In 1932, there was a report from the Carrigan Commission on ‘Juvenile Sex Crimes’. It was the same Carrigan report that decided the age of consent and banned the use of contraception in Ireland. This is what their report had to say about the dance halls:
In the course of the Inquiry no form of abuse was blamed more persistently for pernicious consequences than the unlicensed dances held all over the country in unsuitable buildings and surroundings, for the profit of persons who are liable to no control or supervision by any authority. The scandals that are the outcome of such a situation are notorious. They have been denounced in pastorals, exposed in the Press, and condemned by clergy, judges and justices, without avail. Before us the Commissioner, speaking for the Civic Guard, said these dance gatherings in many districts were turned into ‘orgies of dissipation, which in the present state of legislation the police are powerless to prevent.’ In short, there is no effective legislation to put down this nuisance.
At the time, there was a parish priest called Bernard McGuire. Now, Father McGuire had been a lecturer in the ecclesiastical college in Salamanca, Spain. After many years in Spain, he was given the opportunity to be the parish priest in Inniskeen. Some saw this as a promotion from lecturing in sunny Spain, but more saw it as a demotion. He was parish priest in Inniskeen from 1916 to 1948. He was a staunch republican and a very strong-willed man.
He was very much against all of the dance hall malarkey and was furious when Mullagh Hall was built and financed in 1939 by a group of local men who had decided to take it upon themselves to create such a venue. This was done because the previous year it had been stated that if the hall was built using state funds, it would be under the sole control of the clergy and the lads were having none of it.
The men involved were Jemmy Kirk and John Lennon of Mucker (these men decided to build the hall as a private venture), Jemmy Huighie Meagan (who put up the land), Packie Duffy (who put up the money) and Tom Ruddy (who built it).
Well now, Father Bernard McGuire was going mad about this altogether and cursed the men who were building the hall. He swore that ‘he would put horns on their heads!’
Now, a local character called Red Pat Jennings, ‘The Pig Killer’ (whom Kavanagh mentioned attending a wake with in his book The Green Fool), was known to have a gift for foreseeing a death before it happened. He said he could tell to the minute when the dying would become the dead. He travelled around the place castrating and dehorning animals. When he heard that the priest was going to put horns on the boys, he called by one day and said, ‘Build away boys, I’ll skull yez for nathin’.’
So the lads built away and Mullagh Hall was officially opened on New Year’s Eve, 1940, with a dance!
Sadly the old hall has been closed for many years now and has lost its sparkle, but when I heard its story, like Kavanagh’s poetry, its memory and magnitude were brought to life again.
As we headed back to the village of Inniskeen, I was pointed to the house of the local mill owner, where Patrick Pearse (commander-in-chief of the 1916 Easter Rising) had stayed one night in 1915 on his way to Carrickmacross.
Back in the centre of the village, we found ourselves outside Dan McNello’s Bar. The red painted exterior and stone walls reminded me of Billy Brennan’s barn. This was probably the place where Kavanagh got most of his courage to attend the dances at the barn.
Amazingly enough, Kavanagh was never barred from McNello’s bar and he frequented it often during his lifetime when he was back in Inniskeen. I went inside and was given a warm welcome. I asked if I could take a look around. There was no issue with this and the artworks and photographs that captured some of the moments from the great poet’s life were pointed out to me.
As I mentioned earlier that Kavanagh had never been barred from the pub, but unsurprisingly there were a couple of barmen that he did not get on with. There was one particular man – we won’t mention his name – who was understood to be one of the best barmen in the country. Now, this man was not a great fan of Kavanagh and the feeling was mutual. Kavanagh was notorious for not having the money at hand for drink and some of the publicans would let him build up a tab, but this man would not – ‘no money, no drink’ was his policy.
Well, one day a local man named Ted McArdle and his son Peter were in the pub having a drink with Kavanagh. Ted McArdle was paying for the drink, as he usually did, for Kavanagh rarely had any money.
