Tea and Talk

by Alice Taylor

  The appearance of the squirrel put pep in my step, and I wandered on hoping for another sighting. But it was not to be. Then it was time to head home and get things ready for the picnic. I was loath to leave this restful place behind. As I sauntered slowly down the deep incline I realised that the next step in making this haven more heavenly for wood walkers was a few wooden benches placed in strategic spots from where you could catch a glimpse of the river and the village through a gap in the trees. A seat here and there would also provide a welcome break on the steep climb upwards. The words of another poem, by WH Davies, learnt in school, came back to me:

  What is this life if, full of care,

  We have no time to stand and stare.

  No time to stand beneath the boughs

  And stare as long as sheep or cows.

  No time to see, when woods we pass,

  Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

  No time to see, in broad daylight,

  Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

  No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,

  And watch her feet, how they can dance.

  No time to wait till her mouth can

  Enrich that smile her eyes began.

  A poor life this if, full of care,

  We have no time to stand and stare.

  Back home, my friends and I packed baskets of food and filled flasks with tea and coffee. We had invited families to bring their own picnic baskets but it is always best to put into practice the slogan of the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides: be prepared. Back in the wood we set up our tables under the trees and awaited the arrivals. The Scouts and Guides were the first to come, stepping in smart formation over the bridge; then, on arrival, they quickly disappeared into the wood. This was familiar territory to them as they use the wood for Scout practice and also keep it litter-free. Then, slowly, people drifted over the bridge from the village, and, when the sponsors were all present we began the ceremony of official thanks. It was a great opportunity for the village to acknowledge and thank our benefactors. The Tidy Towns group was in charge of the speeches and procedures, and the arrival of a soft mist hurried up the proceedings, which were taking place in a little green area on the outskirts of the wood. We finished with a song written and sung by a local man, Jerry Larkin. A man of many talents, who is an artist, musician and singer, he had written this song when we unveiled the sculpture of the Horse and Rider in 2009 at the entrance to the village to honour the people of yesteryear who had walked or travelled on horseback through our village. He sang it again now. The song has a rousing rhythm and completed the formalities on a vibrant note.

  The Crossing Song

  Well they headed down to Bothairín Átha

  And waited till the tide was low,

  They headed down to Bothairín Átha

  A long, long time ago.

  Then they crossed the river at the shallow ford,

  Nags ’n’ carts and livestock all,

  They crossed the river at the shallow ford

  And made it without a fall.

  And they reached the slipway and travelled on

  A trip made o’er and o’er,

  Yes, they reached the slipway and travelled on

  Till they were safe once more.

  Down through the years the route remains,

  Down all the days did last,

  Now horse and rider standing proud,

  Let’s celebrate our past.

  Then we all gathered into the wood around the laden tables under the trees. The gigantic, fresh-leafed beeches formed perfect translucent green umbrellas. Is there anything better than tea and home-made apple tart under a tree in a wood surrounded by friends and neighbours? The children ran up the deep inclines and then rolled down again, covering themselves in leaf mould. It was a day for all of us to savour the freedom of the woods and enjoy the beauty that surrounds us. Thank you, Mr Adderley, Mr Frewen and our own Coillte.

  Chapter 10

  The Presbytery

  Over the past half-century, an interesting parade of priests has been in and out of our presbytery. One evening, when one of them had vacated it, I walked around the empty house and thought of the many changes it had seen. I wrote this poem.

  Vacuum womb house

  Contracted into a new life,

  An afterbirth remaining

  Whispers and shadows

  Of another day.

  Memory on its

  Soft grey clouds

  Wafting through the rooms,

  Webbing here

  The part of me

  That belongs

  The living that was blended

  Through these stones

  So I take with me

  Part soul of this house

  And leave behind

  Part of me.

  The presbytery is an elegant old house surrounded by gardens, situated behind the church and facing south over Dromkeen Wood. Down through the years the priests who have lived there have either loved, hated or merely tolerated this old house. They, like priests in parishes all around the country, have left their footprints on our parish and in this house and are remembered in different ways by different people.

  In the early sixties, Fr Jack Tarbert and his sister, Jess, turned the presbytery from a bachelor pad into a gracious home. They installed an Aga in the spacious kitchen, and Fr Jack, who was a superb carpenter, turned the old coach house into a workshop. An expert gardener specialising in roses, he transformed the gardens behind the church into a magical corner. Jess, who was ‘to the manor born’, had the presbytery smelling of wax polish and garden flowers. The gracious old building glowed in the midst of rose gardens, and you were met at the door by an aura of good housekeeping, of which Jess was a master. Coming from a mixed religious background with a cousin a Presbyterian minister in the North, they had the Protestant work ethic, and Jess would have made the perfect vicar’s wife. If priests were allowed to marry, she would have been an ideal choice. She ran parish bazaars, kept an eye on parish finances, and, as well as being the priest’s housekeeper, she was the supervising sacristan and altar-boy manager. In summer, she served visitors tea in china cups accompanied by cucumber sandwiches beneath the extended branches of a beech tree on the lawn.

