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Barefoot in Mullyneeny: A Boy’s Journey Towards Belonging
Bryan Gallagher
Bryan Gallagher's reminiscences of the Ireland of his youth, first heard on Radio 4's 'Home Truths', transport you to a world of boyhood pranks, playground politics and the confusion of growing up in a land that is every bit as magical and captivating as the stories he has to tell.Barefoot in Mullyneeny is Bryan Gallagher's evocative tale of a childhood remembered through the people and landscape of Fermanagh, near the beautiful shores of Lough Erne in Ireland. Bryan chronicles a time when all the big boys went to school in bare feet and secretly watched the Saturday night bands and dances in halls lit by Tilley lamps; where it was known to be nothing less than the biblical truth that if you put a horse-hair across the palm of your hand when you were about to be punished at school, the cane would split in two.Gallagher's writing will touch the hearts of those who long for the innocence of childhood and the simplicity of an era long past. Whether relating tales of murderous bicycle chases through the darkened streets of Cavan, of ghosts and fairy forts or the anguish of emigration, this remarkable memoir vividly recreates life in rural Ireland in the 1940s and 50s.For those who thought that life in Ireland was one of the poverty and misery of James Joyce or Frank McCourt, Barefoot in Mullyneeny offers a view of the Ireland of yesteryear that combines the touching, homely nostalgia of Nigel Slater's Toast and Laurie Lee's Cider with Rosie with a humorous optimism that is unmistakably Ireland at its best.
Barefoot in
Mullyneeny
A Boy’s Journey Towards Belonging
Bryan Gallagher
As I write this, the memory of the tragic death of John Peel is still vivid in my mind. He changed the lives of many people with his encouragement, and he did that for me in his sincere appreciation of these stories. He broadcast some of them in his BBC programmes, and it was he who first broached the prospect of publication.
This book is respectfully dedicated to his memory.
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ub486683b-7aa1-540c-9cfb-31dcfc55e867)
Title Page (#uaf287c73-ff60-5cc8-a6f6-26e77aa0be81)
dedication (#u3a697161-c177-5294-9014-451c882f1671)
INTRODUCTION (#u1231d81f-6707-5106-bd6f-e485ba78d51c)
The Map of Ireland (#uc675f742-7252-5e92-ba1e-7aa39a744b74)
The Cobbler (#u8f0b347f-bb33-5176-a67d-313d15a7bbce)
Jolly Nice (#ud80c1235-565b-5aed-bf9b-0dc76685b868)
I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls (#u36689725-4792-5162-b854-60e0fa8395ee)
Clerical Error (#u62a22584-17ef-5aed-b73d-beafea4189e9)
Last of the Islandmen (#u7795dcff-6d3d-5d8a-bcb6-5b2628cae4a0)
Goodbye Dolly Gray (#u5b435aa1-5a9e-58c6-ba9a-8d8e9773a6d8)
Mrs Malaprop and Daughter (#u6388da4c-d7d5-5dbd-a9cd-2f1eba5621e6)
Altar Altercation (#ub4909297-ddcf-511b-8d61-9d838bebf941)
Sand Pit (#u4599eef6-7480-51df-bdc2-e6d6de82433c)
Requiem for a Huntsman (#uecaf6e7b-a135-51a7-b2bf-c9146ae703f9)
Oremus (#ufffb7032-a681-5ed3-b976-674e44affb6f)
Rite of Passage (#u71802f37-81b5-59b0-81d4-98f47b9c1dd6)
The Huntsman (#ud7e55695-8933-5c7a-aff0-9acaa4a98b2c)
