Tea and Talk

by Alice Taylor

  When we published the first Candlelight, we didn’t have a clue how to go about it and had to go around with a begging bowl to cover the costs. Then for a few years we broke even, and then we copped on and decided that it had to pay for itself – and eventually we got smart and began to make a profit. This profit, though not enormous, has been sown back into long-term projects to benefit the village. Candlelight money has kick-started the funding for the sculpture of Billy the Blacksmith at the western end of the village and the Horse and Rider sculpture at the eastern end. It has also restored a valuable old historic map dating back to the famine, where each house and townland in the parish is numbered with an accompanying list of occupiers along the sides. This map is now safely on display in St Mary’s Church, where it can be referred to by people coming back to check their ancestral roots. We are currently collecting money to erect a sculpture of the Charter School children who have given their name to one corner of the village where their school stood in 1750. There were fifty Charter Schools all around Ireland, but these children are not commemorated anywhere.

  Every year, at the front of the magazine, we put the photograph of a child holding a lighted candle to represent the Christmas season, and now we are into the second generation, with the children of the first Candlelight children following in their parents’ footsteps. All the previous children form a frame around the current child.

  The primary aim of Candlelight is to record the past and present story of Innishannon for future generations. It is posted all over the world to keep Innishannon people abroad in touch with their home place. The locals love it, and it is now part of our Innishannon Christmas.

  Chapter 21

  When They Return

  There was a note on the kitchen table. Bullet message, meaningless to anyone but myself. ‘Woman – America. Ellie – Nonie. July. Ring.’ My son Mike is not long-winded like his mother. He always uses one word where six are needed, while I usually use six where one would suffice. I got the gist of his message, and there was a number to call.

  Ellie and Nonie had been the chapel women here when I first came to the village in my early twenties. They were then in their seventies and are now, of course, long gone. Neither of them had children so this had to be a descendant of their sister who had emigrated and must have finished up in America. I had become well accustomed over my years in the village to people returning to look up their family roots, and I knew about their hunger to find out everything they could about their ancestors. Usually they appear out of the blue and expect to be able to reach back about a hundred years in one hour. Sometimes they can be lucky and meet someone on the street who may have local knowledge, or, if not, are helpful enough to channel them in the right direction. Or they may be unlucky and meet a newcomer or passer-by who knows absolutely nothing about the place and hasn’t got the faintest idea what they are talking about. Worse again, they could meet a local who has no interest in the history of the place and who hardly knows the name of his own grandmother and hasn’t the slightest interest in being helpful. So this vital first encounter, whilst being a matter of pure luck, can make all the difference to people who come back in search of their roots. But this woman was taking no chances. She meant business. I was impressed. As well as that, I had fond memories of Ellie and Nonie and would be happy to help their returning descendants.

  I was reared in a house where eight generations of our family had lived and where descendants of emigrants often returned, and when they did, my parents gave them the time and welcome that they felt was due to anyone who had roots in our farm. I now felt the same about anyone returning to our village. When I came here first, there were many people willing and able to do this, but in more recent years, sourcing the knowledge they are hoping for has become more difficult.

  Ellie and Nonie had done a lot for our parish because, as chapel women, they had often gone above and beyond the call of duty. They washed the altar linen, did the flowers, polished the brasses, cleaned the church, trained the altar boys (sometimes the priests), kept track of funerals, christenings and weddings and knew who was buried in every corner of the graveyard. They were an encyclopedia of church knowledge as their mother and grandmother had been before them. Our parish owed the family a huge debt of gratitude. It was payback time. So I went to look at their gravestone. It was a fine stone, located behind the church and inscribed with all their family names and dates, but it could be cleaner! So Fr Finbarr decided that the parish would pay to have it cleaned up.

  Before I got around to ringing the woman in America, a letter came with the day and date of her arrival. I checked my diary to make sure I was free and in Innishannon on that date. I marked the day in the calendar too. When the day arrived, I answered a knock on my door to find not one but six Americans on the doorstep. My well-organised correspondent, Patty, introduced me to her husband, her brother and his wife and two friends who had never previously been to Ireland. They were charming people. We sat around in the front room, and I read them a poem that I had written about Ellie, Patty’s great-aunt. Then we walked up to the church where her great-great-grandmother and great-aunts had spent their working lives. On the way up, we passed the location of the original family home and the site of the little shop where Ellie and Nonie had sold sweets to the children going to and coming from school. Where their little house, shop and haggard once stood are now two modern townhouses. I have often secretly wished that these houses had been called Tig Ellie and Tig Nonie.