  During his time with us, Fr Jack, assisted by volunteers, erected the grotto at the eastern end of the village. The location was ideal, with natural rock and a flowing stream, but it still required a lot of digging and earth removal. The site was given by adjacent landowner Marie Roche, and the statues of Our Lady and Bernadette were donated by Aunty Peg. It is now a tranquil oasis beside the non-stop traffic flowing through our village into West Cork.

  Fr Michael O’Riordan, who came after the Tarberts, was a total contrast. He was a farmer from Kilmichael in West Cork, and with his arrival the roses faded and the cucumber sandwiches were no more. His favourite song was ‘The Boys of Kilmichael’, celebrating a famous ambush there during the War of Independence, and once, during a rendering of the hymn ‘Faith of our Fathers’ at a solemn parish event, he aired the opinion that maybe ‘The Boys’ would be more appropriate. He was very funny, with a witty turn of phrase, and a real rogue. He became known to us all as Fr Mick, and the mention of his name still brings a smile of pleasant remembrance to the faces of those who knew him. A people’s person with a great understanding of human nature, he got our parish hall built with voluntary labour, which even in those days was no mean achievement. It still stands today and is much used.

  In total contrast was his successor, Fr Seamus Murphy, a reserved, ascetic man, who nevertheless had every young lad in the parish playing hurling and football. He laid the foundation of the Valley Rovers teams that we have today. He believed in good behaviour on and off the pitch and never tolerated foul play. In 1974, he planted a young copper beech beside the church gate, and it is now an impressive presence known as ‘Fr Murphy’s tree’.

  Then came Fr Lucy, who was of the old school, with a housekeeper to mat
ch. He evicted intrusive cameras from First Holy Communion rails when it was a very unpopular decision, though years later, when they became an absolute blight, the local Parents’ Association endeavoured to do likewise. He did not curry public favour and was rigid in many ways, but he had surprising corners of kindness and understanding. The morning after the Valley Rovers debacle of the missing money he arrived with a cheque and said, ‘Let that be the start of the new fund and put behind ye what has happened; it has happened to smarter people than ye.’

  Fr O’Donovan then breezed into the parish – a man in a hurry. Yet, on Holy Thursday nights a transformation took place when he slowed down and held a most reverent Holy Hour that brought us all close to the gates of Heaven. He had amazing radio skills and touched a wide audience when he presented Faith Matters on local radio. People loved listening to him.

  Then came Fr John Kingston, a gentle, reserved man, who renovated our two parish churches at a cost of almost three million euros and never ruffled a parish feather, which could be described as a truly amazing achievement. While the restoration was being carried out we had Mass in the Church of Ireland church, and their congregation came to our church while they were restoring theirs. It was ecumenism in action.

  Now we have Fr Finbarr Crowley, who, because he was reared in a pub, has the common touch while still rising splendidly to all occasions. The gracious old parochial house has been restored, and he operates an open-door policy and is available to all at all times. The young are actively involved in church ceremonies, and our congregations are increasing.

  These priests, like others all over Ireland, have christened our babies, listened to our troubles, sung at our weddings and buried our dead. Back in the seventies they were regarded as above reproach, which was not good for them or us. In frustration at the dominant position that the Church held in Irish life I wrote the following poem around that time.

  Clergyman all dressed in black

  What a mighty church is at your back.

  We are taught that by your hand

  We must be led to our promised land.

  Jesus is locked in your institutions

  Of ancient laws and resolutions,

  Buried so deep and out of sight

  Sometimes we cannot see the light,

  Behind huge walls that cost so much

  Where simple things are out of touch.

  But could it be He is not within

  These walls so thick with love so thin?

  Does He walk on distant hills

  Where long ago He cured all ills?

  Is He gone to open places

  To simple people all creeds all races?

  Is Jesus gone from off the altar,

  Catching fish down by the water?

  Is He with the birds amongst the trees

  Gathering honey with the bees?

  Could it be in this simple way

  That God meant man to kneel and pray?

  I showed it to our then curate, Fr Seamus, who smiled sadly and said, ‘Alice, did it ever dawn on you that we too are victims of the system?’ That put a stop to my judgemental attitude. A few months later, with the advent of the lay ministry, he asked me to join in. I recoiled at first, and he said quietly, ‘It is so easy to stand in judgement – but doing something to change the system is the real challenge.’ He was right and I accepted his invitation. It is indeed so easy to be Mouth Almighty! Due to the sins of a few, some of our good priests find themselves demeaned and perceived as undesirables. The many ageing priests who, in parishes all around Ireland, dedicated their lives to helping people must find all this very hurtful.

  Due to the decline in vocations there are many unavoidable changes on the way. So, while we still have them, let us cherish and appreciate the honourable priests who weathered the volcanos that erupted around them and tried to keep going through terrible times.

