Beyond The Sea

by Jack Lynch

  The home was run by two middle aged fellows from the area. One was known as Lofty. Unsurprisingly, he was very tall and thin, and had a high-pitched voice. The other was short and his name was Bertie. He too had a squeaky voice. Anthony, my brother, used to go in there with his mates and they used to go up to Lofty and ask, “How much are the cakes up there, Lofty?” They would point to the highest shelf, whilst keeping an eye on the Chester Cakes on the lower shelf. Lofty would turn away and strain to see the price and as he did so the boys would fill their pockets with the cakes. When Lofty turned back they would shake their heads and say the cakes were too dear and walk outside to devour their ill gotten goods.

  One evening, I was with a crowd of lads when we went into the home to see what kind of mischief we could get up to. As we entered the home, we passed the mains electrical fuse box, which was at arm height. We got a few Chester cakes and on the way out I put my hand up and unscrewed a fuse. It was plain luck that the fuse I undid was the one for the main hall and shop. Darkness immediately descended, amid the clatter of knives and forks on plates, accompanied by raised voices. We got out as fast as we could and went across the road to watch the developments unfold. People started to come out and little flickers of light appeared inside the building as candles were lit. We decided to go up to my house and come back later. When we got there daddy met us at the door and said, “Good, you’re back. Get your friends to come in too.” I didn’t smell a rat until I saw all my sisters, and mammy, smiling as we came in. In the kitchen all the chairs were spread around in a semi circle and rosary beads and prayer books were laid out on each one. Suddenly, it dawned on me. It was the First Friday and we were due for the Holy Hour in the house. There was no way I could get away now to go back and replace the fuse in the soldiers’ home. I felt really terrible. The holy hour did me no good at all. All I could think of for the entire hour was the Soldiers’ Home, in darkness and all the inhabitants wondering what had happened. Had they seen me loosen the fuse, and would the guards be calling here in the middle of the holy hour to take me away? I couldn’t relax for a second. Rosary, after Rosary passed, Litany after Litany, Prayers for the dead. Prayers for the living, prayers for the missions, prayers for this and prayers for that, I thought the hour would never end. Mammy and the girls were giggling to themselves and daddy kept telling them to be quiet.

  After what felt like hours, we got up off our knees and headed straight back to the home. We decided to disguise ourselves before entering just in case. Dan and I changed jackets and so did some of the others. Idiots! It did not enter our tiny minds that we were well known in the home and that even if we had worn skirts and blouses we would be instantly recognisable! Anyway, we went in and found Lofty and his mate working away in the shop by candlelight. Customers had candles on the tables and all seemed fine. I asked Lofty what the problem was and naturally he explained that they lights were gone they were waiting for the ESB. It had been over an hour since they had asked for assistance, he told me. I volunteered to have a look at the fuse box for him and he was very grateful. All the boys gathered round me to cover what I was doing and I took a few minutes before I reset the fuse to avoid suspicion. The lights came on again and there was great applause from all in the hall, as candles were extinguished. Lofty gave Chester cakes to all of us in thanks. We accepted with feigned reluctance and retreated to the sea front to enjoy our repast. Perhaps the Holy Hour did us some good after all…

  By now it was coming up to Christmas and carol singing was in full swing in the town. We decided to do it for the first time ourselves. Slightly embarrassed, we decided to go outside town and we headed for Monkstown, the next village across the river. We were doing fine singing and making a few pence until we came to one house. We had just started our rendition of ‘Holy Night’ and a very cross man came to the door and told us to go, as our shouting was waking the baby. He gave us a penny and we carried on singing from door to door… I cannot remember how much we got but we were delighted with ourselves. One of the carols we sang was;

  It took us some time to realise the third line was not, “See the tender land at the pier.” We claimed we were singing for a charity and felt obliged to give some of the money to that charity, after we had deducted our expenses of course!