Ted and Kavanagh had a close friendship and Ted would have taken care of Kavanagh by getting him about and helping him out with a few pound every once in a while, and they enjoyed a drink together.
Well, there they were, having a drink, when who comes in. Only the new priest Father McCabe, looking to have a word with Kavanagh. So the priest asks Kavanagh what he would like to drink and he replies, ‘I would like a gentleman’s drink.’ Now, for anyone who does not know what that is, it is a pint of porter (usually Guinness) and a full whiskey or a double (as opposed to a half or single). The barman in question had not heard of this before and could not serve him what he had asked for, so Kavanagh took the opportunity to have a go at him and point out how little he knew of his trade – he lambasted him something shocking. After that, he would never speak of Kavanagh again and those who knew him never asked.
It was only after Kavanagh died in 1967 that the local people of Inniskeen really realised the impact he’d had on the world.
Finally, I spoke to a local man from Inniskeen called Patsy Boylan, an earthy, straight-talking Monaghan man, who has a fairy field and fairy fort on his land.
He remembered Kavanagh as an odd sort of a man, who stuck out in the local community, wandering about the place talking to himself and wearing open-toed sandals with no socks. He said that Kavanagh was seen very much in the same light as another local eccentric called Packie Duffy, who was a communist and drove an Allgaier tractor, which was very unusual in Ireland.
Duffy would listen to Radio Moscow and never had any interest in the Church and never went to Mass, but he would always go to funerals.
I was to find out that this was the same Packie Duffy who put up the money for the building of Mullagh Hall.
He and Patsy Boylan had been to Kavanagh’s funeral in the village and Patsy has never seen anything like it since. He said there were hundreds of people at it, from all over the country and further afield. He explained that many of the people who did not think too much of Kavanagh in Inniskeen and saw him just as a drunk with a bad attitude changed their tune after his funeral. They realised there was a lot more to him than met the eye.
I was also told that after he died, some of the locals who would have nothing to do with Kavanagh when he was alive had converted to adoring fans, for they wanted to be associated with his celebrity.
But there was definitely a softer and gentler side to Kavanagh and he certainly was ahead of his time in many ways. I was told that shortly before he died, Kavanagh was performing a reading from his work at the Poetry Centennial ’67 in the Barbican, London, in the summer of 1967.
It was ‘the summer of love’ and Scott McKenzie was telling everyone to wear flowers in their hair if they were planning on going to San Francisco. In the midst of all this, auld Paddy Kavanagh was reciting his poetry to a young audience of hippies in London. His health was not great at all and he faltered at one point in his recital. He was embarrassed and thought that maybe he could not go on. Then out of the audience came some of these young hippies who stood on the stage beside him and threw flower petals at him. This gesture of kindness and compassion gave him the strength to go on and finish his piece. Kavanagh was so touched by what they had done for him that he composed these words celebrating the new and colourful world that was emerging around him:
But since the arrival of
The Beatles and Stones
Anything goes
And I am glad
That Freedom is mad
Dancing with pot
Hurray! Hurray!
I say
For
this beautiful day …
Extempore at Poetry Centennial ’67
London, 14 July 1967
Patrick Kavanagh died on 30 November 1967, leaving behind him a collection of timeless and powerful works that will live on forever.
2
CASTLE LESLIE
While travelling around Co. Monaghan and meeting various people collecting folklore and stories, I was always asked if I had visited Castle Leslie in Glaslough.
I had known of its existence but I knew very little about it, so I took it upon myself to make contact with the people there and they very kindly invited me over to the castle, where I was shown archival material and predominantly the work of Sir John Randolph Leslie, 3rd Baronet (24 September 1885–14 August 1971), better known as Shane Leslie.
The baronet was one of Ireland’s great collectors of ghost stories and a man whose diligent and in-depth research into strange phenomena has given his writing real value. He also wrote poetry and prose and, while he was at Cambridge University, changed his religion to Roman Catholicism and was a great supporter of Irish Home Rule and the Gaelic Revival. It was at this time also that he changed his name to ‘Shane’, an anglicised Irish version of his own name.
