A Tenants Tale E-Book

Terence Casey

• Herausgeber: Dolman Scott Publishing
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 699

Beschreibung

The Tenant's Tale is a fascinating chronicle of life in rural Ireland during the 19th Century. This narrative spans virtually the whole of the nineteenth century, a century that has been the most traumatic in Ireland's long and troubled history.

Leseprobe

The Tenant’s Tale

A Chronicle of life in rural Ireland during the 19th Century

Terence Casey

First published in 2013 byDolman Scott Ltd

The Tenant’s Tale© 2013 byTerence Casey

Cover design byTerence Casey

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, optical, or otherwise except with written permission of the publisher. Except for review purposes only.

ISBN 978-1-909204-18-8

Dolman Scott Ltdwww.dolmanscott.com

This book is dedicated to my wife Margaret who was my inspiration

INTRODUCTION

In September eighteen ninety, I left my family home in Grafton Street in the fashionable part of Dublin and travelled by train to the rural town of Charleville, County Cork to take up the position as a trainee teacher at the local National School. As I had only recently passed my exams at college I was very apprehensive about this journey into the unknown. But on my arrival at Charleville station I was pleasantly surprised to be met by my future colleague another very young man named Joseph Connelly.

On the long walk into town I soon realised that I had a great deal in common with my new companion, as he also was from Dublin and like me was very keen on sporting pursuits. On reaching the town Joseph took me to my lodgings where he introduced me to the landlady Kitty Egan. Mrs Egan made me very welcome and after showing me to my room I was invited into her kitchen for a bite to eat. That afternoon I went with Joseph on a tour of the town and was also shown around the school.

The new term started on the following Monday and with Joseph’s help I quickly settled in. Fortunately the pupils that I taught both boys and girls were all very industrious and eager to learn which obviously made my task a great deal easier.

But after living in a large city I found the pace of life in Charleville very slow and wondered if I had made the right decision. Luckily my colleague Joseph realising that I was homesick encouraged me to join the local Gaelic Association club. At college I had excelled at both hurling and football so I soon became an integral part of a successful Charleville team. Although the playing of Gaelic sports was its main aim, cultural activities were also encouraged. Joseph, who spoke fluently in the Irish language worked tirelessly during the evenings teaching and encouraging others to learn their native tongue. As I settled into my new life I gradually became aware that the Charleville area was a hot bed of radical thinking with a long tradition of supporting the Nationalist cause dating back to Daniel O’Connell’s time.

As an ardent supporter of Home Rule, I quickly became actively involved in politics locally and was befriended by Jack Casey the editor of The Charleville Courier. Jack was always looking for ways to boost the circulation of his paper and when I suggested that I could interview some of the areas local Fenians and recount their stories, he jumped at the idea. Over the next few weeks he drew up a list of all the old Republicans that I should visit. Many of these men had been arrested and imprisoned after the attack on Kilmallock barrack during the abortive uprising in March eighteen sixty-seven. Most of them told me about the long sentences they had served and the appalling treatment that they had received at the hands of the authorities. Mr Casey was pleased with my articles as people all over County Cork were, it seemed, very interested in them. At his insistence the last person I interviewed was his cousin Patrick Casey of Springfort. At the time I thought that this was a strange request but in retrospect I now know why it was because Patrick’s memories of a bygone age were fascinating and needed to be told. At first I began by telling his story in a series of articles, but because this did not seem to do him justice I decided to write this book. This narrative spans virtually the whole of the nineteenth century, a century that has been the most traumatic in Ireland’s long and troubled history. Patrick witnessed first hand many of the tragedies that befell our Nation and somehow managed to survive the Famine. Also he was privileged to hear Daniel O’Connell speak and also meet and converse with Archbishop Croke of Cashel, the most charismatic clergyman of his age. Lastly and most importantly he met and was befriended by his famous cousin the founder of the Fenians, James Stephens. He was very fortunate because with Stephens help he obtained work during the famine years. He would later repay the debt by giving Stephens and his friend Michael Doheny sanctuary whilst they were on the run after the abortive rising in eighteen forty-eight.

As we will see Patrick had a very humble upbringing as his parents were extremely poor. But somehow his mother managed to pay for him to be educated, a luxury she herself had been denied. All through his life he remembered the sacrifices she had made on his behalf and her determination for him to better himself. Ultimately this was to lead to him and his brother Owen leaving Ireland to seek their fortune.

Their travels took them to England where after working as farm labourers the two brothers eventually became navvies working firstly on canal building and subsequently working on the world’s first passenger railroad that linked the two great cities of Liverpool and Manchester. This work although very arduous was extremely well paid and by both being frugal they managed to save sufficient funds to return home and get a tenancy on a small farm near Charleville. This was the opportunity Patrick and his brother had dreamed of and they immediately began to implement farming methods that they had witnessed on their travels. These changes would ultimately improve their yields in the preceding years. But unfortunately this brief interlude in Patrick’s life was shattered when his brother was falsely accused and transported.

This barbaric act by the authorities totally altered Patrick’s attitude and from that time onwards he realised that the corrupt administration that governed Ireland would stop at nothing in imposing its authority. Although he never became an active Fenian he gradually came to understand that Ireland sadly would never achieve independence without an armed uprising. Unfortunately the country was not ready each time a rising occurred during his lifetime and also government spies had always infiltrated the Irish patriot organisations with disastrous consequences.

