The barn
Cont'd from main page...
At my sister-in-law’s, after a few phone calls the following day, I found that the furniture would arrive in just under a week’s time, giving me time to sort a few things out. I also could relax a bit and soak in the fact that I was in Ireland. The weather was fair--a good sign, along with the fact that the much promised library had opened in the village that week. I went over to the house with my friends and managed to take them up a completely different road to the one I had lived on (it rose up in a windy way just like mine). I got the right road in the end and it all checked out as sound and no immediate problems. That done it began to become clear that the piece of the road from the nearby farm to our place might be a problem for the moving van. That evening my brother-in-law quizzed me on the size of the lorry (van) and I assured him that it was moderate in size and he just grimaced and said we’d just have to “suck it and see.”
My unease deepened in the following days when we got differing reports from various depots in Britain that indicated the furniture was part of other deliveries and they could not be definite about the arrival of the lorry. But the assigned day dawned and we got a phone call from the lorry driver who had managed to lose himself in the next valley. My brother-in-law gave him directions and then asked him the size
of the van-- of course it was huge. Sucking mightily I got in the car with my brother-in-law and went to meet the lorry as showers began to fall. The lorry made it up to my new neighbors’s farm but could go no
further. So my brother-in-law, wise in Irish ways after 6 years in the country, knocked on the door and
recruited our neighbor’s help. The farmer was with the cows drying them off (dairy herd) so they would have their holiday the next week, but his son was glad to lend a hand on his day off. So out came the
tractor and the hay trailer and the long slog to ferry the furniture, ¼ mile down the road began. I stayed at our house and directed and rearranged things as they came in and prayed that the showers would abate when the mattresses, sofa and chairs came bouncing down the road.
All in all it went amazingly well and no mishaps occurred. The young English mover moaned about it the whole time but the driver was quite philosophical. He had about three more loads to drop off in Cork, Waterford and Dublin and he laughed that he was supposed to do it by the evening. (we are about 5 hours from Dublin). My gratitude was huge to all involved and I felt I was fortunate in my neighbors.
My good fortune in my neighbors continued a few days later when my brother-in-law and I went searching for water with our other neighbor, who lives in the other working farm on our road. He’s a part time
farmer though, since it is difficult to make a full time living these days on the small farms that are typical around here (20-50 acres). He works at the Dairy, or the Coop as it’s officially named on the sign. It’s the
Agway of Ireland, where the dairy farmers sell their milk, buy their feed, fertilizer and a thousand and one other things including building materials. It’s also where many go for the local “craic,” the buzz, gossip and
jokes. It’s where we were to become so well known that they would key in our order for cement whenever they saw us enter. In any case our neighbor works in the yard, loading goods and giving insight on the best this and that for a particular need. He’s a lovely gentle man who had helped out the former owner of our house, Peter Creedon, when his body, worn with drink and hard work, could no longer cope. Our neighbor had helped Peter make repairs on the pipe work several years before.
So we tramped behind him as he regaled us with tales about the land, the ponies he’d put on this patch
and the hay grown over in that patch. As if divining he went to the place where one join was, dug it up for inspection and made a few adjustments. Then on to the next join, up through a stream and across to a small outcrop of “sally” trees (Sally or more correctly spelled, saile, is the Irish word for willow). We cleared back the bracken and bramble and located the pipe work and joins which needed a coupling.
Then he tramped on and we finally found the well. It was lovely and clear and bubbling away, so we knew it was fresh. The pipes were intact and he said we’d only have to blow the pipe clear at the coupling and we’d be fine. Skeptical, I thanked him and trudged back to the house, proud that I could understand about 80% of what he said and could converse intelligibly. On the other hand I wondered at the distance of the
well from the house.
But a few days later I was to be amazed when my brother-in-law and I, armed with the coupling and the air bed pump, went over to the well and made the repairs. It was blowing a gale and we slogged around
in deep water going up to the well. I didn’t mind because when we finished there was no hesitation when we turned on the faucets at the yard and the porch, and the water poured forth. To celebrate we laid a little fire in the fireplace and had a cup of tea (no, not from the kettle boiled on the fire- from a thermos). We had made a small step forward in this adventure.
About this time I also had a visit from our prospective builder, who came to look at the general house plans drawn up by the engineer and talk to me about the build in general. He was the builder who’d worked on my sister-in-law’s house six years before and was known in the area as a fine tradesman. He has many building skills and does everything from blockwork to roofing to chimneys. He’s a Kerry man, but despite that they like him well in the village and think of him as an honorary Cork man.(there is a great rivalry between the two counties). He moved here about 20 years ago when he got married. He has an
injured hand, but still turns his hand (so sorry about pun) and we were most fortunate to be able to get him to do our building work—the extension, the chimney work and the roofing. He is a grand fella who likes to joke, but sometimes speaks so fast and when he’s excited you can only shake your head and look blank. Is this the way all Kerry men talk?
Our builder was able to give me an estimate on the building cost and I was greatly relieved to see
it was within our budget that I had set up based on research using U.K. prices. (The house is currently 2
bedrooms above two rooms below. Old wiring and no bathroom and the kitchen consisted of the fireplace). Our builder was not able to start until December, he said, because he had a large roofing job on. As it turned out in the discussion there was plenty of preparation work to do before he arrived on the
scene so it was fine.
One of the things on my starting list was to phone the county road maintenance department about the road. Our road is a public road but I’m sure you would find better bike trails in the states. I realize this is the charm of the back woods mountainy people and why it probably remained remote, but our car couldn’t
suffer it for many months. We are the last farm on the road and the road people had just created a beautiful
surface the month before we got there. The problem is they ran out of grant money (so they said) just at our neighbor’s. There is ¼ mile (as you probably remember) from their farm to our house. The farmer’s wife told me to start phoning them and just bug them every week until they get tired of it and do something. So I started. Each week I got different tactics and answers, so it’s now like a bit of a game to see if he can catch me out. I’m not sure I’m getting anywhere, except perhaps entertaining him. “Well you know now, the road was bad when you bought the place, so you did know it would be that way.”
“Ah, but you’d started the work as we bought it so we assumed you’d pave all the way through.” “Ah,” says he, “I can see your point.” And so on we go.
