Monaghan Folk Tales E-Book

Steve Lally

• Herausgeber: THP Ireland
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 249

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Welcome to County Monaghan, a place full of ancient secrets, uncanny stories and unforgettable characters. Visit the majestic Castle Leslie with its haunted rooms and fairy folk, hear the piercing cry of the lonesome banshee at Rossmore Castle. Stop off to share a tune with the Bragan Ghost before joining the diabolical Skelton at his eerie inn. And don't forget to avoid the gaze of the Graveyard Bride as you pass through Errigal Truagh Cemetery. Join author and professional storyteller Steve Lally as he brings together stories from one of Ireland's most magical places. Accompanied by original, often haunting illustrations, these enchanting folk tales are sure to be enjoyed and shared time and again.

Leseprobe

This book is dedicated to

My uncle Donal O’Donoghue, 1928–2017.

‘Thank you for all your encouragement.’

My friend Ray Dunne, 1981–2016.

‘Till we meet again on Raglan Road.’

Patrick Kavanagh, 1904–1967.

‘I went down to Co. Monaghan after fifty years

or so, and I enquired what you were like to know …’

First published 2017

The History Press Ireland

50 City Quay

Dublin 2

Ireland

www.thehistorypress.ie

The History Press Ireland is a member of Publishing Ireland, the Irish book publishers’ association.

© Steve Lally, 2017

Illustrations © Steve Lally, 2017

Patrick Kavanagh illustration © James Patrick Ryan, 2017

The right of Steve Lally, to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 75098 629 8

Printed and bound by CPI Group

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Foreword

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1.   Patrick Kavanagh: Words of Earth and Clay

2.   Castle Leslie

3.   The Ghost Train

4.   The Tale of Cricket McKenna

5.   The Ballad of Sean Bearna (Shane Bearnach)

6.   Gilder – A True Character

7.   The Wilde Sisters

8.   Smuggling Stories

9.   The Bragan Ghost

10. A Trip through Donaghmoyne

11. The Devil and Davy Hutchinson

12. Child of the Fairy Mounds

13. John Martha and the Landlord’s Gold

14. John O’Neill and the Three Dogs

15. Hey Joe!

16. The Ballad of Joe Fee

17. The Rossmore Banshee

18. The Banshee

19. Holy Water

20. Skelton’s Inn

21. St Davnet

22. The Holy Ghost

23. The Graveyard Bride

24. Superstitions and Tales from the National Folklore Collection

25. Monaghan Folk Songs

26. Fairy Stories

FOREWORD

Stories have formed part of my life for as long as I can remember and so too have the people who told them. Some of my earliest memories are of my mother weaving her tales beside the fire in the front room of our house before my brother and I went to bed. She had the gift of being able to turn everyday occurrences from our lives into tales of excitement and wonder. When we lived on Dublin Street in Monaghan, my older brother Michael, then aged 3, got lost for an hour and was safely found. In a different home, this might have been an unremarkable incident, but in our house, my mother turned it into a drama full of excitement and adventure:

Well, I was up the walls with worry and had the whole town out looking for him. He wasn’t in the yard and he wasn’t on the street. I was afraid he might have fallen into the canal in Old Cross Square, but there was no sign of him there. I met two young guards and they said they would search Glaslough Street and Park Street. Then suddenly I thought of Peter’s Lake. He was always a devil for playing with water so I went around there as quickly as I could. My heart was in my mouth and all the time I was thinking surely he couldn’t have got that far and Sacred Heart of Jesus let nothing have happened to him. When I got to the lake, there was my brave Michael with a stick in his hand and one of the guards leading him away from the water. ‘You’d want to keep an eye on that young fella missus,’ he said, as if I didn’t know already. There were two beautiful white swans on the lake and Michael was waving the stick at them and shouting at me excitedly, ‘See a gucks, mammy, see a gucks!’

We would clamour for more and an incident in one tale would lead to another tale. Michael mistaking the swans for ducks might lead her to the story of ‘The Ugly Duckling’ or it might lead her to tell us the story of the ‘Children of Lir’, one of the most heartbreaking of Ireland’s ancient legends, which, along with ‘The Quest of the Sons of Tuirenn’ and ‘The Fate of the Sons of Uisneach’, is one of the three sorrows of storytelling.