Patrick was in essence a family man, whose only thought was to feed and keep a roof over the heads of his family during the dreadful years of the Famine. Luckily with his past experience he managed to find work on the railroads that were being constructed in Ireland during that period. He was also to witness the near miracle of his brother Owens return from Australia, unfortunately Owen could not settle in Ireland and returned to Australia, lured like thousands of others by rumours that immense amounts of gold had been found in that colony.

Patrick and his wife had three sons and he was somewhat fortunate because unlike most families in Ireland where every one of their youngsters had emigrated, he was only to lose his eldest son who went to America. Luckily he had persuaded his other two sons to stay in Ireland and with his financial help they were eventually to become successful dairy farmers.

What I found most revealing about his story was the burning desire he had to one day purchase his beloved Springfort, an ambition that was finally to come into fruition over sixty years after his signing his first tenancy agreement. But he also confided in me how angry and frustrated he was at the way he and his fellow Irishmen had been treated throughout his long lifetime. At our last meeting he expressed the hope that I would eventually see our proud nation take its place in the world free from all outside interference.

Most of what I have written came from his reminisces but many of his journals have survived and they were a tremendous help to me. My only hope is that I have written a book that gives a true reflection of the life and struggles of an ordinary Irish tenant farmer who lived through one of the most extraordinary centuries in the history of Ireland. Sadly when I visited Springfort in early January eighteen ninety-four, Patrick was very ill and we were never to meet again.

RIP Patrick William Casey.Born 26/12/1804. Deceased 20/01/1894

Thomas HarringtonCharleville National School.County Cork.19/10/1897

CHAPTER ONE

I, Patrick John Casey, was born on St. Stephens Day, the twenty sixth of December eighteen hundred and four, in a tiny cabin on the road between Charleville and Buttevant in County Cork. My parents John and Mary Casey would only have one other child, my brother and life long friend Owen. The intriguing tale of how my parents met has always fascinated me, as they both came from totally different parts of Ireland. In the following narrative I recount how fate brought them together.

As I grew up, I knew my father as a gentle giant of a man who had sadly fallen on hard times and was now one of the many spalpeens or farm labourers who tramped the country hoping to find work. But in his youth he had been the County Cork Wrestling Champion, who before being badly injured had high hopes of one day becoming the All Ireland Champion. His family had always lived in the vicinity of Charleville and when his wrestling days finished he would eventually return there with his young wife.

As a wrestler, to earn a living, he had toured the fair grounds of the south west of Ireland during the summer months, issuing a challenge to anyone who thought they could beat him for a purse of one pound. In later years he would tell us that he had fought hundreds of men but had only ever lost on two occasions. His only regret, he said, was that he wished he had saved some of that hard earned money. Sadly he told us, the only time he managed to save any money was in the brief few months between meeting our mother and his tragic injury.

My mother Mary Casey, nee O’Sullivan, was originally from a tiny village called Dreenagh. This very remote village lies deep in the Macgillycudy’s Reeks mountain range in County Kerry. The people who came from this area, because of its remoteness have always retained many of the old Celtic ways and customs. Also they still have their own unique language, much of which my mother taught me as a child. The nearest town of Killorglin is nearly twenty miles from Beerenaugh and mother and her family normally only made this long journey once a year. This annual visit was obviously the highlight of their year. Preparations for it, she later told us, would start weeks in advance, with any livestock they hoped to sell being specially fattened up for the occasion. This was vital for the family’s survival in the harsh winter weather that they always encountered on their mountain farm. She told us that all the income her father received from the sale of their cattle would be spent on the supplies they needed for the coming year. If there was any surplus money he would always buy all the family a small present. He was unlike most of the other small farmers who after selling their cattle wasted most of their money on drink. She would always tell us that Patrick O’Sullivan her father was the kindest man she had ever known. Unfortunately we never met him because I was very young when he passed away.

Their yearly pilgrimage to town always coincided with the famous Puck Fair. This fair, was always the largest of its kind in Ireland and in those times would last for a whole week. It still traditionally takes place in early August, but because of its terrible reputation for riotous behaviour, it has now been shortened to three days.