At my sister-in-law’s, after a few phone calls the following day, I found that the furniture would arrive in just under a week’s time, giving me time to sort a few things out. I also could relax a bit and soak in the fact that I was in Ireland. The weather was fair--a good sign, along with the fact that the much promised library had opened in the village that week. I went over to the house with my friends and managed to take them up a completely different road to the one I had lived on (it rose up in a windy way just like mine). I got the right road in the end and it all checked out as sound and no immediate problems. That done it began to become clear that the piece of the road from the nearby farm to our place might be a problem for the moving van. That evening my brother-in-law quizzed me on the size of the lorry (van) and I assured him that it was moderate in size and he just grimaced and said we’d just have to “suck it and see.”
My unease deepened in the following days when we got differing reports from various depots in Britain that indicated the furniture was part of other deliveries and they could not be definite about the arrival of the lorry. But the assigned day dawned and we got a phone call from the lorry driver who had managed to lose himself in the next valley. My brother-in-law gave him directions and then asked him the size
of the van-- of course it was huge. Sucking mightily I got in the car with my brother-in-law and went to meet the lorry as showers began to fall. The lorry made it up to my new neighbors’s farm but could go no
further. So my brother-in-law, wise in Irish ways after 6 years in the country, knocked on the door and
recruited our neighbor’s help. The farmer was with the cows drying them off (dairy herd) so they would have their holiday the next week, but his son was glad to lend a hand on his day off. So out came the
tractor and the hay trailer and the long slog to ferry the furniture, ¼ mile down the road began. I stayed at our house and directed and rearranged things as they came in and prayed that the showers would abate when the mattresses, sofa and chairs came bouncing down the road.
All in all it went amazingly well and no mishaps occurred. The young English mover moaned about it the whole time but the driver was quite philosophical. He had about three more loads to drop off in Cork, Waterford and Dublin and he laughed that he was supposed to do it by the evening. (we are about 5 hours from Dublin). My gratitude was huge to all involved and I felt I was fortunate in my neighbors.
My good fortune in my neighbors continued a few days later when my brother-in-law and I went searching for water with our other neighbor, who lives in the other working farm on our road. He’s a part time
farmer though, since it is difficult to make a full time living these days on the small farms that are typical around here (20-50 acres). He works at the Dairy, or the Coop as it’s officially named on the sign. It’s the
Agway of Ireland, where the dairy farmers sell their milk, buy their feed, fertilizer and a thousand and one other things including building materials. It’s also where many go for the local “craic,” the buzz, gossip and
jokes. It’s where we were to become so well known that they would key in our order for cement whenever they saw us enter. In any case our neighbor works in the yard, loading goods and giving insight on the best this and that for a particular need. He’s a lovely gentle man who had helped out the former owner of our house, Peter Creedon, when his body, worn with drink and hard work, could no longer cope. Our neighbor had helped Peter make repairs on the pipe work several years before.
So we tramped behind him as he regaled us with tales about the land, the ponies he’d put on this patch
and the hay grown over in that patch. As if divining he went to the place where one join was, dug it up for inspection and made a few adjustments. Then on to the next join, up through a stream and across to a small outcrop of “sally” trees (Sally or more correctly spelled, saile, is the Irish word for willow). We cleared back the bracken and bramble and located the pipe work and joins which needed a coupling.
Then he tramped on and we finally found the well. It was lovely and clear and bubbling away, so we knew it was fresh. The pipes were intact and he said we’d only have to blow the pipe clear at the coupling and we’d be fine. Skeptical, I thanked him and trudged back to the house, proud that I could understand about 80% of what he said and could converse intelligibly. On the other hand I wondered at the distance of the
well from the house.
But a few days later I was to be amazed when my brother-in-law and I, armed with the coupling and the air bed pump, went over to the well and made the repairs. It was blowing a gale and we slogged around
in deep water going up to the well. I didn’t mind because when we finished there was no hesitation when we turned on the faucets at the yard and the porch, and the water poured forth. To celebrate we laid a little fire in the fireplace and had a cup of tea (no, not from the kettle boiled on the fire- from a thermos). We had made a small step forward in this adventure.
About this time I also had a visit from our prospective builder, who came to look at the general house plans drawn up by the engineer and talk to me about the build in general. He was the builder who’d worked on my sister-in-law’s house six years before and was known in the area as a fine tradesman. He has many building skills and does everything from blockwork to roofing to chimneys. He’s a Kerry man, but despite that they like him well in the village and think of him as an honorary Cork man.(there is a great rivalry between the two counties). He moved here about 20 years ago when he got married. He has an
injured hand, but still turns his hand (so sorry about pun) and we were most fortunate to be able to get him to do our building work—the extension, the chimney work and the roofing. He is a grand fella who likes to joke, but sometimes speaks so fast and when he’s excited you can only shake your head and look blank. Is this the way all Kerry men talk?
Our builder was able to give me an estimate on the building cost and I was greatly relieved to see
it was within our budget that I had set up based on research using U.K. prices. (The house is currently 2
bedrooms above two rooms below. Old wiring and no bathroom and the kitchen consisted of the fireplace). Our builder was not able to start until December, he said, because he had a large roofing job on. As it turned out in the discussion there was plenty of preparation work to do before he arrived on the
scene so it was fine.
One of the things on my starting list was to phone the county road maintenance department about the road. Our road is a public road but I’m sure you would find better bike trails in the states. I realize this is the charm of the back woods mountainy people and why it probably remained remote, but our car couldn’t
suffer it for many months. We are the last farm on the road and the road people had just created a beautiful
surface the month before we got there. The problem is they ran out of grant money (so they said) just at our neighbor’s. There is ¼ mile (as you probably remember) from their farm to our house. The farmer’s wife told me to start phoning them and just bug them every week until they get tired of it and do something. So I started. Each week I got different tactics and answers, so it’s now like a bit of a game to see if he can catch me out. I’m not sure I’m getting anywhere, except perhaps entertaining him. “Well you know now, the road was bad when you bought the place, so you did know it would be that way.”
“Ah, but you’d started the work as we bought it so we assumed you’d pave all the way through.” “Ah,” says he, “I can see your point.” And so on we go.
Kitchen 2004
Part II
Shortly after fixing the water and meeting with the builder I went back over to Cornwall to join my husband and help him load our car and drive back over to Ireland (I just love ferry trips—not). All in all I was away for about 4 days and traveled back this time up through Wales to Fishguard and across to Rosslare. This time I was spared
the fun time in Dublin at rush hour and had a relatively straight forward journey from Rosslare to my sister-in-law’s. My husband spent a few days getting over the shock of being first teaching in Lincolnshire, then packing in Cornwall then
arriving in Ireland within 5 or 6 days. It was disorienting to say the least. But then he was ready to “get stuck in at our place.”