  After the Government took over the Ports in 1939 one of the naval ships, the Muircu - which translated means Hound of the Sea - flying the Tricolour, having previously flown the British flag when she was then known as Helga. She had shelled the Four Courts in Dublin during the civil war. The Muircu and the Fort Ranock were taken over by the Marine Service and were stationed in Haulbowline. The Fort Ranock was used as a minelayer during the war, and later for fisheries patrols, whilst the “Muircu” was used for both coastal and fisheries patrol. Both flew the Tricolour and were originally fishing vessels that were converted to naval support. The Marine Service also used the salvage ship, s.s Shark for mine clearing. Later these three ships formed part of the new Naval Service and were the forerunners of purpose built vessels for the Naval Service. During the war Cobh residents got used to the sights and sounds of the Torpedo Boats roaring in and out of the harbour. They had been purchased from Britain. Originally there were six, named M1 to M6, but these dwindled as, one after another, they were cannibalised for spare parts to keep the others in operation. The Flower class corvettes Macha, Maeve, and Cliona followed and were based in Haulbowline which is still the main Irish Naval Base. Members of the Slua Mhuire trained on these boats - the Slua Mhuire was the naval equivalent of the FCA.

  Visitors and emigrants no longer visited the town now that war had well and truly broken out and we missed all the excitement and buzz. The salvage ship, Shark, continued to come into harbour with salvaged parts from the liner s.s Celtic hanging from a lifting crane at her bow. The Celtic was not the only ship to founder off the mouth of the harbour. This was in December 1928, but salvage work continued for many years. Some ships, which arrived in the harbour during the Emergency, had antimagnetic strips around their hulls, to counter the threat of the magnetic mines in the sea which would be attracted to the steel hull of the ships. Irish ships had the tri-colour blazoned across both sides of the ships’ hulls to clearly identify them as neutral during the war. All of these ships were named after Trees; Fir, Larch, Beech, Popular, Willow, Oak, Rose, Cedar etc. Some had been impounded and renamed due to wartime regulations about overstaying in a neutral port whilst their country was involved in the war. At least one was found abandoned in the high seas, was towed to Cobh, refitted and renamed.

  During the Emergency, the engineering corps prepared all the quays and piers for demolition in case the need arose to protect our borders and entry points. I watched them as they bored and drilled holes at regular intervals along the length of the quays. The holes were then covered with large concrete slabs that had metal rings for easy removal, when necessary. If, and when required, explosives could be placed in these holes to blow up the quays.

  The Eighth Cycle Corps were a regular sight in the town and they were stationed up East Hill, at the Battery barracks. These were mainly young kids, who joined the army during the Emergency. We called them the Eighth Army. The locals felt that these young lads were harshly treated.

  May Sunday, the first Sunday in May, was a day we all looked forward to with great anticipation. From the first time we heard of it we never missed a year without this being one of our prime days out. May Sunday was a festive day out in Glenbower Woods, Killeagh, about fifteen miles from Cobh. On this day, every year, visitors came from all over the city and county, and assembled for picnics. There were various groups drinking, singing, and looking for dates with the opposite sex. The latter was our chief motivation.

  Our first trip there was on my friend Walter Barry’s sidecar. There was Dan Hunt, Mickey Hunt, myself and four others, including Paddy Barry, who was in charge of the nag. When I say nag, I’m being kind. This horse was well past his day for glue making. The poor horse was close to being issued wi
th an old age pension. Anyway, early on the Sunday we set off for Glenbower and passed through Belvelly, Carrigtowhill, Midleton, and into Killeagh. By the time we reached the entrance to Glenbower woods the horse was dragging and sorely in need of a rest. We were worried about what would he be like on the way back, having to climb Ballard Hill and the other smaller inclines on the route home. Our throats were hoarse from singing:

  It was our first trip there and we were not disappointed. We had a great day but were outclassed by the Cork lads, who seemed to have a better technique at pulling the girls. Also, they had transport to offer the girls, such as bicycles with crossbars, or spare capacity in charabancs. Our only enticement for the girls was a half dead nag and no spare seating. We vowed that the next time would be different and we would come by bicycle.