Three Cheers for the Souls in Purgatory (#u86cdb121-922d-5a5a-842a-9f584d6b45ef)
The Stations of the Cross (#u3d958680-5556-51ec-ac73-4b9e955318e0)
Hounds and Hares (#u1c29c7e4-c5f6-5e47-b340-219b71d1af47)
The Fourth Fall (#ucb72b672-c900-596b-9d96-88b8b6968592)
Killing the Pig (#u710dc95f-1e31-52a2-959f-fe85c1cbd1d0)
The Rabbit Island (#u30c3cd64-035a-5419-bdfb-39f98e534f44)
An Inspector Calls (#u9cc1808c-4fa8-5c96-93c2-72b4a5b769ab)
The White Horse (#u54f4af73-4985-5120-8f69-c1d799e22dc7)
Lords of the Dance (#ucca03f7b-0a25-533d-8d22-1b14bdb1cea6)
Gorman’s Reel (#u992cf42c-fe1d-535e-9761-fcfe18563d76)
The Fiddle Maker (#u93467a71-41ad-5d53-bc17-2941ca2f1a2e)
Donkeys (#u61ee5080-24b1-502f-8f2b-f3ee3bb42709)
A Policeman’s Lot (#u6fa6f8ab-ab03-59ae-8175-ebcf376424a2)
A-Hunting We Will Go (#u8f1924e0-8a58-5340-b807-0c621293d3a3)
Belonging (#u5b49eea4-f1be-567e-8e04-c512fda566b6)
How Much is that Doggie in the Window? (#u4adbd141-1ae2-585f-b7c0-22cf877afcb1)
Coping the Lea (#u22443c32-444f-55da-9049-b59849e2d511)
The Wet Winding Roads (#ud4213afb-b93e-5f4a-8b2d-2b77556db785)
Hob-nailed Boots (#u1adbd991-de7d-50bf-b284-2439ee653f1f)
Bonny Mary of Argyll (#u3065acb4-7db7-5836-8a2a-09b97e628aee)
The Boat (#udfcc42f6-54b6-5ceb-9f43-572b85149129)
The Stonemason (#u96268a95-1f09-5f32-a3bb-f0cfb8ffdb7a)
Disgrace (#ud263140d-f858-59fd-8ae9-dc2e4b5cc14c)
Some Enchanted Evening (#u51c00f2a-15a6-5cb6-b421-85b509d4927b)
Lost in Collooney (#u2990c31d-0120-577e-b46e-88e71d21010f)
Noreen Bawn (#ucb9c789e-da20-5988-8ba9-74133ec5e8a8)
The Streets of Laredo (#u2f8b54a1-cba2-51e7-bf6b-5a0c39ced4da)
‘Life slipped between the bars…’ (#u411b5993-bd52-59dc-bbd0-e72058a81966)
Foresight (#u988c4f45-e734-500d-83f6-88200db1764d)
Big Tom (#u141f6a53-3247-597b-81c1-8d27a1f7c61b)
Sheep Can’t Swim (#u615f8c8b-3591-5c98-ac89-b022e3c3d369)
Punting (#uec6826ee-6bd8-57d5-bea5-08e94b80c527)
The Poetry Lover (#ub95a7533-4a75-5634-b234-19248b5df22a)
Talking to a Ghost (#u8e9fe776-0e49-554d-be4d-1cc7f2fff26f)
Acknowledgments (#u221c258b-517f-5a9e-93f3-2791a9c5e5ed)
Copyright (#u0514dd22-2480-51b1-b5a9-5c9b1faa0e45)
About the Publisher (#u778e514f-e3d6-5356-9cc5-11210d1bee91)
INTRODUCTION (#ulink_c20436cc-fb6f-5d56-accb-d409b037c846)
They say in this county where I was reared, that for six months of the year Lough Erne is in Fermanagh, and for six months, Fermanagh is in Lough Erne. The county is dominated by the vast stretches of the mighty lake. It is from its shores, and the surrounding countryside, that most of my stories come.
It is a beautiful county, with winding waters and rolling hills whose people have retained their own unique accent and the structure and tone of their speech. These people are the heroes of my stories. Their influences have shaped my awareness in so many ways: the gentle cadences of their way of speaking, and the lyricism of dialogue found nowhere else in the world; their courage in the face of adversity; their kindness and humanity, their wit and humour, the sturdiness with which they retain their folk culture; and of course their wonderful music. I spent my childhood among these people and I have never really left. It is my feeling that among the fields and the streets where you grew up, there your spirit will always live.