I was delighted to be given the go-ahead to reproduce some of Shane Leslie’s work by his grandson Mr Tarka King, the current holder of Shane’s copyright.
So it is with great pleasure that I share with you some of the work of this fascinating and extraordinary man, along with some chilling ghost stories from the magnificent Castle Leslie.
When myself and my partner Paula Flynn went to Castle Leslie, we met briefly with Sammy Leslie, Shane Leslie’s granddaughter. After these introductions, we were shown around the castle by Yvonne. It is a magnificent building, with a vast estate, and it was a real privilege to be shown around its luxurious interior. We felt like we were on the set of an old film and the grand Victorian Gothic design of the old house had me looking out for Vincent Price, Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee, who might well have been lurking in the shadows.
Indeed, Castle Leslie is as atmospheric as it is impressive. The walls are bedecked with original artworks (I noticed a striking portrait of Shane Leslie by R.G. Eves painted in 1932) and each room has its own character and unique style. It was like we were being taken on a journey through time, design and culture.
As we were shown around the house, a room was pointed out, which was considered to be haunted. This room belonged to Norman Leslie, Shane’s brother who died during the First World War. The bed in the room belonged to Shane’s Aunt Clara (Mrs Morton Frewen). It originally came from a house in East Sussex called Brede Place, near the town of Battle, where the Battle of Hastings took place in 1066. The house was built in 1350 by one of Edward III’s knights and it was rented in 1899 to the writer Stephen Crane. Aunt Clara had the house restored and when Shane’s two sons Jack and Desmond, along with their sister Anita, were children, they used to stay at the house, but they were absolutely terrified of the place.
After old Aunt Clara died, the bed was moved to Castle Leslie and whatever phantom possessed the bed seemed to come with it. Some people who slept in the bed claimed that the bed levitated and other folk claimed that when they lay on the bed they felt something pressing down upon them. Others said that the bedroom door opened and banged shut all through the night. That said, the grandson of Guglielmo Marconi, the inventor of the wireless, stayed there and claimed that he never had such a peaceful night’s sleep.
Now, there is a possibility that the reason for the bed’s strange phenomena is the fact that its owner, Sir Goddard Oxenbridge (c. 1478–10 Feb. 1531), had a very dark secret. He was a well-respected member of society at the time and was chosen to be Sheriff of Surrey and Sussex three times. On 23 June 1509, to honour the coronation of Henry VIII and Katherine of Aragon, he was knighted. So, all in all, he seemed like a pretty upstanding chap. But he became known to the locals as ‘The Brede Giant’ or ‘The Ogre of Oxenbridge’ for he was a very large and well-built man with an imposing stature. Rumours about him were created by the country folk, which was a common practice at the time, when the peasantry were fearful of the gentry. It was said that he could not be harmed by metal weapons and that only wooden ones could kill him. It was also said that he ate a child every night for his supper and this was supported by the fact that several children had disappeared in the area at the time.
Well, the local children had had enough of old Oxenbridge, so they lured him to a bridge called Groaning Bridge at Stubb’s Lane, where they got him drunk and then proceeded to saw his body in two with a wooden saw. Some people say that these stories were created by smugglers who used Brede Place to hide their stash and were known to create horror stories to scare folk away from their hiding places.
What I find fascinating about this story is its similarity to the story of ‘Bluebeard’, a 1697 fairy tale written by the great French storyteller Charles Perrault (author of ‘Cinderella’). That story is based on Gilles de Rais (c. September 1405–26 October 1440). Gilles de Rais was Marshal of France and in 1429 he fought alongside Saint Joan of Arc. This was another guy with a very respectable-looking CV. But it also came to light that he too was a child-killer, which was the least of his crimes for he was a true and terrible monster in every sense. At last, justice was served and he was executed by hanging and burning on Wednesday, 26 October 1440.