Looking back, I realise that my mother had the same gift that the poet Patrick Kavanagh identified in his poem ‘Epic’. She could make an Iliad from the bric-a-brac of incident and accident accumulated over the course of ordinary family life. She made me realise that our local stories could be every bit as interesting, heartbreaking, fascinating and funny as any myth or legend, once they were told in the right way.

For a long time, however, I didn’t think that what we had in Monaghan was interesting. As a child at school, there were no great ‘A-list’ Monaghan heroes to read about in the history books. The county boasted no major historical sites of national significance. We had no Newgrange or Tara, no major rivers, no major lakes, no mighty mountains, no towns of note. Our local village was called after the patron saint of the mentally afflicted, St Dympna, and that wasn’t much to talk about in the days when mental health issues were taboo. Besides, she wasn’t in the same league as St Patrick, St Brigid or St Colmcille. Furthermore, Monaghan didn’t feature in any Irish myths or legends and rarely or barely could a single photo of Monaghan scrape its way into any of the tourist books full of images of Ireland.

I really did begin to wonder if County Monaghan had a story to tell. As I grew older, I started to consider all the tales I had heard. My mother, father, uncles, aunts, friends, neighbours and other outstanding local characters had all contributed to my store. My age was still in single figures when I heard the late Peter McKenna of Annahagh tell the story of the man who built his house on the fairy path out near the mountain. Peter’s voice continues to echo in my head over forty years later, saying ‘Dip the finger and not the thumb’ and assuring his listeners that the story was true by confiding that he had ‘seen with his very own eyes’ the turf the hero drew home from the bog in the donkey and cart he had magically captured in the tale.

I remembered my father telling us about Skelton’s Inn and the Ghost Dog of Tydavnet, my Uncle Patsy giving me ‘The Tale of Cricket McKenna’ and ‘John Martha and the Landlord’s Gold’, and Leo Lord sending a shiver down my spine as he described how he had seen the head of St Dympna on the ground at the back of Tydavnet Chapel. I knew Peter Smyth, a man whose life had started in the Monaghan workhouse and ended without the price of a funeral, but whose headstone was erected by his friends and neighbours. They recalled him fondly in our locality with stories about his singing ability and his legendary wit. And I knew that among all this material, there was indeed something of interest to tell.

Some of the tales I have gathered are to be found within the pages of this book and all credit for that goes to Steve Lally. Steve is not only the author, but an extremely gifted storyteller. I first heard him at an event organised by the Storytellers of Ireland in 2016. He captivated an adult audience and drew us into the hilarious and bizarre adventure of the Pooka Horse of Rathcoffey. (Rathcoffey is the Kildare townland where Lally grew up. This story can be found in the Irish History Press publication Kildare Folk Tales, another book in this series.) Reading the story is fun, but listening to Steve tell it is an experience to treasure.

Whether he realises it or not, Steve may be making a little bit of history. Monaghan Folk Tales could be one of the last books to contain some uncollected tales transcribed from local lore. Most of the tales I passed on to Steve were given to me by people who had heard them before the advent of electricity and television. They come from the last generation to experience storytelling as an everyday art form and a chief means of entertainment.

So good luck to all who read this book. Enjoy the stories and please tell them to someone else. You never know the impact a simple story might have on the imagination of a child or the loneliness that can be alleviated by sharing a tale with another.

Francis McCarron, April 2017

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank the following for their help in writing this book:

Paula Flynn, my soulmate and oracle to ‘The Good Folk’; Isabella and Woody, who fire my imagination with their stories; Francis McCarron, fellow storyteller and new found friend; Brian Dooley, an inspiration and wealth of knowledge; Danny Aughey, with plenty of stories under his hat; Dan Kerr, a sharp memory and a soft word; Deirdriu McQuaid, a great support; Everyone at Castle Leslie, thank you; Patrick McCabe, thanks for pointing us in the right direction; Johnny Madden, thank you for your help and enthusiasm; Pat O’Neill, thanks for sharing your stories; Patsy and Linda Boylan, for introducing us to the fairies of Monaghan; Doreen McBride, thanks for the books; Liz Weir, for all your support as always; everyone at the Patrick Kavanagh Centre; Fergal Lally, for his help researching; James Patrick Ryan, for immortalising the great poet in your art; UCD Irish Folklore Commission; Monaghan, Clones, Banbridge and DKIT Library.