And there you will leave it when you die.
Bryan Gallagher, April 2005
The Map of Ireland (#ulink_7f5c96c1-6eec-57f1-a8df-ed49e3caba32)
The sacrament of Confirmation is for ever associated in my mind with the town of Ballyhooley in County Cork. Not that I’m from Ballyhooley. I’m not from anywhere else on the south coast either. But I just cannot think, Bishop, Confirmation, without seeing the bottom half of that old school map—Carrantuohill and Dingle, Cahirciveen, the Blaskets and Courtmacsherry.
This has all to do with my primary school teacher many years ago. One of her methods of punishment was to put me standing out on the floor facing the wall where hung a map of Ireland. I often spent the best part of the day there. I can still remember the colours of the counties; Cork was pink, Tipperary was yellow, Queen’s County was green and King’s County was brown. I didn’t know so much about the North, because you were supposed to look straight in front of you, and I was only a wee boy. But I occasionally stole a glimpse at my own beloved Lough Erne or Cushendall in the green glens of Antrim, far away, almost at the ceiling.
The year before my own confirmation, I was an altar boy at the ceremony. The bishop intoned the names of all the candidates.
‘Con McManus.’
‘Present.’
‘John Maguire.’
‘Present.’
And then on and on, until he came by mistake to my name. How my name came to be there I don’t know, but it brought everything to a halt. There was a flurry of white clerical robes, great whisperings in the episcopal ear. And then canonical fingers pointing from all directions at me. I knelt in a state of trepidation akin to what the cat often felt on wet evenings before my mother gave it a boot out the door.
And then he called me over.
Over I went.
And he smiled. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘it is not the want of knowledge, it is the want of years.’ He shook hands with me, and that was it.
Next day I breezed into school with the air of one who has acquired some degree of greatness. But she was waiting for me.
‘How many of you were at Confirmation yesterday?’ she asked. All hands went up. ‘Anybody notice anything wrong?’ Nobody had. ‘On the altar?’ she prompted. Still nothing.
‘What should you do,’ she said slowly, ‘when you shake hands with the bishop?’
‘Kiss his ring,’ we replied. And then a strange and awful feeling came on me.
‘How many children saw a boy from this class shaking hands with the bishop yesterday?’
Everybody had.
‘And did he kiss his lordship’s ring?’
‘No Miss.’
‘No indeed,’ she said venomously, ‘no. Disgracing me opposite the whole parish.’
It was back to the corner. Face the wall. Ah well…Waterford is green…Ballyhooley is in Cork…Another long morning.
The Cobbler (#ulink_37da477f-8726-5c4b-8797-db5e1aa04c84)
I was six years old when I first met Jimmy the shoemaker. We had just moved to the area and I was sent up to his workshop with a pair of shoes to be soled and heeled
‘Come in,’ he said as I hesitated at the door.
He worked in a small shed right alongside the road with a window of small dirty panes through which, as he told me himself, he could see out but nobody could see in. In any case, passers-by would have had to bend down to look inside, because the shop was on a lower level than the road. From inside you could see their feet and legs only, and Jimmy once told me he could identify most people by the sound of their footsteps.
‘Your father has the best step of any man in this country’, he said to me. ‘On a frosty night I could hear him coming half a mile away, quick and light in the hob-nailed boots’.
Huge shiny sides of leather were stacked along one wall, shoes in pairs, leather belts, harnesses hung on the other. A pot-bellied stove stood in the middle of the floor which he fed occasionally with off-cuts of leather or sods of turf from a pile at the back. The smoke had an exotic smell. A selection of knives sat on a shelf, blades curved or straight. I had never been in such an exciting place.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked me on that first day.
‘Bryan,’ I replied.
‘Bryan O’Linn had no britches to wearHe bought a sheepskin for to make him a pairThe hairy side out and the skinny side inThere’s luck in odd numbers said Bryan o’Linn.’