After we arrived at our place and spared a few moments of “where the hell do we start,” my husband tackled the living room fireplace—trying to clear it so we could light a fire and air out the room while I assisted searching for bits to stick up there. Unlike the kitchen fireplace, which you can literally stand up in and see up and out with no problem, the living room fireplace is probably the smallest chimney
possible. The fishing rod proved unsuccessful after it snapped at the join, but we did manage much with the guttering that had fallen off outside. Needs must. Improvisation. That is the watch word of this whole project, I think. And reminds me that I have assimilated a bewildering array of Irish, American, English, and Cornish building terms. For example: guttering (English); launder (Cornish). I can also add Kerry terms and Cork terms for tools. So I beg pardon as time goes on and there is confusion in my
terminology. More than likely I don’t know the American term anyway.
Terminology is fascinating anyway and I find that here, there are times the Irish favor American terminology over English terminology (if they’re not using their own particular Irish terminology). You
buy kerosene here for lamps, not paraffin, the English term. As for proper names, well that is a whole different story that sort became strongly evident when my husband and I went down to the village to get timber to make doors for the barn. With our brother-in-law’s help we’d cleared out the barn—took out the rotten upper floor timbers and the milking stalls down below (it was a dairy farm) and then painted wood worm killer on the floor beams. This was to enable us to move the furniture over to the barn, but we needed doors and windows to secure it. We were directed to go to Jerry Fries in the village (of course I’m thinking Jerry Free’s). He and his brother run the local undertaking and coffin business. Jerry builds coffins and is now one biggest suppliers of coffins in Ireland. But he is a real character who likes the local “craic” (gossip/jokes/fun) that the locals go there for bits and bobs in timber. When we went there bearing our credentials (we’re related to so and so and told by so and so) he asked us where we live. My husband looked to me and I said it as I had learned –COOL-ya-hur. Jerry laughed at us and told us it’s cool- LEE-er. I didn’t know if it was a wind up or not, but I duly pronounced it his way and he nodded at me, satisfied. A few days later I said it again to someone else and they corrected me and tell me another pronunciation. At this point I just mumble the name and launch into spelling it. I await proper instruction from our neighbor’s wife, who was born and raised here. She, I think, would know and I can understand her.
Later we tried to phone Jerry to check about some more timber but we couldn’t find him in the
little area phone book. Sure he’s in there, we were told. Humphrey Lynch. O---o-h. (Jerry FRIE from-
HUMPHREY—all a nick name). And Dinny Matty, our local font of information for workmen, well his
real name is something else entirely, as is John-the-Rookery and half of the older men in the community, it seems.
Shortly after fixing the water and meeting with the builder I went back over to Cornwall to join my husband and help him load our car and drive back over to Ireland (I just love ferry trips—not). All in all I was away for about 4 days and traveled back this time up through Wales to Fishguard and across to Rosslare. This time I was spared
the fun time in Dublin at rush hour and had a relatively straight forward journey from Rosslare to my sister-in-law’s. My husband spent a few days getting over the shock of being first teaching in Lincolnshire, then packing in Cornwall then
arriving in Ireland within 5 or 6 days. It was disorienting to say the least. But then he was ready to “get stuck in at our place.”
After we arrived at our place and spared a few moments of “where the hell do we start,” my husband tackled the living room fireplace—trying to clear it so we could light a fire and air out the room while I assisted searching for bits to stick up there. Unlike the kitchen fireplace, which you can literally stand up in and see up and out with no problem, the living room fireplace is probably the smallest chimney
possible. The fishing rod proved unsuccessful after it snapped at the join, but we did manage much with the guttering that had fallen off outside. Needs must. Improvisation. That is the watch word of this whole project, I think. And reminds me that I have assimilated a bewildering array of Irish, American, English, and Cornish building terms. For example: guttering (English); launder (Cornish). I can also add Kerry terms and Cork terms for tools. So I beg pardon as time goes on and there is confusion in my
terminology. More than likely I don’t know the American term anyway.
Terminology is fascinating anyway and I find that here, there are times the Irish favor American terminology over English terminology (if they’re not using their own particular Irish terminology). You
buy kerosene here for lamps, not paraffin, the English term. As for proper names, well that is a whole different story that sort became strongly evident when my husband and I went down to the village to get timber to make doors for the barn. With our brother-in-law’s help we’d cleared out the barn—took out the rotten upper floor timbers and the milking stalls down below (it was a dairy farm) and then painted wood worm killer on the floor beams. This was to enable us to move the furniture over to the barn, but we needed doors and windows to secure it. We were directed to go to Jerry Fries in the village (of course I’m thinking Jerry Free’s). He and his brother run the local undertaking and coffin business. Jerry builds coffins and is now one biggest suppliers of coffins in Ireland. But he is a real character who likes the local “craic” (gossip/jokes/fun) that the locals go there for bits and bobs in timber. When we went there bearing our credentials (we’re related to so and so and told by so and so) he asked us where we live. My husband looked to me and I said it as I had learned –COOL-ya-hur. Jerry laughed at us and told us it’s cool- LEE-er. I didn’t know if it was a wind up or not, but I duly pronounced it his way and he nodded at me, satisfied. A few days later I said it again to someone else and they corrected me and tell me another pronunciation. At this point I just mumble the name and launch into spelling it. I await proper instruction from our neighbor’s wife, who was born and raised here. She, I think, would know and I can understand her.
Later we tried to phone Jerry to check about some more timber but we couldn’t find him in the
little area phone book. Sure he’s in there, we were told. Humphrey Lynch. O---o-h. (Jerry FRIE from-
HUMPHREY—all a nick name). And Dinny Matty, our local font of information for workmen, well his
real name is something else entirely, as is John-the-Rookery and half of the older men in the community, it seems.
The living room/parlour 2004
In the next week or so we worked to get the furniture over to the barn and set up a basic kitchen in the little porch attached to the kitchen (well, the room that was called the kitchen). We put our waist
size fridge in there, the LPG stove/range (called cooker here) which my husband's niece gave us when she remodeled her kitchen—each of them on either side of the Belfast sink (a swanky sink in posh homes of the U.K. nowadays, but its humble origins are evident here). We got the gas cylinder hooked up and viola—A HOT CUP OF TEA. Very exciting since the fridge was only show and was not on in the absence of electricity. The fridge was more a pantry—a mice proof place to put perishables.
