Читать книгу An Irish Country Childhood - Marie Walsh - Страница 8
ОглавлениеTHE EXCITEMENT THAT preceded our visit to my grandparents was enormous. This visit would be the first night of the full moon, and our parents would bring the usual gifts: home-made butter carefully patterned and wrapped in muslin; apple, blackberry or rhubarb tart, currant-bread and any other delicacy we could afford. My father would strap the melodion on his shoulders and we would set out across the fields at dusk, eagerly looking forward to a night of excitement.
The distance was about four miles and we had to pass through several villages, exchanging pleasantries with one and all. We took the old familiar path on these excursions: across the river, jumping from stepping stone to stepping stone with our shoes in our hands and our hearts in our mouths, then down the bog road until we came to the school. We children would then gallop up the hill to where the little church snuggled into the hillside. We would push open the side gate near the great tombstones that marked the resting place of past shepherds of the faithful, who had earned their rest in this peaceful setting. We would hastily pay our respects to the Blessed Sacrament as our parents bowed their heads in fervent prayer. Then we would tip-toe around the church admiring the lovely stained-glass windows portraying all the familiar saints. We would read aloud to each other the names of the donors of these memorials, long since departed from our mortal world. After this little sojourn we would again continue our journey.
At this point we could follow a scenic road by the lake but we preferred the old, well-trodden path used for centuries by the locals. It wound its way along the foot of Cnoc-na-Haltoir (the Hill of the Altar), so named because in penal times (the period from 1695–1829 when the Penal Laws placed many harsh restrictions on the native Catholic population of Ireland) the practice of our religion was forbidden, so priests had to say mass in the open. This was usually in the hills, with the altar hidden from view, but with good vantage points for the sentries who were posted to sound the alarm. The flat stone that formed the altar was still there, a sacred reminder of the troubled past. Our teachers would take us into this hallowed place as part of our local history lesson and we would reverently kiss the ancient monument and pray for the souls of the departed.
My father used to tell us that a tunnel ran underneath the hill near the path where we were walking, and that the entrance was opposite the church, close to the sliding-stone which all the children in the vicinity had used for generations. The smell of the wild flowers that grew in abundance everywhere tickled our nostrils, and the wild ling heather each side of the path scratched our bare legs as we passed in single file through the rugged but beautiful landscape.
We would gather bunches of wild hyacinths to take to our grandparents and would sometimes scare our parents by pretending to be lost as we hid in the long ferns. The birds would flutter and complain about being disturbed from their nightly shelter. Hares would bound across our path and disappear and my mother would say, ‘Did ye see the fairy riding on his back?’ and as we wondered why we never saw the fairy she would say to my father, Jim, ‘Our kids need glasses,’ and the hills would ring with their laughter.
Now we were crossing the mayren, or perimeter fence, and leaving the protection of the hill behind. The open road seemed to stretch for miles into a barren wilderness with no house in sight. It was a rough, stony road and we always walked to the side as rivulets of water flowing down the hills made channels through it. They used to say in that locality that the asses had stone-bruises. Eventually we would come within view of my father’s village and our hearts would be beating like drums as we raced ahead, eager to meet all our relatives. The village of Cullane, where my father was born, was close to the Ox Mountains. It seemed to me when I was young to be a desolate place with stones and rocks everywhere. My grandparents’ house was on the edge of the bog and the family must have been the last people to arrive there in centuries past. My father once told me that in times gone by his ancestors had lost their land. He did not explain how, but many people were dispossessed during penal times. In order to find somewhere to live they had to flee into the hills and mountains, where they cleared the stones and rocks with their bare hands to make fields. To this day the area bears testimony to the perseverance of a sturdy people who survived in the face of adversity.
My grandfather, Tom, was born in Cullane in 1857. Eventually he inherited the little farm and married a local girl, Ann Durkin, who was born in 1868. They had nine children, six boys and three girls, five of the family emigrated to the USA at the beginning of the twentieth century and never returned. My youngest aunt stayed to care for her parents and eventually she and her family inherited the farm.
