December Blog: Skipping to America

Back in the Summer that year in Leitrim, she had been struck by a conversation with her cousin on the subject of where her great grandfather on her father’s side had come from. Her great grandfather and his 3 brothers originally came from Killery Mountain in County Sligo. When they were young men, in that generation that came after the famine, they travelled from Killery to settle in Killargue in County Leitrim. This is a place with small rolling hills snuggled down between the mountain ranges of Castlegal to the west and the Glenfarne plateau to the east. Killargue was an ancient place of pilgrimage because of its Holy Well. The Holy Well was attached to a religious settlement, Cill Fearga or "Church of Fearga" which was founded by a holy woman called Fearga in the 6th century.
 And from Cill Fearga came the name Killargue. Her great grandfather and his brothers settled up in the rather bleaker highlands surrounding Killargue, somewhere around the townlands of Lughnaskeehan (or Hollow of the Wings) and Buckhillbarr (or Top of Buck’s Hill). Years later her great grandfather moved from the hard, hard life up on the slopes of that Glenfarne plateau to a small bit of an easier life down in the lowlands in Killargue -  to a hollow of a townland named Curry (or Marshy Place). It was nearer the main road there and of course, there was that place of pilgrimage for what was then a devout
Catholic population, the Holy Well. Several generations of his family were reared in a small stone house there, many of whom emigrated to America.

Killery Mountain, County Sligo

Killery is near Slishwood an ancient forest and an islet called Innisfree, made famous by Yeats and in later years that classic of a film “The Quiet Man”. Coincidentally in recent years, Slishwood had become for her, a go to place for a bit of reflection and there is a great loop walk which runs along by a lake called Lough Gill. There is a wee peninsula along the walk where she liked to step out onto, every couple of months. Looking out on the still, glasslike lake, reflecting the lilac greys or dove egg blue hues of the sky, depending on the weather, she liked to pause and take stock.

She took a walk in Slishwood towards the end of Autumn on a crisp, warm sunny day – one of the last before Winter stops all in their tracks. The forest leaves glowed orange and red – both, on the trees and then carpeting the woodland path. She took the loop path up above the lake and looked down and around on the ever deepening reds of the woods and part of a Dylan Thomas poem came to mind:

“It was my thirtieth year to heaven,

Stood there then in the summer noon,

Though the town below lay leaved in October blood.

O may my heart’s truth still be sung on this high hill in a year’s turning.”

Her father had recently died and she too wondered what the next year’s turning would bring.

November slipped in and time stood suspended and people remembered past loved ones and their ancestors. There were frosty or foggy days where no one wanted to stir out in their cars. And that was ok because sometimes you just have to stay still – let your mind settle after what may or may not have been a helter skelter year.  Either way, there is a meditative holding and slowing of the breath of our lives at this time of year. She remembered that her father had walked the same lanes as a boy that she was now walking in Killargue.

Sometimes she would see a robin. It had that somewhat disconcerting, yet charming manner robins have, of coming very close as if they want to pass on a message. She recalled how people said that when you see a robin it means that a passed on much loved one was paying a visit. She was both upset and comforted.

At that time she visited Slishwood once again. It occurred to her that her great grandfather and his brothers had also, just like herself, probably frequented those places around Killery, like Slishwood and Innisfree. Had her great grandfather stood on that same wee peninsula that she felt drawn to? There is a graveyard in Killery that dates back to the 15^th century. Almost hidden among the tomb stones is a collection of egg shaped stones around a small rectangular stone, with pieces of thread and string around it. This “straining string” supposedly possesses an infallible cure for all manner of pains, aches and strains. The sufferer or deputy removes from the “straining stone”, a piece of string, replacing it with another string. They then take each stone in succession and repeat certain prayers whilst turning it. Had her young great grandfather or his brothers deputised for an older member of the family with advanced rheumatism in this ancient ritual? Ireland or Hibernia (as the Romans called it – forever Winter) with its phlegmatic weather caused many aches and pains as evidenced by the  ancient sweat houses dotted around the landscape –  beehive- like  saunas to soothe the bones.

Yes, November that year for her certainly opened the door a crack, to past lives and times and as always a time to nurse aching bones and aching thoughts in by the fire, away from foggy, damp, seeping days.

The end of November/beginning of December brought a few more, bright, crisp days that dug her out of her hibernation.  Her interest had been piqued by a new   café that had opened   up in Dromahair, a village near Killargue and was called The Village Tea Rooms. The café adjoined the back of the Stanford Arms pub along the main street. The rooms looked out onto the woods leading down to the Bonet River, Leitrim’s version of the Amazon. There were benches outside and remaining Autumn leaves were piled thickly around, hues of russet and scarlet.