We created a semblance of living arrangements as December approached. We relied on the kitchen fireplace for heat and lit oil lamps in the evening. I clipped a flashlight to my collar to wash dishes out in the“scullery,” after boiling the kettle for hot water. Our toilet facilities were very basic and those of you unhearty souls can skip over the next bit. My husband erected a toilet tent over a deep hole and equipped it with a white plastic chair with the seat cut out ( he used a saw for that). With a bucket of lime beside the chair the scouting answer to outdoor living was completed. At this point we had yet to spend a night at our place but we cooked all our meals there.
During these weeks I tried to take time most days and walk up the road (even more like a bike
trail that way) to what was becoming my favorite sight—the ridge our neighbor pointed out to me as his place to go and see the view. It is amazing there. It’s just off the road, over some tufts of grass and gorse to a little ridge that is surrounded by views of the various colors of the Derrynassagert mountains, the
valleys and the Paps in the distance. The Paps are two mountains shaped like breasts and were held sacred as far back as Pre-Christian times. I read about them years ago and still cannot believe my fortune to have
them so near to me. It is a sight that can never tire, never bore, because the colors change constantly. The sky is always new with different blends of colors and clouds, even when it’s overcast.
Such plays with color were strongly evident when my husband and I took a break on his birthday,
November 24, and went to Inch Beach on the Dingle Peninsula in Kerry. Inch Beach is famed because it featured in Ryan’s Daughter and you can still see the schoolhouse they erected for the film (no it wasn’t original). That aside, Inch seems a misnomer, for when you arrive it stretches for miles. We walked along it, the wind whipping at our faces and clothes, and stared out at the waves breaking in the
distance. The clouds were moving quickly across sky from the distant hills onto the sea, creating colors among the wet sand and rock pools that shimmered under shafts of sunlight that filtered through the clouds. A scene Turner would paint.
A scene Turner wouldn’t paint occurred a few days later when my husband and I decided to drive up the
other way and go over to his sister’s through the village of Coolea. We drove up the little hill and around the corner, careful of the ruts in the road and were met by a huge black bull standing in the road, complete with
brass ring and ornery expression. My husband, hailing from the country, says we’ll see if we can persuade him to move to the side and let us pass (me I think-turn around—he wins—but of course there was no where to turn, being boggy heather and gorse on either side). So slowly we inch our way up the road
and the bulls just walks on before us, casting back increasingly annoyed glances each time. We do this for several hundred yards while I imagine visions of our car hood being trampled by a bull, until finally, just as the bull is starting to stamp and blow, we see a spot to turn around and make short work of it.
I’ve seen the bull several times since and he still hasn’t found a more pleasant expression to
wear. I’m told he’s a Limousine, an ornery breed to say the least. He usually stands on some hillock or other at the side of the road munching on some scrubby grass, surrounded by various cows. At first we thought the cows belonged to the brothers who own the farm just beyond the end of our road.
They are a set of 4? bachelor brothers between the ages of 70 and 85 or thereabouts. They have a fair size
farm and raise cattle. Each brother apparently is responsible for one aspect of the farm. Who ever is in charge of the yard has very high standards, as is the one in charge of the cooking (so I hear). We figured that the brother in charge of maintaining the fences, let the side down (ha, ha).
It seems, though, the fields belong to the O’Leary’s and I don’t know where their farm is, so no speculation yet. I’ll have to see what I can pick up here and there, a method that is allowing me to slowly assemble a picture of the community and the history of our house and its inhabitants. The last owner was Peter Creedon, one of 11 children who lived here. His father married the only daughter of the family who owned this farm, (O’Leary?). He was the schoolmaster at Coolea and apparently wrote many manuscripts about the history of the area. Some copies are now in the hands of some of the people around here (hmmmm). Not that I would be able to read it, because it’s all in Irish. But my archive training makes me itch to get it copied and put in the library.
I feel I uncover bits of the history of the family when I work around the house, pulling off ceiling boards to reveal the beams or remove brambles, weeds and mud from the various stone buildings and remains of buildings. I feel that I’m uncovering the soul or spirit of this place and the people who lived here. On one side of the drive, which my husband spent days shoveling out the mud and brambles, we found the stone walls of the donkey shed. In the shed were the remains of the donkey cart (the seat had been used to repair the door to the another shed). Later, as I shoveled and cut back inside, I found the collar, harness, a small saddle and other bits and pieces belonging to the donkey. When we mentioned it to our neighbor, and then my husband's sister’s neighbor they told us stories about Peter and his donkey. Peter was a large man, 6 ft. 5in., very broad, but not inclined towards work. He used just get up on the donkey and ride it to the village or just roll the cart down, since he couldn’t be bothered to harness up the donkey. Peter was also fond of poteen, we hear. Poteen is like “white lightening.” We’ve found many little bottles of it in the ground already. Though it is illegal to make, it still finds it way around these days. I had a taste of it (brought to my brother-in-law to “help his fierce cold”). And I can say only that it tasted somewhat like Ouzo and even with hot water it wouldn’t be my choice.
Not soon after my husband's birthday we were able to get our phone connected. It was quite an occasion since it is an important tool in any house renovation (phone here, phone there, phone everywhere for supplies, utilities, and of course roadworks department). We did find that the English phone we had didn’t work, it had an American phone connection, so we needed to get an adapter. That done, we were in business and able to mark the next step in our settling when we got our first postal delivery—the phone contract. Our postman is Tighe (pronounced Tig -long i) O’Sullivan (so our neighbor said) and he drives up in his little green van. He lives locally, as do all the local postmen. He has delivered post to us anywhere from 3 pm to as late as 7 pm during Christmas.
Part III
By the first week of December we had a happy surprise from our builder, when he told us that he would be able to start the building work since he had finished his job early. By this time we had our preparation jobs done and were ready to go. After he went over the very basic drawings we had from the architect he did his own measurements and calculations and we were set to get the foundations dug. We called in a local farmer for that and he came along with his JCB. This is the common practice over here in rural communities since farmers can make some extra income from hauling and digging for neighbors. Tighe did our work (there are loads of Tighe’s around here).