Very early one August morning in the year eighteen hundred and one, all my mothers’ family left Beerenaugh driving their small herd of cattle before them. Little did my mother know that when she left for Puck Fair that morning, as a young girl of eighteen, her life was about to change for ever. It was a long tiring walk to Killorglin, but being young and very excited mother and her two sisters Kitty and Bridget, raced along with both their parents struggling to keep up with them. By mid-morning they were in town watching their father sell his livestock. Fortunately she recalls, farm prices were very good that year and so after buying all the provisions they needed, her father gave his three daughters sixpence each. This was, my mother told us, the most money she had ever had in her life. As she walked through the Fair wondering how she would spend her windfall, she recalls being attracted by the cheering and shouting of a large crowd. For some strange reason she pushed her way to the front of the throng, just in time to see crowds of well-wishers lifting their hero up onto their shoulders before parading him around a makeshift ring. When she looked up at the happy smiling face of the victor, my mother always said in later years that it was love at first sight. But for our father this was his chance to issue a challenge to all comers, hoping that he would be able to quickly attract another opponent. As my mother stood there watching all this happening in front of her, the local blacksmith James Carney stepped into the ring and said he would accept my fathers challenge. The blacksmith was renowned for his amazing strength and my mother recalls shaking with fear when my father accepted his challenge for a purse of four pounds. When the fight started, she soon realised that although John Carney was enormously strong he was no match for my father. Father she recalls was too quick for his opponent in thought and deed and each time the blacksmith thought he had my father cornered he slipped through his grasp. As each round ended, my mother’s earlier fears for her new hero quickly vanished, as she could see that his opponent was rapidly tiring. The end when it came was both brutal and savage, John Carney’s supporters realising that their man was very tired were now urging him to make one final attempt to finish the fight. In his desperation he rushed blindly at my father who had been patiently waiting for this opportunity. My mother said that she had never seen anyone move so fast, as the blacksmith rushed towards him my father used the momentum of his opponent to throw him high into the air; there was then a deathly hush as the blacksmith went crashing to the ground. Sadly my father was to find out later that both of Carney’s legs had been broken in the fall. But for a brief few minutes my father was once again the hero and he was jubilant when he collected the four pounds for his endeavours.

The news of his victory against the local champion quickly spread around the town of Killorglin and although he was to spend the next hour issuing his challenge to all comers, nobody came forward. Within thirty minutes everyone had left the scene of my fathers triumph, apart from one young lady and this was my mother. She said she now felt sorry for him as he stood there alone and so plucking up courage she approached him. My father now realising that his days work was over bent down to pick up his jacket off the ground, only to find it being handed to him by a very beautiful girl. He was he recalls speechless for a moment as she congratulated him on his famous victory, but my father was never quiet for long and he was soon answering all my mothers’ questions. By now they were both very tired and hungry and my father suggested that he would buy some food from one of the many stalls at the fair. Unknown to them my mother’s parents and her sisters were combing the fair looking for her as they were now very anxious to start their long journey home. On finding his daughter chatting to a stranger her father was not very pleased and quickly ushered her away.

During the long walk home she wondered if she was ever to meet the wrestler again, but it was then she remembered that he had told her that after Puck Fair he was heading to the town of Kenmare. This town was over twenty five miles from her village but she at once made her mind up to go there as she knew she must see my father again. As they neared home, she suddenly realised that because of everything that had happened she was still in the possession of her sixpence piece. The next day all the family were busy saving the hay and when they stopped to have the midday meal she told her father of her intention to meet the young stranger again. She was very surprised she said when he agreed to go with her to Kenmare. He wanted, he said, to buy some young pigs but she found out later that this was just an excuse as he knew he would never be able to stop her from meeting my father again.

The journey from her village to Kenmare was very hazardous at that time because it was across many miles of wild mountain paths and bogs and although they left at first light they did not get to their destination until well after dark. Once in town her father she remembers, found the house of a friend who thankfully gave them lodgings for the night. Although very tired from the long walk she still woke up very early the next morning as she was anxious to find out if my father was in town. After a hurried breakfast it was decided that she would make a search of the fair whilst her father made his purchases. Much to her annoyance after making many enquiries, she could not find any trace of her wrestler friend and was getting very despondent, but when she met up with her father he had good news. The wrestler John Casey, would, he had been told be wrestling Vincent Foley the pride of Castletownbeare that afternoon. On hearing this she made her way to the fairground and found my father who was constructing his makeshift ring. On seeing him she was filled with apprehension, worrying that he might have forgotten her. But all her fears quickly evaporated, as he was obviously very elated at seeing her once again. He immediately stopped what he was doing and lifted her high into the air. On seeing that her father was with her he became embarrassed and slowly lowered her to the ground. But on seeing his embarrassment my mother and her father started to laugh and assured him that they understood his actions.

As they stood chatting they were interrupted by the arrival of Vincent Foley and his supporters. My mother recalls that suddenly fathers whole demeanour changed, one second he was his happy smiling self, but now with the realisation that his fight was imminent he became the warrior that she had witnessed at Puck Fair. The brutal affair that followed in the next hour was talked about for years afterwards. Foley was well known for the dirty tactics he used and on that day he employed every trick he knew. My mother covered her face in horror for most of the fight fearing that her man would be beaten to pulp, but father, as always, waited for his opponent to tire and become reckless before he pounced with all the ferocity of a wild animal. On this occasion as he was so incensed at Foley’s behaviour during the fight, he showed him no mercy and had to be dragged off his opponent. After they had carried his opponent away my father again issued his challenge to the vast throng that had gathered, but once again there were no takers. The crowds quickly realising that their sport was over for the day soon drifted away. My father was obviously very pleased with his performance and both my mother and her father showered him with praise.

By now the three of them were extremely hungry and so they decided to have a meal together. As they chatted that evening my father and mother both realised that they could not bare to part. This it seemed was very evident to mother’s father, who sat in silence closely observing the pair of them. Before parting that night mother arranged a meeting with her hero before she returned home. The next morning the three of them had breakfast together but my mother said she was inconsolable at the thought of never seeing John Casey again. She need not have worried because as they ate their meal my father told her he had decided not to wrestle again that year but was going to help a friend who lived in the nearby village of Sneem bring in the harvest. Fortunately Sneem was he said, only about eight miles from their village and with her father’s permission he could come and visit. This they all thought was the best solution to the problem. That morning the three of them set out for the mountains, but sadly they had to part again when they reached the crossroad for Sneem. Before leaving my father promised that he would visit my mother in Dreenagh the following weekend.