Also, a loop walk had been established in Dromahair which encompassed a part of the old railway that went through Dromahair that was part of the Sligo, Leitrim and Northern Counties (SLNCR) line that went from Enniskillen to Sligo and closed in 1957. The loop walk also included Creevelea Abbey, the last Franciscan friary to be founded in Ireland. It was built in 1508 by the O Rourke’s who were the ancient Kings of the kingdom of Breifne which covered the counties of Leitrim, Cavan and Sligo of which Dromahair was the capital. The abbey was in use until the 17^th century when the Franciscans were forced to leave by the Cromwellian army. It seems that this part is now the beginning of the new loop walk. The light was starting to fall so after stopping   at the Village Tea Rooms, she walked briskly, curious as a cat to complete the walk. It continued down the lane that led from the abbey to the main road, wound its way up through rolling hills and pasture and then down over a quaint, arched bridge over bubbling water, shaded by trees. And there was the old railway line as straight as a die, heading off towards Dromahair under a canopy of trees. It ran alongside the babbling brook she had just crossed over. She walked along for around half a mile, cows in a nearby field gazing calmly on. Eventually the railway path came out at another bridge and the old Dromahair railway station that lay alongside the Clubhouse pub that houses the popular Riverbank Restaurant. The walk is around 5km.

Seeing the railway station at Dromahair had reminded her of another story in the family. She remembered a story of one of her great aunts. At 16 years of age her father brought her to the station at Dromahair. He saw her off on the train to America at a time when someone going abroad was as if they had passed on – into another   life where those left behind could not enter. That is how America was in those days to those left behind in Ireland – another world, another life, a person never to be seen again, not in this life anyway.

 Her great grandfather had many daughters, most of whom emigrated to America. Thus, there are many American cousins who are descendants of those daughters and they come over periodically to Leitrim and bring their children. They visit the old house down in Curry in Killargue and show their children where it all began, so to speak – it is almost like a pilgrimage, a rite of passage. They too have stories that have been handed down about Killargue, Leitrim, who is related to who, what happened when they got to America etc. Sometimes the cousins who have remained in Leitrim are asked to show the American cousins a particular field remembered fondly by their grandmother or great aunt. Back then the fields had names and some of them were never forgotten by those who went to America. They could describe every hedge, stone, hawthorn bush and grassy tuft.

Just before Christmas one of her cousins came over from America with her husband and four year old daughter. The child was a bundle of fun - feisty, lively and adventurous, those qualities as many recalled, had been present in her great, great, grandmother who had left on that train from Dromahair several generations ago. They all went to Dromahair to have tea and cake in The Village Tea Rooms and then do part of the loop walk including the railway station and old track.  Her cousin had explained the story to her daughter about her great, great grandmother and the wee one was looking forward to standing and walking in those very spots outlined in the story. Already the child was very excited by another event. They had just come from a place near Drumkeerin, the nearest village to Killargue, called Spencer Harbour on the shores of Lough Allen. It had been raining relentlessly and they had all sat huddled in the car creating their own little sauna. Suddenly a grey heap that everyone had assumed from the misty interiors of the car was a big stone, dissolved in the rain and walked off – 3 deer, one with antlers, sauntering off into the nearby trees, flicking their tails. The little girl was almost bursting with joy as she was convinced the one with the antlers was Rudolf the Red nosed Reindeer, though the presence of a red nose could not be verified.

The Village Tea Rooms were alive with chatter, cutlery rattling, tables thronged with murmuring talk and as the little girl called them, big boys, running around the benches outside, swinging their arms like windmills, kicking up leaves under the trees. The rain had stopped and although the day was still and grey, colours and evocative scents of baking   abounded in the café.  Delicate blues and pinks patterned the china cups and side plates. The warm toasty browns and cream colours of the cakes and scones tempted all to have a “piece of something” with their tea. Christmas lights winked off the cosy brick walls, holly and decorated branches strewn around the lintels and pictures. There was a cake with a wonderful name on the menu, that none of us in Ireland had heard of, though the American cousins had - a Hummingbird Cake. It has its origins in the American South and was a mixture of bananas, pineapple and coconut with a zesty cream cheese icing on top, sprinkled with walnuts. One of her cousins said it is rumoured that the origins of the name are because it makes you hum with happiness. Within minutes at the instigation of the wee girl, it was if a hive of bees had landed among them as they did exactly what the recipe demanded. Their humming drew peals of laughter from nearby tables.

Later, they all went for a walk. The day was calm now that the rain had stopped, the sky,  shades of slate and pale lilac that gives those grey Winter  days in Ireland ,though sombre, also a pleasing aspect. But it was becoming cold and frosty as the light was waning.  They arrived at the old Dromahair railway station and the newly renovated path of the old railway track stretched ahead. As they started to walk along the child began tugging on her mother’s hand demanding to know why she could not wait at the station and get the train just like great, great nana. Her mother kept explaining that it was not possible as that was many years ago and now there were no trains. The afternoon was lengthening on the heels of a busy, full day and a shrill, tired edge of petulance entered the child’s voice. Her mother, also tired, kept answering the why, why, whys with weary resignation. She asked her daughter to go on up the track and with a swing of her arm the child extricated herself from her mother and skipped off, good mood restored. They all walked silently on, watching her little skipping figure up ahead in the darkening afternoon. She saw that the girl’s mother looked somewhat stricken as if   imagining another  young  figure many ,many years ago, standing at the railway station looking in the same direction up the track, waiting at   the station, looking towards America, waiting for the train to come – single fare only.

Up ahead, the little girl stopped suddenly in her tracks as if something had occurred to her and turned around. She stood there facing them, breathing out dragon’s breath on that cold Winter day and put her head on one side and her hands on her hips. With that indomitable sense of the unconquerable and endless possibilities that young children have - and her voice a happy echo in the still of the day - she said “Well, if we can’t go on the train, let’s skip back to America then and we’ll be home in time for Christmas”