INTRODUCTION

When I took on the task of writing this book in 2016, I had no idea what sort of experience I would be having. Little did I know that I was about to embark on a great journey of adventure and wonder.

In his book, The Green Fool, Patrick Kavanagh goes stumbling into Fairyland, when he only intended to go visit a friend beyond the Hill of Mullacrew. I too stumbled into a strange world where I was to meet all sorts of characters and visit many places that would both enlighten and enthral.

It all began when I headed off with my partner, Paula Flynn, to visit Patrick Kavanagh’s grave in Inniskeen. I had just put in a proposal for Monaghan Folk Tales with The History Press and when we got to the resting place of the great poet I asked him if he would put in a good word for me. That evening, when we went home, I checked my emails and there it was … I had got the contract to write the book and it really felt that I had gotten the blessing of Kavanagh himself.

So I embarked on my journey. I travelled through the countryside, along the wee roads and lanes, through the townlands, villages and towns of County Monaghan. As I did, I met with so many people who helped me along the way. I imagined myself like Kavanagh on the ass and cart, not knowing where he was going, hoping that his mother’s wisdom and the ass’s natural instincts would take him to where he was going and get him back safely.

As I travelled along the roads on the old ass and cart, out of the mist came my brother Fergal and in his hand was a book he had bought for me on Kavanagh. He stated that he hoped it would help on my journey and he wished me well. I thanked him and he disappeared into the shadows.

As I trundled along I found myself in the town of Clones, outside the magnificent new library there. I went inside, it was familiar to me, as I had performed stories to local schools there before. I met with Deirdriu McQuaid, Senior Executive Librarian, who gave me a list of people that I should talk to, and also I collected some valuable research material. Thanking her, I loaded the books on to the old cart and the donkey sniffed the air as if it knew exactly where to go next.

I was taken to the house of Dan Kerr, who lives in Clones town. Dan is a man of 96 years but has all his mind and spirit about him. He made me feel welcome with homemade cake and cups of tae. He spoke about the railways, smuggling, the GAA and how he had worked on the buses when he was a young man. He also spoke of a memorable passenger, Patrick Kavanagh, and he had some lovely stories about him. I thanked Dan and headed on, making sure to bring some water and a bit of grub for the poor ass that waited patiently outside.

Next, I found myself outside Collins Barracks, Dublin. Inside there was an AGM of The Storytellers of Ireland, and there was a talk being given by Katherine Soutar Caddick, the lady who would be creating the cover of this very book. At the meeting I met a man called Francis McCarron, who is a fine storyteller from Tydavnet, County Monaghan. He shared many fantastical tales about the good folk and strange characters of County Monaghan, some of which are included in this book. I bid him farewell and headed off on the auld ass and cart, but I was to see Francie again in both Monaghan town and Castleblayney and each time I was able to pile the auld cart up with lots of stories and anecdotes from his home county.

When I was in Dublin the auld ass brought me out to University College Dublin (UCD) where I met with Críostóir Mac Cárthaigh the archivist of the National Folklore Collection. He introduced me to the children who had gathered stories, myths, legends, songs, poems and a whole plethora of other traditions and pastimes from their families, friends and neighbours over eighty years ago.

They had some great stories, indeed; I thanked them and as a reward I let them all have a go on the auld ass and cart and shure the auld donkey was delighted with all the attention and praise he was getting from the children. As I loaded up the auld cart with their stories and told them that I would say hello to their children’s children and their children too when I got back to Co. Monaghan.