The next Sunday he left Sneem at daybreak for the long walk to see my mother and on his arrival was introduced to her mother and two sisters. They all welcomed him with open arms and as the weather was ideal for haymaking, he insisted on helping them in the fields. At the end of that first visit he felt like one of the family and when he left, my mother accompanied him on part of his return journey. He returned each Sunday for the rest of that year and it was no surprise when he made a proposal of marriage on Christmas Day. My mother’s parents although worried about my father’s occupation, realised that the two of them were now inseparable and consented to the wedding. Although my father had spent that autumn and winter farming, he had also kept his fitness by a stringent exercise regime. He was he told us, determined to return to wrestling as soon as possible with the intention of fighting for the All Irish Championship.

My mother and father were married at Shrovetide, in eighteen hundred and two and soon after the wedding they left my mothers village. Sadly she was never to return home again and I know that she never forgave herself for this. But our father had to make a living especially as he now had a wife to support. With the coming of spring they began their first tour together of the fairs of Southwest Ireland. Times were good for them that first year and by the time winter arrived they had managed to save a good portion of my father’s winnings. At Christmas time they made their way to my father’s hometown of Charleville. Although both of his parents had died, his brother Michael and many relatives still lived in the area and so that Christmas my mother was introduced to all of his family.

At Easter, when they left Charleville my father said he was ready for any challenge that he might face after three months of intensive training. That summer he decided to tour the fairs and race courses of the Irish Midlands as he had heard that they attracted vast crowds. During the first year together they had began to work as a team. On their arrival at a new venue, mother would spend the day handing out handbills that issued a challenge to anyone who thought they could beat her husband. In the mean time her husband was looking for a suitable sight on the fair ground to set up his makeshift ring. For the first couple of months it seemed that father’s decision to seek new challenges in a different area of Ireland was paying off. They were both pleased with the amount of money they were making and there were rumours that the Midlands Champion had issued a challenge to fight my father. But tragically a disaster was about to occur that would ultimately finish his wrestling career.

On Whit Sunday, after attending Mass in the town of Ballingarry, mother toured the town giving out her handbills, while our father looked for a site for setting up his ring. They had heard that the Whit Monday Fair Day attracted hundreds of visitors but they were not aware of its terrible reputation. A traveller writing about the scenes he had witnessed years before wrote ‘Whit Monday Ballingarry Fair Day, the most vicious fair in Munster or Leinster. For there is many a devilish blackguard with a stealthy stick, many a yeoman, tricky lout and a large- headed rogue with a white knobbed ash -plant cracking senseless skulls and brainless mindless mannerless heads.’

On the Monday morning they were both hoping for another successful day, and it seemed as if their prayers were answered because a large crowd soon gathered to watch my father wrestle. By mid afternoon he had fought and beaten five challengers and a queue of local men had formed all eager to take on the Champion of County Cork. Unfortunately without any warning faction fighting erupted between two rival gangs. My father said later, that he should have realised from the large military presence in the town that trouble was expected. The fighting began in town but gradually spread to the fairground, with more and more of the town’s ruffians getting involved. As the fighting intensified the fairground soon resembled a large battlefield, with many of the stalls being wrecked in the melee.

My parents realising the danger began to gather their belongings together but in the confusion they somehow became separated. What happened next was to change their lives forever, my mother thinking that her husband was following her ran as fast as she could away from the fighting, but my father was not so lucky, because as he tried to follow his wife he tripped and fell. Suddenly he could hear the sound of the soldiers advancing on the rioters; he has never been able to say what happened next only that he heard the sound of rifle fire. As he tried to get up he felt a searing pain in his shoulder and then he passed out.

With the arrival of the militia the marauding gangs quickly dispersed, leaving many people injured and at least five men dead. Meanwhile my poor mother was becoming very anxious wondering what had happened to her husband. She now realised that she must return to the fairground to search for him. On reaching the spot where they had set up the ring she became frantic at the sight of a pool of blood nearby, somehow knowing that it was my fathers. By now she was frantic with worry so she ran back into the town fearing the worst. Once in Ballingary she stopped everyone she passed asking if they knew the whereabouts of the casualties from the riot. Eventually she was informed that the seriously injured were being treated in the church by local doctors. The lady who gave her this information, on seeing my mother’s condition took her by the hand and led her to the church. She has never forgotten the scene that greeted her; she said the church was full of the dead and wounded. For a young person who had lived in a tiny remote community, the sight of the carnage and the plaintive cries of the dying were almost too much for her. Luckily her companion insisted that they look for her husband. By now father had regained consciousness and was being attended to by one of the doctors. The doctor informed him that although his shoulder was shattered and he was obviously very weak from the loss of so much blood his condition was not life threatening.

