared the life out of me. Fortunately, it went under my arm and slipped sideways away from me. There was general pandemonium and when there was hay on the float I was never allowed up on it again.
Usually, during the saving of the hay, all the farmers helped each other in rotation. Machinery was shared and manual labour freely exchanged. When the men returned to the house for dinner it was something to behold. A big, scrubbed, wooden table was piled high with lovely floury potatoes, home-made country butter, salted pork, homemade black and white pudding, sausages, Guinness, tea and more.
The threshing was a great day and the chugging of the threshing machine was music to the ears. The farmers forked the sheaves into the machine and the grains were separated from the sheaves. Chaff flew all over the place, particularly on a windy day, and it covered hair, clothes and equipment. The farmers used ‘sugans’ around the legs of their pants to stop the rats from seeking refuge where they should not. The ‘sugan’ is a rope made from straw and we all tried to learn the art of making this rope.
One day, my grandfather and my uncle Paddy, said they were going up to another part of the farm and asked me if I wanted to come along. I jumped at the chance. They hitched Jacko up and I was put sitting in the middle of the open cart, directly behind the horse, whilst grandfather was on one side, with uncle Paddy on the other. They kept smiling and talking as we went along the road. Next minute, I saw Jacko’s tail go up and a loud explosion of stinking gas hit me in the face. Before I could do anything there followed a heap of hot manure, which landed in lumps on my lap. Too late I found out I had been set up. They laughed all that day, and the next. All the family did likewise as they were regaled with the story after I arrived back covered in horse manure. This was now my second baptism of dung and manure.
Usually, when I rode Jacko to the haggard he just walked quietly. But, one day, as I was on my way there something startled the horse and he bolted. I only had a muzzle rope on him, so this did not give great control. As he galloped, I got frightened and actually threw myself off his back into the ditch. Fortunately, I was unhurt, but I can still see Jacko’s back hooves fly past my head. I mounted him again after that and all was well.
The thing I remember most vividly during my holidays in Kanturk was the slaughter of pigs on the farm. The cart was brought into the yard, near the back door of the house. The knives were sharpened, and water was boiled by the gallon. Broken glass was collected and a big bowl was put near the cart. Ropes were on hand, and everybody wore hessian sackcloth as aprons. The pig had been fattened, and corralled, and was brought snorting, squealing, and struggling to the cart. My grandfather and uncle Paddy then got the pig up on to the cart, turned him on his back, and tied one hind leg to the back corner of the cart. The front two legs were tied to the front corners of the cart. The pig was now secured, with his head forward off the cart, which was tipping towards the ground. The sharpened knife was drawn down the pig’s throat towards the mouth. This initial cut was only to cut the skin and mark where the full incision would go. The squeals were unbelievable and the poor pig was terrified. Next, the knife was thrust deep into the pig’s throat and bought towards the mouth. As the jugular vein was severed, blood gushed out and into a bowl, brought to collect the blood, which would later be used to make black pudding. When the pig finally ceased to struggle, and his free leg stopped kicking, the blood stopped flowing. The pig was now ready to be shaved. My aunts got the broken glass pieces and with boiling water shaved all the bristles off the carcass. The entrails were removed and all edible parts saved. The pig was now cut into various pieces, cleaned, and salted in barrels. All utensils, and the cart, were then cleaned and normality returned. There were some great days, and some sad days, but on the whole I would not change anything. Those holidays were the best I can remember.
CHAPTER FIVE
Once every five years or so, the tarring of the roads took place. First of all tar barrels were placed at allocated spots on the road. A horse drawn tarring machine then came along the road and with the aid of a block and tackle the tar barrel was hoisted over a horizontal cylindrical type oven. When the temperature melted the tar sufficiently, it was manually sprayed over the road with a hose and spray unit. The men who used the equipment were heavily protected and covered in clothes and hessian bags were wrapped around their boots and up to their knees. The smell of hot tar was almost like a drug. I followed the tarring all the way up the road. Whilst the tar was still molten another crew came behind with gravel which they spread across the molten-tarred road, using hand shovels. It took days for the road to settle and I carried tar on my shoes all over the house. My hands usually got a fair share of tar as well. The way I got rid of the tar was to rub butter on it and eventually this got rid of the marks. If petrol or paraffin was available I used this. The tar melted every hot summer’s day and I left the imprints of my shoes on it. More butter! It was easier to get than petrol.
Rubbish was collected in galvanized bins which had lids. The dustmen,-as we called the guys who collected the bins, used to hoist the bins on their shoulders and tip them into an open lorry. The bins made an awful racket as they were thrown back onto the kerb.
Lorries were a relatively new introduction then. Barry’s Lorries delivered Stout to Mackey’s and Jarmie’s pubs on Harbour Row. Barry’s were located at East Beach. The first lorries had solid rubber tyres. I used to stay and watch the wooden barrels being rolled into the pubs. When I sneaked a look into Mackey’s pub, next door to us, there was sawdust on the floor and spittoons scattered for men to spit into. This was a common, horrible, unhygienic practice which occurred in all bars. There was very little light and the smell of sweat and stout was overpowering. Added to this was cigarette and pipe smoke, and this disgusted me at the time.
Women frequented the snug, which was a special little segregated, totally-enclosed, part of the pub. The women sneaked in for their half pint of Guinness or a tot of sherry or whiskey. Most, if not all, of the pubs were like this. One bright spot was that Mr. Mackey loved
canaries, and had three cages with these lovely birds singing in the pub. Mr. Mackey usually asked me to collect grounsel for his canaries. I had no trouble finding this little weed locally and apparently the birds loved it.
Like all ‘street kids’ we had our own headquarters, or meeting place. It was Kidney’s strand, better known to us as ‘Port Sugar.’ We named the strand ‘Port Sugar,’ because from a broken sewer pipe close by raw sewage was discharged and used to float on the water, where we swam. The term ‘Sugar’ was a local colloquialism for effluent. The gate to the strand is opposite the Preaching House steps. I use the term ‘street kids’ loosely, as we were really only friends who stuck together and played on the streets All the children, boys and girls, would swim together when the tide came in under the Baths’ Bridge, into the strand. Suddenly, excrement appeared from the strand and from the adjacent broken sewage pipe. We thought nothing of pushing the brown lumps to one side and I still wonder how we never swallowed any of these foreign bodies.
Sewage was not the only hazard to be found here. Drowned cats and dogs and rats were frequently seen on the strand. Fido, a Jack Russell terrier and great ratter, once chased a rat that went into a hole in the wall on the strand. The rat’s tail was just visible and Fido was going mad trying to grab it. Eventually, he got the rat and killed it, while we watched unafraid. The remains were left on the strand to rot. Nothing fazed any of us. We merrily carried on enjoying ourselves. I reckon all that exposure to dangerous and unhygienic materials actually helped to create good immune systems in us children; we never seemed to get anything worse than a cold.
Playing down at the strand was a favourite pastime. We used to race ‘yachts’ against each other and could spend hours whiling away the time down in this haven. To make ‘yachts’ we got bottle corks, a match-stick for a mast, a piece of paper as a sail, and a piece of slate, or glass as a keel. This was a great source of fun watching the little ‘yachts’ sailing out under the bridge arch, into the Harbour, to go where the breeze took them.