Then the ass took me to the Westenra Arms Hotel in Monaghan town. The beast grunted and snorted, directing me to go inside. So in I went and sitting in the foyer, waiting for me, was Danny Aughey. He welcomed me with a big warm smile and a firm handshake. We sat in the hotel, where he told me some great stories of ghostly encounters and some funny tales of smuggling. Afterwards I thanked him and he gave me a package of tales to smuggle back with me across the border. I hid them in the old cart and was on my way again.

But I did not always travel alone, for my partner Paula would come along with me and suggest a few places to stop off at along the way. These included Johnny Madden of Hilton Park, a stately home in County Monaghan, and the writer Pat McCabe, both of whom were very helpful in pointing me in the right direction.

Whilst travelling around County Monaghan we got to see many of its hidden treasures, such as the breathtaking set of original Harry Clarke stained-glass windows at St Joseph’s Church in Carrickmacross, Tydavnet Cemetery and Errigal Truagh medieval church and graveyard, and that’s where we made sure to avoid the gaze of the Graveyard Bride.

The donkey took us to Glaslough and brought us to Castle Leslie, where we met Sammy Leslie who kindly welcomed us inside. We were shown around the castle and tken to see its archives, which proved to be a fascinating experience. After our visit I was contacted by Tarka King, the grandson of Shane Leslie, who very kindly offered to include some of his late grandfather’s fine poetry into this book.

The cart was starting to get quite full of stories and passengers at this stage. There were ghosts, fairies, a banshee and some very unsavoury characters such as Joe Fee and Skelton the Innkeeper. But we also had the gentle and tragic Wilde Sisters, the Three Faithful Dogs and, in the middle of it all, St Davnet, keeping everybody calm and at ease.

But there was someone missing … Of course, where was Paddy Kavanagh? Well, now the auld ass knew exactly where to go. In an instant we were in Inniskeen at The Patrick Kavanagh Centre, which was re-opening its doors after the long winter. Paula and I left the auld ass outside who was more than happy to be back home in Inniskeen.

Inside we met many great characters, including those who run the centre, and we were given a tour of the place, which was very impressive indeed. I was then introduced to Brian Dooley of Inniskeen who wasted no time, hopping on the ass and cart with us and taking us about Inniskeen and Mucker, showing us all the places associated with the great poet.

We even stopped off along the way at Billy Brennan’s Barn for a wee dance. We waved Brian off as we helped Paddy Kavanagh onto the cart along with the assistance of a few of his friends, such as Red Pat and of course a couple of the Lennons and Cassidys.

Then the ass took us to see Patsy Boylan and his daughter Linda who live in Inniskeen. They showed us their land with the fairy field and fairy fort upon it. Patsy and Linda had some great fairy stories and a few tales about Kavanagh too, who was now roaring abuse at auld Skelton the Innkeeper for his poor service.

I had spent a long time trying to imagine what these people, places and characters looked like so I took this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to illustrate them as they congregated on the old cart.

My old friend James Patrick Ryan from Limerick showed up to do the drawing of Paddy, for which I was only delighted, as Paddy had now fallen out with Joe Fee and was trying to get a race going with the three dogs. Well, James did a great job and I feel he captured the very essence of Kavanagh in his drawing.

Paula had played a huge part on this journey and as we travelled together we often found ourselves lost in a wonderful world of mystery, imagination and magic. We laughed at how the auld ass always knew its way back so there was never any need to worry about maps and satnavs and we remembered how Paddy had told us that the ass is a blessed animal. We both watched as the ass walked away with its cargo of passengers and how they disappeared into the mist, but we were not sad for we knew that their stories would live on in this wee book.

Overall it was an amazing experience and I have collected so many wonderful stories, songs and poems. Some are terrifying, some funny and some are heartbreaking but all of them are magical in their own way and capture the essence of County Monaghan. I did not encounter the stony grey soil that Kavanagh wrote about but a rich landscape of myth, legend and human experience whose stories are worthy of any collection of folklore.