  When it came time to go Paddy hitched the rested nag up and we climbed aboard. When we started on the way back it was late evening and everything was great until we got to Midleton and found that Paddy Barry had no light for the sidecar and night had closed in. We were worried about the guards so Paddy made the horse gallop through the town really quickly to avoid being caught without a light. This was a big mistake. The poor horse was shattered and once outside the town it couldn’t go on. We had to walk and push the sidecar up every hill back to Cobh. Like the horse too, we were all knackered and this reinforced our promise to take bikes the next time.

  Year after year, the bikes came out and the numbers joining us grew on our big excursion. We had no luck with getting girls to ride on the crossbars though. One trip, when we were returning via Fota we came to The Wolf Lodge, which was rumoured to be haunted. Apparently the sculptor who carved the Wolves on the gates allegedly committed suicide and his ghost haunts the place since. Supposedly, the reason for his suicide was that he had forgotten to sculpture the tongues into the Wolves - his error shamed him so much that he took his life.

  It was night-time, nearly midnight, pitch black and there were no lights on the roads or on the bikes as we approached the gates of the lodge. Dan Hunt, Mickey and I were in the lead, with my brother Anthony, Chris Walsh, Mike Walsh, Jimmy Donovan and Denis Ellis some bit behind us. Fear was in the air and as Dan and I went past the gates of the lodge we shouted, “GHOST, GHOST,” and we peddled as fast as we could. Behind us we heard screams and suddenly there was an almighty bang, as unlit bikes crashed into each other and panic reigned in the tangled mess. Dan and I went back to see what was happening and could not believe our eyes. One lad was on his knees in the middle of the road reciting the Hail Mary and promising he would always be good from now on. That was one big fib! The others too were scared and so were we but we could not let them know that at the time. Eventually, bunched together, we navigated the road, past the lodge and no more mishaps. We laughed a lot about this as years went by.

  The horse drawn charabancs that assembled in the woods were usually full of ‘Shawlees’- Ladies from the Coal Quay - from the city and they had their stocks of crubeens, also known as pigs’ trotters for sale. Bread, spuds and drink could be found everywhere. The smell of crubeens and stout was strong. Children ran around screaming and having a ball. It was usually glorious weather and this particular day was no exception. To top it all off we could not believe our eyes when we saw all the lovely girls going around in groups, like ourselves, on the lookout for dates.

  On one visit, Dan and I were doing our rounds in the woods when we spotted two lovely girls walking together. One was blonde and the other was auburn haired. We immediately tagged on to them and got chatting and we both naturally decided which one we fancied, without even discussing the possibility that they would not fancy us in return. The blonde was my choice and her name was Theresa Mannix. I cannot say why I should have chosen her but we got on very well and promised to meet in Cork the following week. Dan came along and met up with her friend. We went to the pictures and had a great time and Theresa came down to Cobh with her friend the following Sunday. I got a photo of her when she was here and we fixed a date for the following Saturday in Cork.

  During the following week my Aunty Lina came into our house and the photo of Theresa was on the kitchen table. Mammy had seen the photo but had not made any comments about Theresa.

  Aunty Lina asked; “Where did you get that photo of Theresa Mannix?”

  “Do you know her?” I asked.

  “Of course I do, she’s your third cousin.” Aunty Lina replied.

  I was dumbfounded. Now my romance was over. My third cousin! Surely I could not keep going out with her now? I told Theresa what happened and said I could not go out with her again. Now I know there was no reason why I should not have kept contact but for some reason then I thought it was terrible to go out with your third cousin! Much to my regret I never again saw Theresa. Even my mother did not have inkling about this cousin. Later, when I started tracing the Family Tree I tried to locate her family, without definite success. I did find out in the 1901 census that my mother was at the house of Jeremiah Mannix, near Kanturk when she was 7 years old. Jeremiah’s wife was O’Regan.