In the next few days we had the readymix concrete ordered and poured into the foundation ditches. I was
amazed at the speed of it all, though we did have to hold our breath and see if the big cement truck could get up the road and, more difficult, turn around in our concrete yard. Bold man that he was, he did it with little problem.. As with the digger we paid cash on delivery. That is the way of it here, very much old style in the handling of business transactions. No invoices or pre-paying. And it is much the case of ordering one day and it’s here in the next few days. Sometimes it might be in the evening, too.
In the midst of all this building activity I took the first weekend in December to at last attend the Diarmuid O’Sullibhean Traditional Music Festival. I scanned the little brochure and eventually asked the help of the
librarian to make out what everything was. It was in Irish of course. This is one of the Gaeltacht (Irish speaking) areas and they get grants to sponsor events to celebrate Irish culture. In this festival, the best events, as I expected, got really going around 10 pm and ended at 2 officially, but probably went on until 4 or 5. But I decided to husband my strength after a day of shoveling and skip Friday night’s ceili and reception and go for the workshops on Sat. morning, starting with the fiddle. In the end I managed to
forget my chin rest and when I got there I was greeted in Irish and given various instructions about form filling and other things in Irish. It was slow to dawn but it finally penetrated my brain that the instruction would be in Irish. Did I mention that, other than a few words, I don’t speak Irish? Sure I can pronounce the words off a piece of paper enough to sing, but understand rapid fire Irish—not at all and not especially in the morning. Desperate to enjoy something, I opted for the later sean nos dancing (old style dancing) workshop.
The teacher was a youngish magnetic man who spoke with a lovely voice. He apparently asked in Irish if everyone had the Irish (according to the woman next to me who asked me if I had the Irish) Of course the time had passed to raise my hand so I thought I would just wing it. So off I go, imitating his steps and having no clue about the background he was filling everyone in on. It was not step dancing, but a sort of early style shuffle dancing with a few step dance bits to it. I could see it more than likely contributed to the tap that emerged in America. Despite the lack of understanding of the words, the feet spoke well
enough that I was able to enjoy it. There were about 30 people there of all ages 7-70 say and both male and
female. They thought it was grand.
Feeling bolstered by the experience I returned to the house and helped my husband the rest of the afternoon, resolved to go down for a session at the Mills Pub later. Don’t know what happened but by the time we packed up and went down to the Mills the musicians were packing up there—bad timing! Never mind, we had a pint of Guinness and observed the local color.
The next afternoon I was determined to give the festival one last go and drove down for the sean nos singing session at the Mills. Arriving there it was crowded with people eating and talking and watching hurling (hurling is very big in the area) on the TV. Finally I asked where the singing was held and they directed me out the back door to the stone barn. There my luck was in (well after a bit of a wait—things don’t start on time of course). Sean nos (literally—old style) is singing that is unaccompanied. Usually in Irish, but not always and intoned with various ornamentations added to the notes. I find it very beautiful and felt I’d been allowed a real treat that afternoon. There were many locals there, many older men and women, the men in their misshapen and worn suit jackets they wear on the farm or their stiff Sunday best, singing in deep rich silky tones that you don’t hear much today. The MC who knew everyone (or those who
sung) went around and encouraged various people to give a song. There was some modesty displayed but the voices that followed belayed any need for that. As the singer gave his particular rendition a person or two would shout a word in Irish at a pause, to give them praise or encouragement. Others would nod or sing the chorus along with them, if it was appropriate. It was a beautiful to experience. They were still going strong 3 hours later when I left to get dinner.
Christmas was fast approaching by now, though the decorations in and around the village were
modest. Shortly after this festival the librarian asked me if I would do the storytime for Christmas. She’d
had one for Halloween and it had gone very well. I had mentioned that I would be willing and so now my chance had come. I looked forward to it and managed to dig out my old dog puppet, Hudson, who’d
been my companion at Glenside Library storytime. I also made a new Santa hat for him and found my reindeer antler band and after borrowing some flashing Santa earrings from my sister-in-law, I felt I was ready. It was great fun really. There were about 20 kids there and surprisingly they ranged from 4-10 years of age. And so well behaved! I told them Hudson was from America and loved it here, except he wasn’t sure that Santa came to Ireland. I was hoping that reading stories and getting the kids to help
me with his questions would convince him.
So I read various stories, sang songs and then asked them things like what kind of food goodies they left Santa when he came. One older girl started it off with the usual milk and cookies and we went
through other variations until one little 4 year old chimed in “a glass of beer!” Then another said, “we
leave whiskey!” It was a hoot really. After it was over the librarian chatted with me about the events she was hoping to do in the coming year. She asked me if I would lead a teen book club and I agreed to do that.
One of the questions I asked the kids was if it was going to snow for Christmas. They assured me it was, and I thought yes, well, I don’t think so. But they were right. My husband and I woke up Christmas morning at his sister’s and saw a carpet of snow covering everything. We went for a walk with the dog up the hill as it was still snowing. It was like a fairy land with the white distant hills and valleys and little houses with curls of smoke billowing up from the chimney. Very picture postcard. My husband’s sister outdid herself with a huge Christmas meal filled with all the trimmings, including the fish for the three vegetarians (his sister is
vegetarian too). The best of course is my favorite—Christmas pudding for dessert. My sister in law makes a mean pudding and also a wicked Dundee, which she made specially for me again this year. So much for losing weight with all my house renovation.
The next day was St. Stephen’s Day. In Britain (and the colonies—except U.S.) the day after Christmas is called Boxing Day. This came into use (so BBC says) in 1830 after the Christmas boxes the employers and
the land owners would give their employees. Before that it was known as St. Stephen’s Day in Britain too.
Stephen was the first Christian martyr, apparently. In any case there are old traditions about hunting the wren in Ireland that have some pre-Christian connotations, but I don’t think it’s practiced anymore.
We had a very quiet new year with my sister in law and brother-in-law, his sister and friend who
were over for a visit. Later that week we went to a neighbor’s for an evening. They have two boys 8 and
10. The husband, runs a dairy farm and his wife, is a teacher. We had quite a crackin time and they had loads of food.
With the new year unfolding my husband and I had managed to establish a little cosy set up at our
place and began to spend some nights there. We’d set the erected bed downstairs in the kitchen and there we could keep warm with the fire going in the fireplace or with our newly acquired portable gas heater. The weather had become mild again so we really didn’t feel any cold there at night. The various nooks and cracks the wind found were quickly plugged up with bits of paper and plastic.