Steve Lally, May 2017

1

PATRICK KAVANAGH:WORDS OF EARTHAND CLAY

Ever since I was first introduced to the poetry of Patrick Kavanagh by my father when I was a child, then listening to my uncle Donal O’Donoghue talk about the poet, I have been captivated by the words and imagery in Kavanagh’s poems. Some are beautiful and some are frightening. All of them are sublime. He created images full of darkness and despair and yet out of this he could create visions of sheer utopian bliss. He saw complexity and depth in the simplest of things and he could turn an ordinary event into a saga of epic proportions. His words were his power and in this he was all-powerful.

But he was also a shy and awkward man who seemed to feel like an outsider. The local people in his community of Inniskeen were either wary and sceptical of him or saw him as a figure of ridicule and absurdity. When he moved to Dublin, he was seen as a backward, even primitive, man by the literary elite. It was only in his later years and after his death that people really began to appreciate the absolute and unique genius of Patrick Kavanagh.

In Kavanagh’s poem ‘If you ever go to Dublin town’, he requests that if you go to the capital city in a hundred years or so, to inquire about him and to ask what he was like. Well, it so happens that this year, 2017, is the fiftieth anniversary of Kavanagh’s death in 1967, and so I went down to Co. Monaghan and availed myself of the opportunity to speak to many people who knew or had met Kavanagh in his lifetime. I have put together a collection of their anecdotes and memories of this eccentric, brilliant, yet troubled man.

The works of Patrick Kavanagh created their own unique folklore, giving a weight and mythic quality to ordinary people and places. Places such as ‘Raglan Road’, ‘Shancoduff’, ‘Gardiner Street’ and ‘Billy Brennan’s barn’ were given a resonance comparable to that of Tír na nÓg, the ancient Celtic land of youth, ‘Mount Olympus’, the ancient Greek home of the gods, Hades, the ancient Greek land of the dead, and Heorot, the mead hall of the Danish King Hrothgar. Locals like ‘Old McCabe’ and the Duffys have the same heroic stature as Odysseus and the Trojans from Homer’s Iliad.

Fifty years after his death, these places and people still call to mind the gods, warriors and sacred realms of Kavanagh’s work.

Patrick Kavanagh once said, ‘A poet is never one of the people. He is detached, remote, and the life of small-time dances and talk about football would not be for him. He might take part but could not belong.’ This was very true of Patrick Kavanagh and when I spoke to the people of Co. Monaghan who knew him, it became even more apparent that he had been an outsider.

The first person I spoke to was Dan Kerr of Clones. Despite being 96 years old, he looks like the picture of health and has a spark in his eye that lets you know that he is still sharp as a pin. Back in the 1940s and ’50s, when he was working on the buses in Monaghan, Kavanagh was one of his regular passengers. He said that he would take Kavanagh on trips from Inniskeen to Dublin, making regular stops along the way at various pubs that Kavanagh liked to frequent, though on other occasions, Dan was told to avoid these pubs and go to different ones instead. This was because he was often barred from the pubs, but usually he would be absolved of his misdemeanours, and allowed back in.

Dan got on well with Kavanagh and saw beyond his rough exterior. Even back then, he recognised the genius of the poet and was a great admirer of his work. Dan had not only met and spent time with Kavanagh; he also knew the ‘The Navvy Poet’ Patrick MacGill from Glenties in Donegal and was a great admirer of his work too.

Dan said that when Kavanagh was riding the buses, people gave him a wide berth as they were unsure of what sort of greeting they would get. He was known to take newspapers from other passengers if he was feeling bored by the journey and would make all sorts of smart comments to those who had the misfortune of catching his gaze when he was in one of his less jovial moods. He would often ask people if they were looking at the horns on his head. But Dan knew that there was a softer side to Kavanagh and realised that the poet’s rough exterior was a way for him to protect himself from the cruel and judgemental world of the old conservative Catholic Ireland.

But it was not all negative. Dan talked about the big laugh Kavanagh had and how he enjoyed a song, a good joke or a witty story and was often great company on the bus journeys.

Another man I met who knew Kavanagh was Danny Aughey from Glaslough. We met at the Westenra Hotel in Monaghan town. He wore a tweed hat and jacket and had an air of the country gentleman about him. He recounted that although Kavanagh was a spiritual man, he was often at odds with the teachings of the Catholic Church.