  This untimely end to my first fledgling relationship did not end our trips to Glenbower thankfully. On one occasion we cycled on to Garryvoe strand, which was not too far away, for a picnic. We decided to light a fire and fry some sausages. We located a wall about three feet high on one side and about five feet on the far side. Since a number of people were sitting behind the wall facing the sea, we decided to build the fire on the other sheltered side of the wall. We collected paper and kindling and Dan and I lit the fire. It began fine but gradually, as we poked at it, a large cloud of black smoke hit us between the eyes. Choking, coughing, and with eyes burning we jumped up for fresh air. It could only happen to us. There on view, in front of our faces, not more than one foot away at the other side of the wall, was a large bare female bottom. Dan and I saw it at the same time and were shocked to say the least! Peals of laughter came from the nearby people who witnessed this poor unfortunate woman trying to pull up her bathing suit, while we had her dead in sight. Needless to say we beat a hasty retreat. Another time we were leaving Glenbower with two Cork girls that we picked up when my bicycle chain broke. We couldn’t find a piece of rope for one to tow the other but the girls came to the rescue. Both had coats with belts and they offered us the belts which we gratefully received. We tied both belts together, and each end to each bike and took turns cycling and towing. All the way home we were praising these generous friendly girls and swore we would never forget them, and their kindness. I still remember their generosity, and the colours of their coats, but have not the foggiest idea of their names.

  Walking up and down Patrick Street in Cork, affectionately known as Panna, was the well-known courting ritual of my day. Panna was a great place back then. There were some lovely girls who strutted their stuff along the street that I remember. We always got a date. Usually, we went to the Arcadia dance hall and it was here that I first learned to dance. I remember one night when Anthony asked a girl to dance and got the following reply: “Ask me friend, I’m sweating boy.” He told me he asked another girl, “If I asked you to dance with me would you?” and when she replied “No” he gleefully answered; “Well I didn’t ask you, did I?”

  Dan and I used to watch the talent on the floor before we made our move for particular girls that we had our eye on. Sometimes we were lucky and other times we left not having kissed a girl at all. Usually, when we hit the jackpot we walked the girl home and most likely they lived in Blackpool or up Military Hill which was wonderful as it took a fairly long time to get to their houses, with long stops along the way. It was all innocent fun and a kiss was a great result.

  With no dance scheduled on one of our usual week evening strolls Dan and I were at the Deepwater Quay watching Joe Murphy our friend, steering his motor launch filled with workmen in towards the Deepwater Quay steps. This was unusual because the launch usually left from and returned to the Camber. As we watched we heard shouting from the launch and saw th
at the launch was getting lower and lower in the water. We could tell, then, that something was wrong and the launch was leaking water and starting to sink. There were quite a number of people around and we all rushed to help. When the launch was almost six feet from the steps it disappeared completely into about ten feet of water. Fortunately, someone had grabbed a rope and all the workmen got to the steps safely, even if wringing wet. The funniest part of all was that Joe Murphy was Skipper of the boat, but was not the last man to leave the sinking ship. As soon as he got the chance, Joe was ashore. When the boat was submerged all we could see was the tip of its mast above the water. Serious and all as it was, we could only laugh and take the Mickey out of Joe for his swift desertion.

  Living by the coast it was a common enough occurrence to witness, or be part of the odd sea-scrape. One that particularly stands out in my mind is a sea escape that happened to my brother Anthony, his friend Mike Walsh and some others. They had gone out in a motor launch to Rocky Island and pulled in to look around. One of the boys, Chris, picked up a large piece of wood and threw it into the boat, to take home for firewood. Unfortunately, it went right through the boat, creating a large hole. The boys tried carrying out repairs with no success and with night approaching nobody liked the idea of cohabitating on the island along with its furry inhabitants, large rats, which were living and breeding there. They had been told that these rats were a cross between rats and rabbits, some of the rats were supposed to be endowed with long furry tails, and this terrified the boys. Their bravado waivered and eventually they were frightened enough to realise they were going to have to find some way to attract attention.