It was heartbreaking for my mother as she wandered in a daze looking for my father, but suddenly to her eternal joy she saw him, he was at this moment having his wound bandaged. With a cry she rushed to his side and cradled him in her arms, her companion on seeing the two of them reunited quietly slipped away and sadly they never saw her again. My mother nursed him in that church night and day until she was able to move him to lodgings nearby. It was fortunate that he was in the peak of condition when the tragedy occurred, because within weeks he had made a good recovery. As soon as he was able they made their way back to Charleville, where they spent the rest of the year living with my father’s relations. During those long months he worked on farms in the surrounding area trying to regain his strength and fitness. He knew in his heart that his wrestling days were over but he was determined to have one last attempt at resurrecting his career.

In the spring of eighteen hundred and four, father once again began his usual training regime in readiness for the new wrestling season. Then in early April, as they prepared to leave Charleville my mother told him she was expecting her first child. When he heard the news he was overjoyed and wanted to postpone his wrestling activities, but mother would not hear of it, as she knew they were desperately short of money. This time they decided not to return to the Midlands, but to go back to the Fairs in the South West. But after a couple of successful bouts the pain from his injured shoulder became excruciating. My mother quickly realised that he would be seriously injured if he carried on and pleaded with him to stop at once. Sadly he did not listen and he was to have his last wrestling match in Killarney in June eighteen hundred and four. He had only received one challenger that day which he had easily beaten. But with no sign of any other challenges they decided to go for dinner. As they were taking down their makeshift ring my father was surprised to hear a voice saying, “I will wager two pounds that I can beat you”. Turning round he saw the blacksmith from Killorglin who he had beaten two years before. The man was obviously looking for revenge and father said he could not refuse the challenge. News of the pending wrestling match quickly spread and soon a large crowd had gathered. My mother could not watch the fight as she knew how much pain her husband was suffering. Unlike the previous occasion, father realised his only chance was to quickly finish his opponent. Each time they grappled each other, my father said he kept goading the blacksmith hoping he would lose his temper. This strategy he recalls was sound, as spurred on by the crowd the man from Killorglin once again rushed in for the kill. My father was ready and sent his opponent crashing to the ground, but in doing so felt a searing sensation in his bad shoulder. On hearing the tremendous cheers coming from the vicinity of the wrestling match my mother rushed back fearing the worst. Obviously she was delighted that father had won, but when she saw how much pain he was in her delight soon turned to anguish.

That summer they slowly made their way back to Charleville, both worrying how they would survive now that my father would never fight again. Fortunately their friends and relations all helped them through that terrible time. In November a friend of my father told him that after the death of his mother her cabin was available. This was the best news they could possibly have, because with my mother expecting her first child at any time they obviously needed their own house. During the weeks leading up to Christmas they both worked hard cleaning and painting their first home. They spent Christmas Day on their own as mother was feeling very tired after all of her endeavours, but that night she woke my father as she was in a lot of pain. He immediately went to a neighbour’s house who advised him to go for the midwife as they thought the birth was imminent. The neighbour stayed with my mother until my father returned with Mrs Finn the local midwife and I was born early that morning.

The earliest recollection I have is when my brother Owen was born. I think that I was only about three years old at this time. The two of us were always very close until his untimely death. He was the best friend and brother a man could ever have and although he died many years ago, I still pray for him. My mother, I now realise was determined that the two of us should be able to read and write as both of my parents were completely illiterate. But if you sent a child to school before the advent of the National Schools a fee was charged by the school master. As our fathers wages were always a pittance she had to work from dawn to dusk to pay for our schooling. I was six years old when I was sent to the local hedge school. These schools were normally very primitive and our one was no exception. The building was a small hut well off the beaten track, as in those far off times secrecy was essential because education for Catholic children was outlawed by the authorities. Any school master that was caught teaching at a hedge school was fined or in some cases sent to prison.

It is hard to believe now, but when I attended school every scholar took a turn each day on sentry duty. We were instructed to keep watch for strangers because they could be a danger to our school. On one occasion the authorities in our area became aware of our schools existence and sent a party of militia to destroy it. But the schoolmaster was warned in advance and luckily the school was empty when they arrived.

The news that the hedge school had been wantonly destroyed quickly spread around the parish and within days an alternative site had been found. My father, together with a group of helpers, assured the school master that he would soon have a new building. They were as good as their word, as it was built in three days. I can still remember its construction. On the first day the four walls were built, the next day the timbers for the roof were put in place and on the third day a thatch was put on. Our master was overjoyed and thanked all those that had helped. Strangely this building was never targeted by the authorities and was still being used until the National School was built over fifty years later.

When I attended school we were only taught the basic three R’s, which were reading, writing and arithmetic. Fortunately in spite of a bad start I soon began to enjoy my lessons and eventually did well at school. This obviously pleased my mother because my brother Owen hated school as he was always in trouble with the master and struggled with his lessons. He was happiest when he was out in the countryside and he hated losing his freedom. For me having the ability to read had opened up a whole new world, reading books have always been my favourite pastime and I am eternally grateful to my mother for giving me an education.