He shared a lovely wee story with me about how Paddy would regularly cough and fidget during Mass, which would in turn put the priest off his sermon. So on one particular Sunday, when Paddy was sitting at the back of the church during Mass, coughing and shuffling about the place, the auld priest decided that he had had enough of him and asked him to leave as he was disturbing his sermon.

So Paddy, bold as brass, got up and walked right up to the top of the church and, out loud in front of all the congregation, he said, ‘I will go, for I can get more about God from the bits and pieces of everyday living, instead of listening to your voice rising and falling like a briar blowing in the wind.’ With that, Kavanagh walked out of the church, leaving in his wake a stunned priest and his bewildered flock. Kavanagh was very much his own man. He saw things how they were and did not try to brush over hypocrisy or injustice of any kind with words of conformity.

Well, I knew that if I wanted to hear first-hand stories about Kavanagh, I would have to go back to where it all started, in his home town of Inniskeen in Co. Monaghan. Inniskeen (which means ‘Peaceful Island’) is a pleasant little village in south Monaghan, bordering Louth and Armagh.

Paula and I went to the re-opening of the Kavanagh Centre in March of this year. We had the pleasure of meeting lots of interesting characters, listening to their stories about Kavanagh and listening to people reciting his poetry.

While we were there, we were introduced to a tall and striking gentleman named Brian Dooley. Now, his name rang a bell with me as several people I had spoken to had mentioned this man, saying that he was a great source of information about Monaghan and a great admirer of Patrick Kavanagh’s work.

Brian was very friendly indeed and when I asked him if he would tell me some stories from Monaghan’s folklore, he was only too happy to oblige. So we arranged to meet again. He also took me to meet Pat O’Neill, who told me the terrible tale of the Wild Goose Lodge in Co. Louth.

Afterwards I asked Brian about the poet Patrick Kavanagh and what he had been like. He explained to me that Kavanagh had lived at a time when people were suspicious of writers and poets, for to have your name in the paper was considered to be a terrible thing. Before Kavanagh there was another local poet called John McEnaney (1872–1943), the ‘Bard of Callenberg’ (Callenberg is a townland just outside of Inniskeen). When Kavanagh began writing verse at about the age of 12 or so, McEnaney was retiring from verse. McEnaney was a man with a fierce tongue, which he was ready to use as a weapon in rhyme on the slightest annoyance. People would also go to McEnaney if they wanted to get revenge on someone who had slighted them. They would give McEnaney the details and he would in turn compose a poisonous ballad. As a result, no one in the area trusted a poet, as they were afraid of a cruel verse being composed about them.

There is a great story about a local fellow who wanted a poisonous ballad written about his neighbours, so he went to Kavanagh’s house. He knocked on the door and when it opened, he asked if this was the poet’s house. Kavanagh replied, ‘You’re looking at him.’ So your man went about, giving Kavanagh all the details of the bunch of devils that were his neighbours and how he wished for their souls to burn on the slabs of hell for all eternity, et cetera.

Well, he was getting very excited until he asked Kavanagh what he wanted in exchange for these damning words, and Kavanagh quoted him a price per line and explained that a poet can’t live on air alone. Now, the man was not too happy with this fee at all, so he decided to leave and as he was leaving he shouted back at Kavanagh, ‘I’m off over the hill to see Auld McEnaney, he’ll rhyme the be-jaysus out of ya for thruppence a line!’

Going right back to ancient Ireland, the bards had great power and they were revered and feared by royalty and peasantry alike, for they could make or break you with what they said about you. If a bard wanted to ruin your name, they would compose an ail bréthre (a verbal insult) and this, in turn, would be what you were remembered for, as the bard would recite the damning poem in public wherever they went on their travels.

In my second book of Irish folklore, Kildare Folk Tales, you can find the story of ‘Queen Buan’, which features the cruel druid/bard Atherne (the court bard of King Conor Mac Nessa, the High King of Ulster), who caused terrible bloodshed through his vengeful ballads.