  Patty and her brother were delighted to meet and talk with someone who had known their great-aunts, whom Patty had visited with her mother when she was a child. She smiled as she recalled that she had been slightly in awe of these somewhat austere ladies who had seemed to this young American child to be from another planet. Still, she never forgot them and how much the visit had meant to her mother. Years later, when Ellie and Nonie were both dead, she and her mother had made a return visit, and Patty remembered how disappointed her mother had been when they could find nobody who remembered the aunts. ‘So this time,’ she told me, ‘I was taking no chances.’ Then I understood the reason for all her forward planning.

  After tea and much talk, I invited them to come back another day when I would have rounded up some of the neighbours who, as children, might have known Ellie and Nonie. I made a few phone calls to neighbours who, unlike me had gone to school in the village, and, indeed, they had great childhood memories of Ellie and Nonie, and also of their brother, Jerry ‘the Miller’, who had worked in the mill across the road. There is no substitute for the knowledge of a place that those who have gone to school and grown up there have acquired. During childhood you unconsciously absorb the ambience of your own place, which, like an unread book, lies within you.

  So, a few days later, some of these neighbours came for tea. We all sat around for hours, and there was great laughter and fun as stories of Ellie and Nonie and their brother Jerry were relayed. These old neighbours had an in-depth knowledge of the family. As children, they had bought sweets in Ellie and Nonie’s little shop. The farmers in the group had, as young lads, brought grain to the mill and had great recall of Jerry. The locals enjoyed the tea and talk and reminiscing as much as the visitors did.

  The following Saturday night, the Americans came to Mass in our church, and for Patty and her brother it was a very emotional experience of family remembrances. Their American travelling companions were in awe of the long-tailed roots of their Irish-American friends. After Mass, they met more neighbours who had known the great-aunts and great-uncle, and we again gathered around the kitchen table and did more catch-up on their family history.

  Before the Americans left Innishannon, I asked Patty if she would write an article for Candlelight, and, as I had come to expect from her, it arrived shortly afterwards.

  Chapter 22

  Home Is a Community

  We began this book with tea under Uncle Jacky’s apple tree and then meandered through different scenes of village life. In many ways,
village living is a cameo of life anywhere: it is the people who give colour and richness to it. When new people move in, they may wish to add value to the community by being part of it, or they may choose to be non-productive members and remain behind their own door. If they so decide, they will be left there, but if they come out and become part of the place where they now live they soon integrate and enrich their own life and the lives of those around them. All the improvements to our village have been achieved by people working together, the tried-and-tested meitheal system when we all get together and share the planning and the achieving. It enriches us as a community and makes this a good place to live.

  Innishannon is blessed to be surrounded by a well-rooted, solid farming community, who come on board when there is a big job to be done. Also, we have the plus of a ‘round up the usual suspects’ system, and these people come with a positive ‘can do’ attitude. They are the lifeblood of the community. Their answer to a call asking for help on any given project is always, ‘I’ll be there.’ They are usually busy people, but never perceive themselves as being too busy to get involved and help out. There is the old saying, of course, that if you want something done ask a busy person, and you really see the truth in that when organising voluntary labour.

  Let us walk through the village and have a look at the projects that have been done by our voluntary labour. In recent years, one of our biggest projects was the Millennium Grove. As you enter the village on the road from Cork, you see on your left a grove of sixteen-year-old trees that are now beginning to mature. This grove was our Millennium statement. It had been waste ground, but we cleared it in preparation for the planting of these Millennium trees. All this work was achieved by hard-graft, voluntary labour. The trees, sponsored by local people, were ball-rooted, making them more expensive than the bare-rooted variety, but it was worth it as it got them off to a good start, which was further fortified by a bed of rich topsoil and old horse manure from nearby riding stables. A meitheal gathered in the dying days of the old millennium to plant the trees, and because their planting marked this special occasion, their age will always be remembered.

  During the following sixteen years, we also planted three hundred trees on the opposite bank. Here again the meitheal system came into play, and tea and cake were brought along to introduce a softening and sociable aspect to the hard endeavour. During these gatherings, neighbours met and new residents were integrated into the community. These trees will eventually become a complete wood, requiring little maintenance, and will greatly enhance the environment by absorbing some of the harmful emissions from the endless stream of traffic passing by them into West Cork.

  Closer to the village around the stone monument bearing our village name are many specimen trees commemorating special events. Here is a Cedrus deodara, which was bought at a gardening talk in our local pub. It spent a few years in a large pot and was then transplanted out here. It is now beginning to take off and will eventually grow into a magnificent tree. Hopefully no maniac will ever get to it with a saw! If you never plant a tree, you will happily cut one down, not realising how long it takes a tree to mature.

  Providing a backdrop to all these trees is an ever-strengthening beech hedge that again was planted by a meitheal a few years back. In spring, this hedge comes alive in a vivid sap green, then deepens in summer into a stronger hue and turns into a gorgeous bronze in winter.