  Sometimes in life we self-destruct and then a new phoenix rises out of the ashes. At the moment, is that happening in the Church? Are we witnessing a new creation? New creations can be a bit scary, but sometimes can be wonderful.

  Chapter 11

  The Rising Sun

  Bury me at Rosnaree

  And face me to the rising sun.

  The Travelling People always camped here. In their search for shelter they located the warmest roads of Ireland, and this little road was a cosy corner. Behind them at night the canopy of trees in Dromkeen Wood formed the headboard of their bed, and, facing south-east, they awoke to the morning sun warm on their faces. The great architecturally planned houses of the time were built with their morning rooms facing east to catch the early sunlight, but with far less expense the Travelling People had the same benefits along this little road. In the old days, the guidelines given for deciding on house location came from the wisdom of the natural world. The advice was to watch the cow, who, when the weather came bad, sought the most sheltered corner of a field, turned her rump to the north and faced south. That was the spot and orientation in which to build your house. In today’s world we hire feng-shui experts to provide the same wise guidance.

  The last resident of this old road was Bridgie Donovan, who often rode in to the village on her High Nelly bike; she died about fifty years ago but the road is still known locally as Bridgie Donovan’s road. In the higher circles of society one must achieve greatness to have such an honour bestowed on one, but Bridgie earned this right simply by being the last person to live here.

  Far older residents rest here too, people who go much further back in history then Bridgie. For over a hundred and fifty years, in an unmarked hilly field beside this road, many former residents have slept silently. They rest in Kilpadder Famine Graveyard. These were the original people of Bridgie’s road and the adjoining road that stretches from Kilpadder Cross to Collier’s Quay. Houses at the time were small, one-roomed dwellings, built of stone and of mud kneaded with straw. Forty such houses, accompanied by tiny plots, stood along these two roads, and here too was the little church of St Peter. The area at the time was the property of the Frewen estate, who were the local landlords. Poverty was rife, and the mainstay food was the potato. When the potato crop failed in 1847, the famine came and people died of starvation. The Kilpadder road became known as ‘Hell Street’. Famine pits were opened in Kilpadder, and the people were buried in them wearing the clothes in which they died. Many of those who survived emigrated on the coffin ships while others remained behind to contend with hunger and strife. It was a very black period in Irish history.

  Time moved on, and Ireland recovered, and with the passage of decades nature reached out and reclaimed its own. The small field became shrouded in briars and buried in obscurity. Locals, however, never forgot those poor people, and local children were instructed to bless themselves when passing Kilpadder. One of these children was Mary Nolan, who, on her way to school walked past this overgrown hillside field every day. Her mother told her the story of the famine graveyard and of the need to acknowledge those forgotten souls. The story made a lasting impression on the mind of this sensitive child. She was never to forget Kilpadder Famine Graveyard and hoped that one day those people would be properly commemorated.

  The mills of God grind slowly, but grind exceedingly well, and the bones of the ancestors in Kilpadder Famine Graveyard called out to be remembered. Then a descendant of a local person who had emigrated to America answered the call. Out of the blue came a query from a man whose ancestors were buried in Kilpadder: he wished to come and visit the burial place of his people.

  By an amazing quirk of fate he made contact with Mary Nolan. Mary, now the well-known artist Mary Nolan O’Brien, had her work online, and, through this website, Bob Murphy of Boston, who was deeply interested in genealogy, made contact. He came to visit and expressed a wish that his ancestral graveyard be restored and made into a place of reverence and respect. He joined forces with fellow Bostonian Jim Calvey, and with the financial help of the Knights and Ladies of the St Finbarr Cork Club, New England
, he got the project on the move.

  For Mary, it was the answer to a prayer, and she engaged with the local community in getting things under way at home. The graveyard was situated on the land of a local farmer, who immediately gave permission for the restoration project. Then the old Irish meitheal method of the neighbours getting together for the job came into action. The site, under the careful guidance of an archaeologist from the local council, was carefully restored and fenced off. The little graveyard is on a steep hill, which necessitated a lot of careful grading and planting. Under the guidance of Mary, the forgotten graveyard was turned into wildflower garden surrounded by a hedge of native plants. Her husband, Joe, made a little wooden gate leading in off the road. A carefully chosen stone bears the name of the graveyard. While all this work was in progress, the local priest, Fr Finbarr Crowley, went to visit friends in a Boston parish where he often helped out, and by amazing coincidence this happened to be the parish of Bob and Jim! So further contacts were formed. It was decided that Mass would be celebrated in our famine graveyard on 24 July 2015. The Americans would come over for the occasion, and the locals would gather. After Mass and prayers, tea and cakes would be served, so that people would have time to meet the benefactors, reminisce and celebrate the blessing of the Kilpadder Famine Graveyard. An SOS went out for home-baking and prayers for fine weather. The baking was a surety, but the weather was up to divine providence. But hopefully the ancestors would intercede!