The building project itself had stopped a few days before Christmas and, as with the local shops and factories, the builder gave himself a very good holiday that lasted well over two weeks. Christmas is
definitely a time for a rest and enjoyment as far as I can tell, which is not such a bad thing really.
So it was back to work about the second week of January, but once started, things began to
shoot up. With my husband laboring with blocks and mixing cement for the builder, the walls grew apace and my husband began to start thinking about windows. My husband has done something of a grand design in the upstairs window. He felt the view up there was too special and after much thought decided to carry the glass up to the eaves, making a sort of triangle of glass. He also enlarged the size of the window
so that it’s something like 5’ 6” across. The room is only about 8x11 so it will dominate the room, but it was
something he really wanted. It’s funny, but I never knew what a fetish he had about windows until this
project. He’s spent ages on all the windows and choosing what openings where and all of that.
Along about the second or third week of January my husband was asked to tutor again at the learning
center in Killarney. He’d done a bit of tutoring there for a few weeks in Nov. when he first got here, but there wasn’t enough pupils there so he was dropped. With the new year in hand and the thought of leaving certificates and junior certificates that are the educational passports here, pupils were coming in droves. The learning center is less than a year old and so it was just getting known in the area. With his maths background it was a gold dust opportunity for him. He is now tutoring 6-8 sessions a week, all of them in the evening. This works very well with him since it allows him to work on the house in the day.
As for myself, I have made a few overtures to try and get some harp gigs, but since the pressure
is off at the moment, I have deferred it to later when I can practice better and I know the community better and they know me. I might do a few gigs down at the library later in the spring or early summer, though.
I did take advantage of more music opportunities in January when I saw that Mairead Ni Mhonaigh of Altan fame was appearing with her nephew and husband in the village. I nearly shrieked when I
saw the poster in Macroom. I really enjoy her singing and fiddle playing and Altan are a world class Irish
band. So I asked to go as a treat for my birthday and roped my sister-in-law into joining me. It was stupendous. An amazing event. It was at the local culture hall which was packed to the gills. We got there early enough that we were on the second row. The seats rise up high behind so it wouldn’t be a problem anyway for viewing. The little auditorium probably held only a few hundred at best, so it was a most intimate setting. It was all done in Irish though, of course, except for a few words here and there, like when they explained the exits. But it didn’t stop me from enjoying it. Her voice was beautiful and her husband (she married the accordian player of Altan fairly recently) and her nephew, also a fiddle player were in fine form. After the break local musicians joined her on stage and she even encouraged others from the audience that she knew to come as well (some too modest, declined). This area is known for excellent musicianship in traditional music and so it was problem to get another singer, a flute player, an accordian, a guitarist, a pianist and a concertina player on stage –well maybe physically. Then the most incredible session began and went on and on – they were encored twice and ended up playing a half hour over schedule. Apparently (and as I suspected) they went on the Mills Pub and played on there. Mairead had her baby with her (mother in law looking after it upstairs at the Mills) and she slipped away about 2 am to breast feed and came right back and played on until about 6 am. Did I mention Mairead is in her 40s?
JEESUS.
size fridge in there, the LPG stove/range (called cooker here) which my husband's niece gave us when she remodeled her kitchen—each of them on either side of the Belfast sink (a swanky sink in posh homes of the U.K. nowadays, but its humble origins are evident here). We got the gas cylinder hooked up and viola—A HOT CUP OF TEA. Very exciting since the fridge was only show and was not on in the absence of electricity. The fridge was more a pantry—a mice proof place to put perishables.
We created a semblance of living arrangements as December approached. We relied on the kitchen fireplace for heat and lit oil lamps in the evening. I clipped a flashlight to my collar to wash dishes out in the“scullery,” after boiling the kettle for hot water. Our toilet facilities were very basic and those of you unhearty souls can skip over the next bit. My husband erected a toilet tent over a deep hole and equipped it with a white plastic chair with the seat cut out ( he used a saw for that). With a bucket of lime beside the chair the scouting answer to outdoor living was completed. At this point we had yet to spend a night at our place but we cooked all our meals there.
During these weeks I tried to take time most days and walk up the road (even more like a bike
trail that way) to what was becoming my favorite sight—the ridge our neighbor pointed out to me as his place to go and see the view. It is amazing there. It’s just off the road, over some tufts of grass and gorse to a little ridge that is surrounded by views of the various colors of the Derrynassagert mountains, the
valleys and the Paps in the distance. The Paps are two mountains shaped like breasts and were held sacred as far back as Pre-Christian times. I read about them years ago and still cannot believe my fortune to have
them so near to me. It is a sight that can never tire, never bore, because the colors change constantly. The sky is always new with different blends of colors and clouds, even when it’s overcast.
Such plays with color were strongly evident when my husband and I took a break on his birthday,
November 24, and went to Inch Beach on the Dingle Peninsula in Kerry. Inch Beach is famed because it featured in Ryan’s Daughter and you can still see the schoolhouse they erected for the film (no it wasn’t original). That aside, Inch seems a misnomer, for when you arrive it stretches for miles. We walked along it, the wind whipping at our faces and clothes, and stared out at the waves breaking in the
distance. The clouds were moving quickly across sky from the distant hills onto the sea, creating colors among the wet sand and rock pools that shimmered under shafts of sunlight that filtered through the clouds. A scene Turner would paint.
A scene Turner wouldn’t paint occurred a few days later when my husband and I decided to drive up the
other way and go over to his sister’s through the village of Coolea. We drove up the little hill and around the corner, careful of the ruts in the road and were met by a huge black bull standing in the road, complete with
brass ring and ornery expression. My husband, hailing from the country, says we’ll see if we can persuade him to move to the side and let us pass (me I think-turn around—he wins—but of course there was no where to turn, being boggy heather and gorse on either side). So slowly we inch our way up the road
and the bulls just walks on before us, casting back increasingly annoyed glances each time. We do this for several hundred yards while I imagine visions of our car hood being trampled by a bull, until finally, just as the bull is starting to stamp and blow, we see a spot to turn around and make short work of it.
I’ve seen the bull several times since and he still hasn’t found a more pleasant expression to
wear. I’m told he’s a Limousine, an ornery breed to say the least. He usually stands on some hillock or other at the side of the road munching on some scrubby grass, surrounded by various cows. At first we thought the cows belonged to the brothers who own the farm just beyond the end of our road.