  The jewel in the crown at the entrance to our village is the wonderful sculpture of the Horse and Rider at Bothairín an Átha. This symbolic sculpture of a workhorse and cloaked rider breathe the antiquity of another era. It alerts new arrivals that they are about to enter a storied and historic place, and it encapsulates the origins of our village. This river ford was where the settlement began. In ancient times, when waterways were the arteries of the country, while roads were still dirt tracks and before bridges were built, river crossings were of huge commercial importance. This river crossing was the birthplace of our village. The Bandon river is tidal up to this point, and when the tide withdrew down to Kinsale harbour, the river was fordable. The village grew up around that ford. Seven years ago, we erected the sculpture to commemorate our ancestors and to mark the gateway – by horse – into the village and West Cork. This approach road is kept in pristine condition by Jim and Antoinette, who live here and regularly do the hard job of picking litter. The litter-pickers who live along the approach roads into the village are a vital link in the chain of our village maintenance.

  Then you come to the row of little houses formerly the property of the Frewen estate, who were once landlords here, and beside them is the grotto, a green haven where a young weeping willow, planted in 2005, is now catching up with an older companion willow, planted thirty years earlier by the Tidy Towns committee. A meitheal gathers here every summer to give the grotto an overhaul and afterwards enjoy a cup of tea and chat. Under the spout of a red pump on the pathway outside the grotto we have recently placed an old water trough. This was originally the iron trough for watering the priest’s horse in the presbytery. That need is long gone, and the old trough has now become a flower container. Across the road, the old Barrack Well, from which the villagers formerly drew their water, has been restored, and beside it is a fine barracks, now, happily, the home of our new young guard and his family.

  The beautiful and historic Market House, the only one of its kind in Ireland, catches your eye as you round the village corner. Facing you then is the Adderley Lawn Wall of the original Innishannon House. The first landlord, Thomas Adderley, built his family home beside Bothairín an Átha, and for security reasons – and to prevent the natives polluting his view – surrounded himself with a high wall. The arched wall still remains today and is one of the features of our village.

  In front of this is sited a bright red cart, laden with flowers and surrounded by overflowing barrels in similar profusion, watered and cared for by Willie. This brilliant display is continued in the planted troughs in front of the old ivied Innishannon Lawn Wall whose arches are draped with hanging baskets, watered and cared for by Catherine and Phil, who live behind the arches. Along the main street and on the hill up to St Mary’s Church, many houses and businesses put out window boxes and hanging baskets every year. The hope is that some year every house will have a window box!

  As you go through the village, you will see many black and red plaques on the walls. If you are on a walkabout, you can read these plaques, which tell the interesting history of the village buildings.

  As you approach the western end of the village, to your right is an old stone wall, and in 1750 behind this wall stood a Charter School. These schools, of which there were fifty around Ireland, were the precursors of the national school system. This crossroads was originally known as Charter School Cross. Beside this wall, a flower-laden scarlet wheelbarrow, rescued in a battered state from a ditch outside the village, has been given a new lease of life. Finally, over the bridge and facing you, in front of the restored forge, is the sculpture of Billy the Blacksmith. This sculpture is a well-known landmark on the road to West Cork. Here in this forge Billy’s family plied their trade for generations. On the corner opposite Billy is a large boat overflowing with flowers and behind it a little walled slope to the river traditionally known as The Hatchery, the brainchild of the entrepreneurial landlord Mortimer Frewen.

  As you round the last corner out of Innishannon, your final sighting is of Billy the Blacksmith with his hammer raised in farewell. Our Horse receives you into the village, and our Blacksmith bids you farewell as you leave! They are the guardians at each end of our village.

  The winds of change have blown through our village, but by blending our historical past with these changes we enrich our home place and preserve it for the future. The meitheal system of togetherness strengthens our sense of community – because as well as working together we always take the time to have tea and talk.

  About the Author

  Alice Taylor

  I enjoy village livi
ng. Back in the early sixties when I came to live in Innishannon as a twenty-year-old newly-wed it was a very quiet place, traffic-free and tranquil. Uncle Jacky and Aunty Peg lived next door to us, and everyone living in the village knew one another. A stranger was a great novelty. Now the population has exploded and the road through the village is throbbing with nonstop traffic. Over the years I have been part of the changing fabric of the village, and, while some changes have depleted us, others have enriched us. But the essence of our village life today remains intact due mainly to the solid core of farming life surrounding us and the generous people who give time and effort voluntarily to keep the heart of our community vibrant. Being part of a village community can be challenging and frustrating, but it is always interesting and enriching. I often walk the woods, watch the river, but above all share time with family, friends and neighbours. I am glad that I live here.

  RECENT BOOKS BY ALICE TAYLOR

  And Time Stood Still

  The Gift of a Garden

  Do You Remember?

  The Women

  For a complete list see www.obrien.ie