We would be greeted with ‘Cead mile failtes go lear’ – ‘A hundred thousand welcomes’ in Irish – and be paraded by our proud parents for all to comment on our development. There would be good-natured discussions as to whom we resembled and the usual banter exchanged. Then the night’s enjoyment would begin. My father would play the melodion and we would sing songs passed down from generations past.
We children would dance around the big kitchen with our young cousins, and the children next door would join in the fun. Stories would be told and the grown-ups would gossip. The tea would be made and there would always be a special treat for the visitors. The night would be enjoyed by all, old and young, and all too soon it would be home time. As we took our leave, tears would be shed and promises made for a return visit the next full moon.
After visiting our grandparents, our parents always took the long way home by road. My brothers and I would be exhausted and it would be around midnight and well past bedtime. It was also the hour when all the spooks and spirits who were earthbound returned to do their hauntings. We were weaned on such stories and our childish minds conjured up all sorts of unearthly encounters.
We had to pass the field of the Hanging Tree – a tree that witnessed the death throes of the holy priests hanged for saying mass or of young men whose only sin was to be patriots. The graveyard was further on and we would hasten our steps with our eyes shut tight, gripping our parents’ hands, our rosaries in our pockets; our hearts beating like drums, hoping the dead would let us pass unmolested.
These obstacles safely negotiated, we relaxed a little and told each other of imaginary sightings. Now we were on the stretch of road overlooking the haunted lake. The water lay shimmering in the moonlight in its idyllic setting and seeming to cast a spell on us. Twin emotions of fear and fascination would grip us – it was a kind of ecstasy, enticing us to look into its soul, daring us to unfathom its dreaded secrets. Would we behold the apparition of the spirits of the dead monks once more unbound to row across their beloved lake; to hear the swish of the oars as they skimmed over its surface – the boat caressing the waters as it did long ago?
The story goes that the monks were returning from the opposite shore with the last boatload of stones to finish the church they were building on the peninsula. Their hearts must have been bursting with joy as they rowed across to their little thatched hut on the other side, chanting their psalms. But, alas, fate had ordained otherwise. The boat was overloaded and it sank into its watery grave with all hands lost. How could this enchanting stretch of water be involved in a tragedy that was to haunt people for centuries? It was told that on the anniversary of this tragic occurrence, the lake released from its depths those it had claimed so prematurely long ago. On this night also the woods and fields and stone fences would re-echo the lamentations of a people long departed mourning their beloved monks.
To the mortal who beheld this apparition, especially on its homeward journey, it was a dire warning of some calamity befalling them or their family, or a disaster in the area. To witness the outward journey was a good omen. As we children gazed in awe as this peaceful lough, perhaps setting its stage for the re-enactment of its gruesome play, we were half-longing and yet fearful of it unfolding before us.
The ruins of the uncompleted church could be seen in the distance, gaunt and mocking in the moonlight as if waiting for the ghostly spectres to invade its walls and resume the task left unfinished. This was a building that had been denied its soul; deprived of the voices of the people praying in their flowery language; deprived of the holy mass being offered within its wall. Never again would it resound to the happy voices of the monks as they lovingly worked on their church.
Locals told the story that a church site had been sanctioned near where our present church now stood – it would be in a more central position for most people. But a wealthy landowner wanted the church built near his home so as not to inconvenience his family with a long journey to mass. He promised financial help and free land to the monks and his offer was accepted, with tragic consequence.
We were now in sight of St Joseph’s Church and felt relieved to be back at this sanctuary of the Lord. We blessed ourselves reverently and thanked Him for a safe journey. As we passed on our way towards the river, we crossed a footbridge and climbed the steps leading to the road which was bringing us nearer home.
It was comforting to see the lights of our village in the distance and hear the dogs barking. We would cross the fields home and our dog would come bounding towards us, jumping with delight, welcoming us back. It was lovely to be home.