They are a set of 4? bachelor brothers between the ages of 70 and 85 or thereabouts. They have a fair size
farm and raise cattle. Each brother apparently is responsible for one aspect of the farm. Who ever is in charge of the yard has very high standards, as is the one in charge of the cooking (so I hear). We figured that the brother in charge of maintaining the fences, let the side down (ha, ha).
It seems, though, the fields belong to the O’Leary’s and I don’t know where their farm is, so no speculation yet. I’ll have to see what I can pick up here and there, a method that is allowing me to slowly assemble a picture of the community and the history of our house and its inhabitants. The last owner was Peter Creedon, one of 11 children who lived here. His father married the only daughter of the family who owned this farm, (O’Leary?). He was the schoolmaster at Coolea and apparently wrote many manuscripts about the history of the area. Some copies are now in the hands of some of the people around here (hmmmm). Not that I would be able to read it, because it’s all in Irish. But my archive training makes me itch to get it copied and put in the library.
I feel I uncover bits of the history of the family when I work around the house, pulling off ceiling boards to reveal the beams or remove brambles, weeds and mud from the various stone buildings and remains of buildings. I feel that I’m uncovering the soul or spirit of this place and the people who lived here. On one side of the drive, which my husband spent days shoveling out the mud and brambles, we found the stone walls of the donkey shed. In the shed were the remains of the donkey cart (the seat had been used to repair the door to the another shed). Later, as I shoveled and cut back inside, I found the collar, harness, a small saddle and other bits and pieces belonging to the donkey. When we mentioned it to our neighbor, and then my husband's sister’s neighbor they told us stories about Peter and his donkey. Peter was a large man, 6 ft. 5in., very broad, but not inclined towards work. He used just get up on the donkey and ride it to the village or just roll the cart down, since he couldn’t be bothered to harness up the donkey. Peter was also fond of poteen, we hear. Poteen is like “white lightening.” We’ve found many little bottles of it in the ground already. Though it is illegal to make, it still finds it way around these days. I had a taste of it (brought to my brother-in-law to “help his fierce cold”). And I can say only that it tasted somewhat like Ouzo and even with hot water it wouldn’t be my choice.
Not soon after my husband's birthday we were able to get our phone connected. It was quite an occasion since it is an important tool in any house renovation (phone here, phone there, phone everywhere for supplies, utilities, and of course roadworks department). We did find that the English phone we had didn’t work, it had an American phone connection, so we needed to get an adapter. That done, we were in business and able to mark the next step in our settling when we got our first postal delivery—the phone contract. Our postman is Tighe (pronounced Tig -long i) O’Sullivan (so our neighbor said) and he drives up in his little green van. He lives locally, as do all the local postmen. He has delivered post to us anywhere from 3 pm to as late as 7 pm during Christmas.
Part III
By the first week of December we had a happy surprise from our builder, when he told us that he would be able to start the building work since he had finished his job early. By this time we had our preparation jobs done and were ready to go. After he went over the very basic drawings we had from the architect he did his own measurements and calculations and we were set to get the foundations dug. We called in a local farmer for that and he came along with his JCB. This is the common practice over here in rural communities since farmers can make some extra income from hauling and digging for neighbors. Tighe did our work (there are loads of Tighe’s around here).
In the next few days we had the readymix concrete ordered and poured into the foundation ditches. I was
amazed at the speed of it all, though we did have to hold our breath and see if the big cement truck could get up the road and, more difficult, turn around in our concrete yard. Bold man that he was, he did it with little problem.. As with the digger we paid cash on delivery. That is the way of it here, very much old style in the handling of business transactions. No invoices or pre-paying. And it is much the case of ordering one day and it’s here in the next few days. Sometimes it might be in the evening, too.
In the midst of all this building activity I took the first weekend in December to at last attend the Diarmuid O’Sullibhean Traditional Music Festival. I scanned the little brochure and eventually asked the help of the
librarian to make out what everything was. It was in Irish of course. This is one of the Gaeltacht (Irish speaking) areas and they get grants to sponsor events to celebrate Irish culture. In this festival, the best events, as I expected, got really going around 10 pm and ended at 2 officially, but probably went on until 4 or 5. But I decided to husband my strength after a day of shoveling and skip Friday night’s ceili and reception and go for the workshops on Sat. morning, starting with the fiddle. In the end I managed to
forget my chin rest and when I got there I was greeted in Irish and given various instructions about form filling and other things in Irish. It was slow to dawn but it finally penetrated my brain that the instruction would be in Irish. Did I mention that, other than a few words, I don’t speak Irish? Sure I can pronounce the words off a piece of paper enough to sing, but understand rapid fire Irish—not at all and not especially in the morning. Desperate to enjoy something, I opted for the later sean nos dancing (old style dancing) workshop.
The teacher was a youngish magnetic man who spoke with a lovely voice. He apparently asked in Irish if everyone had the Irish (according to the woman next to me who asked me if I had the Irish) Of course the time had passed to raise my hand so I thought I would just wing it. So off I go, imitating his steps and having no clue about the background he was filling everyone in on. It was not step dancing, but a sort of early style shuffle dancing with a few step dance bits to it. I could see it more than likely contributed to the tap that emerged in America. Despite the lack of understanding of the words, the feet spoke well
enough that I was able to enjoy it. There were about 30 people there of all ages 7-70 say and both male and
female. They thought it was grand.
Feeling bolstered by the experience I returned to the house and helped my husband the rest of the afternoon, resolved to go down for a session at the Mills Pub later. Don’t know what happened but by the time we packed up and went down to the Mills the musicians were packing up there—bad timing! Never mind, we had a pint of Guinness and observed the local color.
The next afternoon I was determined to give the festival one last go and drove down for the sean nos singing session at the Mills. Arriving there it was crowded with people eating and talking and watching hurling (hurling is very big in the area) on the TV. Finally I asked where the singing was held and they directed me out the back door to the stone barn. There my luck was in (well after a bit of a wait—things don’t start on time of course). Sean nos (literally—old style) is singing that is unaccompanied. Usually in Irish, but not always and intoned with various ornamentations added to the notes. I find it very beautiful and felt I’d been allowed a real treat that afternoon. There were many locals there, many older men and women, the men in their misshapen and worn suit jackets they wear on the farm or their stiff Sunday best, singing in deep rich silky tones that you don’t hear much today. The MC who knew everyone (or those who
sung) went around and encouraged various people to give a song. There was some modesty displayed but the voices that followed belayed any need for that. As the singer gave his particular rendition a person or two would shout a word in Irish at a pause, to give them praise or encouragement. Others would nod or sing the chorus along with them, if it was appropriate. It was a beautiful to experience. They were still going strong 3 hours later when I left to get dinner.