Shane Leslie wrote a poem entitled ‘Bluebeard’, which I have included here. It is a dark and damning poem and certainly captures the insidious nature of its title character. I wonder if the connection with ‘Brede Place’, the haunted bed and Sir Goddard Oxenbridge inspired the menacing poem.
Sir Jack Leslie claimed to hear screams and groans coming from the room where the bed was kept and one night he saw a figure go up the stairs near the room. He assumed that this person was going to bed as people stayed at Castle Leslie on a regular basis. Sir Jack bid the stranger goodnight but they proceeded to go up the stairs to the attic, where all the old furniture was stored, and the figure simply disappeared.
Now, this room was, and still is, known as Norman’s room. Norman was Shane Leslie’s younger brother who was killed in October 1914, whilst charging a German machine gun armed with only a sword, which had been presented to him by HRH Prince Arthur, Duke of Connaught. The prince was a great friend of the family and visited the Castle Leslie estate on a regular basis in the early 1900s.
Norman appeared on the terrace of Castle Leslie a week before his death. The family were delighted that he had returned home safely from the terrible war. It was also reported that Norman had been seen walking around Glaslough, enjoying his favourite places of interest.
But things took a turn when he failed to show up at the castle for evening dinner and there was great concern as to his whereabouts. Not long after this, a telegram arrived, reporting his death at the Battle of Armentières. Norman’s sword was lost during the battle until a Belgian farmer discovered it in the 1930s. It was traced back to its original owner and brought back to Glaslough. The sword is still used on ceremonial occasions at Castle Leslie.
After we heard these stories of the castle, we were taken to the archive, which was filled with old documents and books. It was here that I was introduced to the poetry of Shane Leslie. I was fascinated by the various subjects that he covered in his writing, from ghost stories to politics. There were five of his poems that I chose to reproduce in the book. They capture Shane Leslie’s love of Monaghan and its folklore. He was fascinated by the fairy folk – or the Good Folk, as they are often referred to – and it is a subject that is very close to my own heart. I was both delighted and overwhelmed with all the fairy stories that I collected from Monaghan and have included in this book. These poems by Shane Leslie are wonderful and capture the imagination, taking you to fairyland, the dark world of Bluebeard and Co. Monaghan.
So, without further ado, I present to you: ‘Ballad of County Monaghan’, ‘Monaghan’, ‘Fairy Ballad’, ‘The Fai
ries of Emy’ and ‘Bluebeard’ by Shane Leslie.
Ballad of County Monaghan
In Summer climes or Winter Times
Where’er I roam this lonesome world
Where’er my tent may be unfurled
I hist me murmur in a simple lay –
Oh give me Monaghan on a soft wet day!
Mid Arctic Gales and frozen Whales
When all the Ocean freezeth foam,
I curse the day I turned to roam
And could cry out loud into the spitting spray –
Just give me Monaghan on a soft wet day!
Mid torrid sands in Afric’s lands
Remembering bogs of pliant green
And hedges thick with sapling treen
I hear my sinking heart turn round and say –
Oh give me Monaghan on a soft wet day!
When I have passed this world at last
And find that I am drawing nigh
A place that feels a little dry
Maybe that I will turn to God and pray –
Just give me Monaghan on a soft wet day!
Monaghan
MONAGHAN, mother of a thousand
Little moulded hills,
Set about with little rivers
Chained to little mills.
Rich and many-pastured Monaghan,
Mild thy meadows lie,
Melting to the distant mountains
On the mirrored sky.
Lovely, lowly-lying Monaghan
Oh thy little lakes
Float and tremble lordy lilies
Hoed by fairies’ rakes.
Silvered o’er with sunshine, or by
Night and shimmering fog,
Where thy sloping cornland meets
Beauteous fields of bog.
Humbly hid with heath and lichen
Waits thy turf of old,
Monaghan Folk Tales Page 3