As I have said Owen was the outdoor type and as soon as he was old enough acquired a dog. This dog was to be the first of many, because for the rest of his life he would always have at least one by his side In the summer holidays the pair of us together with Owens dog would roam the countryside trying to catch a rabbit or two. Our mother was always pleased if we brought something back from one of these trips. She was especially grateful if it was in the months of June and July when food was always scarce. When the harvesting season began our father would go off in search of work, this meant that our mother had to manage on her own. Obviously as we grew older we were expected to help her while he was away. As part of the tenancy agreement my parents were entitled to farm a couple of acres of poor land. But after years of hard work they transformed the soil and it generally produced enough potatoes to keep us fed during the year. Our work on the land started in the spring when the potatoes were sown; both Owen and I soon became expert at planting the seed. But my favourite job in those days was always hunting for chicken eggs. The chickens would normally lay their eggs in the thatch of the roof of our cabin; for me it was great fun to search in the thatch for the eggs, especially when mother boiled them for our breakfast.

Also I might tell you that in my childhood every family kept at least one pig, the pig had his own crib in the house and my mother always insured that its bed had fresh straw and was changed every day. Each year in February we would all go to the annual pig market in Charleville. This was the only time my parents argued, as they could never agree about which pig they should buy. But once they had made their purchase, we would all proudly set off for home with our new addition to the fore.

As we walked home from the market each year we all sang at the tops of our voices the following song.

There are brown prolific pigs,Black handsome pigs,Spotted pigs that fill the sty,Grey unwanted pigs,And thin dun-coloured pigs like goats,But a sturdy wide-backed light-headed pig,Is the one for me?

Owen always became much attached to the pig that we bought and his first task when we reached home from market was to give it a name. My mother and father would pull his leg unmercifully for doing this but each year the pig received a name come what may. But sadly Owen was always missing on the day the poor pig was slaughtered, as he could not bare to hear its last terrible squeals. The pig you must understand was an important part of our lives in those days. My parents were very poor and like most of the peasants of Ireland meat was a luxury. Most families had their pig that they fattened up for the most important meal of the year, the feast at Christmas. After being killed, my mother would utilise every scrap of the animal, not a morsel was ever wasted. The week leading up to Christmas was always my mother’s busiest time of the year our cabin was cleaned from top to bottom, ready for the many visitors that always came to visit us. Very occasionally an old friend or relative from mother’s village in Kerry would arrive to have Christmas with us. These visits were the highlight of her year and she would talk about them for months after. But for me and my brother her visitors seemed strange, as they talked a language that we could never understand. What we also found difficult to comprehend was that our mother spoke exactly the same way when they came to see her.

Those wonderful years of my childhood, growing up in that very close knit community now seem like a distant dream. The young people of today often ask me what life was like in those days, before the famine and emigration carried thousand upon thousand of Irish people to far off shores. I try to explain that although we were extremely poor (new clothes and shoes were virtually unheard of) the generosity and the community spirit cannot now be imagined or understood. In the bad times the shopkeepers and moderately well-off farmers always gave food to the poor and hungry of the parish. Also it was normal when a penniless pauper died for a collection to be made for the funeral. Sadly many of the old traditions were lost at the time of famine as everybody’s obvious priority was keeping alive.

Because of the popularity of my parents, our cabin was always the focal point of the local townland. It seemed that whenever my father was at home on a Saturday evening in the summer, musicians from far and wide, fiddlers, flutists and various other entertainers would appear. The dancing and singing would normally start in the late afternoon and usually carried on until dawn. As if by magic crowds would arrive, some of them walking miles to be there. On these occasions my father acted as the master of ceremonies introducing the musicians, being the caller for the jigs and reels and most important of all making sure everybody had plenty to drink. My mother being Kerry woman had been taught to dance from an early age by the best instructors in a County renowned for its dancers. I can still remember being spellbound watching her as she danced, as on many occasions the whole room would stop to watch and admire her. She was so amazingly light on her feet and I can honestly say I have never seen her equal. Both of us boys were lucky because from an early age we were taught all the various steps to the jigs and reels. Unfortunately she was wasting her time on me, but Owen was in later years well known for his dancing prowess.

As I sit here and reminisce, it seems that life then consisted of enjoyable days at school, followed by the long summer holidays, exploring the rivers and mountains with Owen and his dog. Then picking the potato crop when it was ready and as we grew older helping our mother when she worked in the fields gathering in the hay for the large farms in our parish. Another vital task we had was bringing home the turf that my father had cut in the spring.

The bog where the turf was cut was far off in the Mountains, this meant that we had to borrow a neighbour’s stubborn old donkey. The donkey had a harness onto which two panniers were attached and these were filled with the turf. The work we did was hard but for me it was great fun and when our father arrived home after spending month’s away working, he was always full of praise for the help we had given our mother. On many occasions he would bring us all a small present and normally mine was a book, one of which I still have. These happy times passed in a flash and at the age of fourteen I had to finish my education. On leaving school sadly it was also time to leave home and find work as my parents could not afford to keep me any longer.