Christmas was fast approaching by now, though the decorations in and around the village were
modest. Shortly after this festival the librarian asked me if I would do the storytime for Christmas. She’d
had one for Halloween and it had gone very well. I had mentioned that I would be willing and so now my chance had come. I looked forward to it and managed to dig out my old dog puppet, Hudson, who’d
been my companion at Glenside Library storytime. I also made a new Santa hat for him and found my reindeer antler band and after borrowing some flashing Santa earrings from my sister-in-law, I felt I was ready. It was great fun really. There were about 20 kids there and surprisingly they ranged from 4-10 years of age. And so well behaved! I told them Hudson was from America and loved it here, except he wasn’t sure that Santa came to Ireland. I was hoping that reading stories and getting the kids to help
me with his questions would convince him.
So I read various stories, sang songs and then asked them things like what kind of food goodies they left Santa when he came. One older girl started it off with the usual milk and cookies and we went
through other variations until one little 4 year old chimed in “a glass of beer!” Then another said, “we
leave whiskey!” It was a hoot really. After it was over the librarian chatted with me about the events she was hoping to do in the coming year. She asked me if I would lead a teen book club and I agreed to do that.
One of the questions I asked the kids was if it was going to snow for Christmas. They assured me it was, and I thought yes, well, I don’t think so. But they were right. My husband and I woke up Christmas morning at his sister’s and saw a carpet of snow covering everything. We went for a walk with the dog up the hill as it was still snowing. It was like a fairy land with the white distant hills and valleys and little houses with curls of smoke billowing up from the chimney. Very picture postcard. My husband’s sister outdid herself with a huge Christmas meal filled with all the trimmings, including the fish for the three vegetarians (his sister is
vegetarian too). The best of course is my favorite—Christmas pudding for dessert. My sister in law makes a mean pudding and also a wicked Dundee, which she made specially for me again this year. So much for losing weight with all my house renovation.
The next day was St. Stephen’s Day. In Britain (and the colonies—except U.S.) the day after Christmas is called Boxing Day. This came into use (so BBC says) in 1830 after the Christmas boxes the employers and
the land owners would give their employees. Before that it was known as St. Stephen’s Day in Britain too.
Stephen was the first Christian martyr, apparently. In any case there are old traditions about hunting the wren in Ireland that have some pre-Christian connotations, but I don’t think it’s practiced anymore.
We had a very quiet new year with my sister in law and brother-in-law, his sister and friend who
were over for a visit. Later that week we went to a neighbor’s for an evening. They have two boys 8 and
10. The husband, runs a dairy farm and his wife, is a teacher. We had quite a crackin time and they had loads of food.
With the new year unfolding my husband and I had managed to establish a little cosy set up at our
place and began to spend some nights there. We’d set the erected bed downstairs in the kitchen and there we could keep warm with the fire going in the fireplace or with our newly acquired portable gas heater. The weather had become mild again so we really didn’t feel any cold there at night. The various nooks and cracks the wind found were quickly plugged up with bits of paper and plastic.
The building project itself had stopped a few days before Christmas and, as with the local shops and factories, the builder gave himself a very good holiday that lasted well over two weeks. Christmas is
definitely a time for a rest and enjoyment as far as I can tell, which is not such a bad thing really.
So it was back to work about the second week of January, but once started, things began to
shoot up. With my husband laboring with blocks and mixing cement for the builder, the walls grew apace and my husband began to start thinking about windows. My husband has done something of a grand design in the upstairs window. He felt the view up there was too special and after much thought decided to carry the glass up to the eaves, making a sort of triangle of glass. He also enlarged the size of the window
so that it’s something like 5’ 6” across. The room is only about 8x11 so it will dominate the room, but it was
something he really wanted. It’s funny, but I never knew what a fetish he had about windows until this
project. He’s spent ages on all the windows and choosing what openings where and all of that.
Along about the second or third week of January my husband was asked to tutor again at the learning
center in Killarney. He’d done a bit of tutoring there for a few weeks in Nov. when he first got here, but there wasn’t enough pupils there so he was dropped. With the new year in hand and the thought of leaving certificates and junior certificates that are the educational passports here, pupils were coming in droves. The learning center is less than a year old and so it was just getting known in the area. With his maths background it was a gold dust opportunity for him. He is now tutoring 6-8 sessions a week, all of them in the evening. This works very well with him since it allows him to work on the house in the day.
As for myself, I have made a few overtures to try and get some harp gigs, but since the pressure
is off at the moment, I have deferred it to later when I can practice better and I know the community better and they know me. I might do a few gigs down at the library later in the spring or early summer, though.
I did take advantage of more music opportunities in January when I saw that Mairead Ni Mhonaigh of Altan fame was appearing with her nephew and husband in the village. I nearly shrieked when I
saw the poster in Macroom. I really enjoy her singing and fiddle playing and Altan are a world class Irish
band. So I asked to go as a treat for my birthday and roped my sister-in-law into joining me. It was stupendous. An amazing event. It was at the local culture hall which was packed to the gills. We got there early enough that we were on the second row. The seats rise up high behind so it wouldn’t be a problem anyway for viewing. The little auditorium probably held only a few hundred at best, so it was a most intimate setting. It was all done in Irish though, of course, except for a few words here and there, like when they explained the exits. But it didn’t stop me from enjoying it. Her voice was beautiful and her husband (she married the accordian player of Altan fairly recently) and her nephew, also a fiddle player were in fine form. After the break local musicians joined her on stage and she even encouraged others from the audience that she knew to come as well (some too modest, declined). This area is known for excellent musicianship in traditional music and so it was problem to get another singer, a flute player, an accordian, a guitarist, a pianist and a concertina player on stage –well maybe physically. Then the most incredible session began and went on and on – they were encored twice and ended up playing a half hour over schedule. Apparently (and as I suspected) they went on the Mills Pub and played on there. Mairead had her baby with her (mother in law looking after it upstairs at the Mills) and she slipped away about 2 am to breast feed and came right back and played on until about 6 am. Did I mention Mairead is in her 40s?
JEESUS.
