Rambling house of yesteryear in Offaly farmhouse remembered
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Johnny Butterfield recalls the rambling house at his home in Ballincanty, near Tullamore, of the 1950s and 60s
ALL through the 1950’s and 1960’s and probably before that, our home in Ballincarty was a Rambling House where neighbours – both young and old – gathered almost every night of the week, except Saturday and Sunday nights, to talk, discuss the happenings of the place and their memories of times gone by.
They may not have known of the great events happening in the world beyond, but they did know if Mary Ann down the road was not well or if the family over the hill were going through hard times. This would often be the time to drop a creel of turf in the yard or maybe a bonham or calf without anyone being the wiser.
They also knew the seed, breed and generation of the entire community, who married who, or maybe who nearly married who and why!
The seasons brought changes to the chat. In Spring it would be the sowing of crops, calving or the lambing. In Summer it would be the hay, turf and of course our games. Autumn would be about the harvest. This was also a very sad time as many of the young people left the area to emigrate or find work in the city. The colour, life and activities these young people brought to the area would be sadly missed and fondly remembered.
The Winter nights were the ones best remembered when much of the year’s work and endeavours were done. This is when the talk turned to the history, lore and legend of the area. The connections and events that moulded our community. Who did what and who did not – and why! The ups and downs of life were a university of life better than any third level institution.
I will always remember that they had a great gift of how to tell a story or yarn. One I recall concerned a Rose Doyle who had a turbulent courtship with her neighbour Eamon Newton. During a truce in the courtship they decided to get married. A few days before the wedding Rose and her neighbour Julia Kelly cycled into Tullamore to buy a costume which was the usual apparel for brides in those days, and could serve for wear to Sunday Mass for most of their lives thereafter.
The day they went shopping happened to coincide with the monthly pig fair in Tullamore. Passing by a cart didn’t Rose see a fine sow with three lovely suck bonhams snuggled into the straw. Rose bought them with the money she had for the outfit! When Julia asked her what about Eamon, Rose said “Ah sure Eamon will be there tomorrow but the pigs won’t”.
Rose never married and Eamon went off to Australia.
Emotions around the tragic civil war in Ireland were still strongly felt. As my mother and father were from families on different sides of the conflict, politics were avoided and not discussed at my father’s wishes.
But I do recall one character – for a bit of devilment – pondering why there was no road in Ireland called after Mr De Valera! Mentioning that we had O’Connell Street, Griffith Avenue, Connolly Station, etc., and Mr De Valera the most eminent person of the 20th Century. This had the desired effect when a fellow with a strong opposing view said, “I’ll tell you why there is no road called after De Valera, it is because no road is long enough or crooked enough in Ireland”.
THE LONG READ: Tullamore or Tullamoore and where is the great hill
Humour was generally part of the proceedings. There was always a special affection for the rakes, rogues and those who did not conform.
At a certain time in the Rambling House, my mother would always rattle the Rosary beads and before the less inclined could escape, would start praying. She had her own crusade to reform the strays. When she came to the third glorious mystery – The descent of the Holy Ghost on the Apostles, she would call on Michael John. Now Michael John was a cattle jobber and more interested in the price of calves than the Holy Ghost!
To conclude the night a mug of tea and a bit of spotted dick was had by all. Before the Ramblers went out into the cold night and into a life that was hard and at times tough going.
Sometimes described disparagingly as hob talk, I will always be grateful for those Ramblers and the wisdom, decency and respect they had for the Church and the new State that they had helped to build. Sadly now almost all of them are gone.