As I have said my father had many friends all over County Cork, but his best friend had always been Brian Sullivan. Fortunately for me, Mr Sullivan was the farm manager for the local landowner Sir William Wrixon-Becher of Cecilstown which is a village not far from Charleville. On the first of March eighteen nineteen, I went with my father to meet Mr. Sullivan. Obviously the interview was only a formality, because after a brief discussion he agreed to employ me. I was to work initially as a farm labourer, but if I showed promise he told me there was always the prospect for advancement. I will never forget that my first wage was one shilling a week; this was given to my mother every Saturday evening. In later years she told me that as my father was finding it increasingly difficult to work; my wages were a godsend to them

At first I found the work very hard because the weather that spring was very cold and wet. But when the summer arrived the work became enjoyable and I was to learn a great deal about new methods of farming. This knowledge became very useful to me in later years. I realise now that Mr Sullivan must have found me very annoying because during this period I was always asking him questions. Luckily for me he eventually became like a second father to me and he would always have time to respond to my questions. At that time the farm was mainly tillage and I was put to work helping with the ploughing, sowing and reaping of the crops. Ever since my first year on the farm at Cecilstown, the saving of the hay strangely has always been the highlight of the farming year for me. The fun of working in the fields on hot August days with the sun on your back with the other young people from the farm is a memory I will never forget. Then when the hay was ready it was drawn into the yard where an enormous hayrick was built to feed the animals during the long winter months. This long tiring day was always followed by a huge meal for all those that had helped. On many occasions Sir William Wrixon Becher and his wife came to the dinner and personally thanked everyone for their efforts at harvest time.

After two years at Cecilstown, Mr Sullivan called me into his office to discus my future. He told me that he had noticed that I was particularly good with the horses on the farm and he wanted me to work in the stables as a groom. Obviously I jumped at this opportunity especially when he said my wages would be doubled. After I finished work on the following Saturday afternoon I rushed home to tell my parents the good news. My mother was overjoyed at hearing about my new position and I knew the extra money I would now earn was always welcome to her. At that time the stables at Cecilstown were renowned in the South West of Ireland as they had some of the best hunters in the country. For me the next couple of years working in the stables were extremely interesting and rewarding. The Wrixon Becher family were all very good horsemen and took a great interest in their animal’s welfare and so obviously our work was very important to them. During my employment as a groom they always respected my industry and hard work and in time I became quiet friendly with some of the younger members of the family.

One person stands out in my memory and this was Martin Becher who was a nephew of Sir William. Martin was attending school in England at the time, but he enjoyed spending his summer holidays on his uncle’s farm. He would arrive each summer in early June and his first port of call was the stables where he would then question us about every horse in the yard. Martin and I being both of a similar age soon became firm friends during these holidays and in later years I was thrilled to hear of his horse jumping exploits. During those summer months he would participate at all of the local horse shows, winning many cups and prizes. Everyone at Cecilstown became very fond of Michael and we always looked forward to seeing him each summer. The feeling was mutual because he always became very remorseful when it was time for him to return to England.

As I previously stated, I always returned home after work on Saturday afternoon. Owen on leaving school had also been fortunate as he found a job working on a farm near Killmallock and so we usually had much to discuss each weekend. For Owen it was always the girls he had met or the girls he would like to meet. On one particular occasion he surprised me by saying that he had heard that a gang of men he had met that week had returned from a place called Newfoundland. They had told him that they had worked on the fishing grounds there. The work was hard but the wages were very good and they were going to return the following spring. Over the coming weeks he convinced me that we should both seek our fortune in that far off land. I gradually came to realise that if I was to achieve my ambition and become a tenant farmers sadly I would have to leave Ireland.

Once I had made my mind up there was no going back and in early March eighteen twenty-three, I informed Mr Sullivan of my intentions. He was obviously very sad that I was leaving but he understood the reasons and wished me luck. At the same time Owen also left his employment. Sadly our parents did not approve of our decision because many of the young of our parish had left never to return. But after promising that we would return home for Christmas with heavy hearts we set out on the long walk to Waterford. Once in the city we soon found out that no ships were sailing to Newfoundland due to the treacherous weather in the Atlantic We were advised to wait for a couple of days to see if the conditions improved, but in fact they worsened. By now our funds were running low, so when we were offered labouring work in England we both jumped at the opportunity.

On the twenty first of April, I left Ireland for the first time not for Newfoundland, as we had planned, but for the English city of Bristol. For both of us country boys everything we did that first year was an adventure. It all started with our first crossing of the Irish Sea, on that occasion I was terribly sea sick and I must confess that I have never enjoyed sea travel since that day, but Owen was a born sailor, a fortunate trait that was to stand him well in future years. The crossing seemed to take an age and at times I wished I had remained at Ceciltown, but we eventually landed at Bristol harbour. Once in the city we were amazed at the hustle and bustle of this enormous seaport. Everyone it seemed was in a hurry, in complete contrast to the leisurely pace of life in Ireland. Owen and I, along with about ten others boarded carts and were driven through the city into the English countryside. After a twenty mile journey we finally arrived at our destination. By now it was getting dark and we were all very hungry and thirsty after all the travelling. Luckily the owner of the farm had prepared a meal for us after which we were shown to our sleeping quarters. Both of us enjoyed working in England that first summer, though the work was hard, the farmer treated us very well. He soon came to realise that I was more than a labourer and that I had a good working knowledge of horses. Unlike Ireland where most farm work was done manually, in England many of the tasks were now being carried out by horses pulling various machines. Obviously it was very important that they were well looked after, especially on the large farm where we were working that summer. As I have said, horses have always been a passion of mine so when I was offered the chance to work in the stables I jumped at it. There was also the added incentive that my pay would increase. After the harvest most of our colleagues left for home but Mr Edwards, our employer much to our satisfaction wanted both of us to stay on and help him until December. Obviously as we needed the money we readily agreed to his request. But by the middle of December we could not work any longer as the ground was saturated from the heavy rain and snow that kept falling. Also with Christmas approaching we were anxious to return home and so after collecting our pay, Mr Edwards kindly arranged for us to be driven back to Bristol.

Unfortunately it was a very stormy passage back to Ireland and I was again sick for the duration of the journey. While I was being sick and feeling sorry for myself, Owen had worked out how much money we had left after paying for the crossing. I can still remember how pleased we both were as we had managed to save most of our wages by being very frugal. On landing back in Waterford we hurried home to Charleville as it was now the week before Christmas and we were both looking forward to the festivities.

Our joy on arriving home was short lived; as we found that our father was very ill with pneumonia and fading fast and our mother poor soul, was in a terrible state as she had not slept for weeks worrying about his welfare. He had, she told us not worked for many months as he had been so weak. On hearing this I realised that they must be destitute without my father’s wages. I found out later that they even sold their pig to purchase food and had been living on the goodwill of her friends and neighbours for the past months. My first action was to go into town for the doctor whilst Owen comforted our parents. The doctor was very busy but promised to come that evening after he had finished all his calls. Before returning home I made sure that I purchased plenty of groceries to fill my mother’s larder. When I got back Owen had been very busy tidying up the cabin ready for the arrival of the doctor. He had also got a good blaze going and so we cooked some of the food I had bought. It was very late when the doctor finally arrived, but he still gave my father a very thorough examination. Before leaving he told me he wanted to speak to me alone. In this conversation he told me that my father was a very sick man who had only days to live. When I heard this terrible news, I asked if in the circumstances there was anything we could possibly do. He replied that we must at all costs keep him warm and comfortable and when possible feed him some hot soup.

Obviously our Christmas that year was a very solemn affair, but our timely return did help our mother because within a few days she was thankfully back to her old self. Sadly our father’s condition worsened and on January the tenth eighteen twenty-four, we called for the priest who administered Extreme Unction. After the priest left, we all sat by his bedside and late that night he passed away by the will of God. At the end he was a shadow of his former self because he had tragically just wasted away. My mother was very distraught, so it was fortunate that we were there to comfort her.

As the eldest son it was now my duty to arrange the funeral. There was at this time still many ancient Celtic customs that had to be fulfilled, most of which have long since vanished. The first thing I had to organise was the wake, as I knew that everyone in the parish would come to pay their respects. The preparations for this I left to Owen, who went into town to purchase everything that was required. My second task might now seem strange, but when the mourners arrived the first question they always asked was what time did the deceased die? With this in mind, it was traditional to stop the clock at the time of death. Next with the help of my grieving mother we dressed my father in his best suit of clothes and laid his body out on the kitchen table. By this time Owen had returned with sufficient tobacco, snuff and whisky that had to be made available for the mourners. During the evening our relatives and close friends arrived and the women started singing the caonine (which is the haunting lament for the dead). The atmosphere was very sad, as each new arrival offered their condolences to our mother who was by now very distressed. Owen being her favourite was the only person who managed to comfort her that terrible night. The strange thing was that having to organise the wake and make the necessary preparations for the funeral, I did not have time to grieve for my father until weeks later.

The next morning I went with my father’s best friend John Farrell and his son Michael to the cemetry at Dromina to dig my father’s grave. There had been so much rain the ground was very wet and the three of us toiled for hours before we completed this task. The funeral took place on the following afternoon, when the coffin was carried on our shoulders from the house to its place of rest. To be asked by the deceased’s family to be a carrier was always considered a great honour. With this in mind I had to be very careful in the choices I made as I did not wish to upset any of my fathers many friends.

Hundreds arrived that afternoon and it was only then that we realised how popular my father was. Owen, myself, John and Michael Farrell lifted the coffin and started out walking to the Dromina Cemetry, a distance of around four miles. As we tired relays of pallbearers took it in turns to carry the coffin; this was achieved with military type precision. The funeral procession also had a certain traditional order. The men followed the coffin many of whom were ready to relieve the carriers. Then came the women mostly dressed in black and taking up the rear was the priest riding slowly on his horse.

As we passed the houses and cabins along our route the curtains were drawn and their occupants joined the procession. By the time we finally reached the cemetry it was estimated that there were over a thousand mourners in attendance. At the graveside the parish priest gave the eulogy in which he spoke at length about the highs and lows of my father’s life. It was a wonderful speech from a man that had obviously known my father well and most of the mourners were in tears by the time he had finished. Then came the moment I had been dreading, as four of my father’s oldest friends lowered the coffin slowly into the grave. Then sods of grass were laid on the coffin to deaden the sound of the heavy earth that was now shovelled into the grave. Sadly we now all turned for home, with Owen trying to comfort our mother on the long walk. Fortunately on reaching our cabin we found that our neighbours had kindly replaced all the furniture and prepared a meal for all our close friends and family.

The weeks following the funeral were very difficult for the three of us, as we all knew that with our funds sadly depleted by the costs we had incurred we would again have to seek employment in England. How would our mother cope on her own this was the question I kept asking myself. Luckily my prayers were answered when she managed to find work at Fortlands a large estate near Charleville. In early April, we gave mother most of the money we had left and set out on our travels. Obviously she was very distressed to see us go but we knew that the local community would help her once more in our absence