The Smithy

      In the Spring of 2015, near the end of one of our trips to Ireland, we went rambling through the Duhallow area on the Cork/Kerry border, and we ran into - well, I'll let this extract from our day's travel notes tell the story....

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We loop down to the Blackwater River for a while, to take in the exquisite countryside that abounds here on the Cork-Kerry border, then on up to the Cullen area, to see if we can track down the old Hickey blacksmiths that we can see on the 1840 Ordnance map, in the nearby townlands of Knockduff and Lisnaboy.

Knockduff first, and there we come across the wreck of a building that looks blacksmithy, but it’s in the yard of haulage firm, and hard to get any sure angle on the front without blatantly trespassing. So, no matter, there’s another one said to be down at Lisnaboy, at the crossroads in the heart of the “old” Hickey area – “old” as in the original tribal area of the O’Hickey clan here in Munster, according to our research.

We drive past and yep, sure enough, there it is, looking badly derelict, with bits of farm equipment and junk all round and some sort of an annex attached, but clearly has the air of an old roadside smithy about it.

Jess opts to stay in the car so I walk back to get some footage for posterity, start to wander about the place, and suddenly realise there’s a bloke coming out of the open doorway, on his mobile, but watching me at the same time! I oh-so casually point the camera elsewhere and shut off and wait as he comes over. Right, don’t panic, the Irish are a friendly lot. Other than the ones that shoot you and stick you in the bog but that’s only in Ulster back in the 1970s. Mostly.

I open with a “G’day, I’m just doing a bit of – um - family history research on my wife’s Hickey forebears from the area and as I understand it this is an old blacksmithy of the Hickeys...” all in one breath and by now he has a little smile going. He’s about 45-50, grimy overalls, average height, but well built, and has hands like legs of meat. An Irish farmer that does his own repairs I reckon, as I take in the tractor-mounted mower in parts amid the general upheaval.

And we quickly hit it off, as we start talking in the same sort of engineering language, capped off with my comment that - “Geez, my dad woulda loved this!” – as I look through the door, and then it’s like we’ve been mates forever.

With obvious pride, he takes me inside and yes, certainly it’s okay to video (because I just have to get this classic on tape), and amazed to see the total chaos. But hey, it’s his everyday farmer workshop, crap everywhere, dirt floor, junk hanging from every wall. And to cap it off, from under a heap of junk he digs out the old original forge to show me. Bit of ancient masterpiece.

Then I realise that his “annex” is actually – I kid you not - the back end of a once big articulated furniture removal van, that’s been shoved up to the end of the building, a large space cut out of the wall, and sealed off. Sort of. He tells me he keeps all his spare parts in there, which suggests he also does work for others, emphasised by showing me his new hydraulic fittings kit, then the stripped gears of his mower (current project), and together we stand there and speculate at length on the vagaries of modern machinery.

He’s convinced that I must be at least part Irish, but no, none I’m afraid, would like to be but I’m descended from 100% old West Country English farmers, a “total Sassenach!” and that gets a good laugh together going. Then I admit that my Dad was an old-time engineer but was so organised, a real Englishman, and he would’ve had a nervous breakdown if he saw this lot! And it’s time for another big laugh together.

He asks me about Jess’s Hickeys, and I tell how her great-grandfather was a John Hickey born about 1840 and that his father was an Andrew Hickey from the Kiskeam area up the road we think, and he has a look on his face that sort of says “Yes, he would be one of ours...”, and tells me he’s Liam Hickey, and not only is this the old Hickey smithy, but his brother is John, and their father (a blacksmith) was Andrew, and his father (also a blacksmith) was Andrew as well!!

He goes on to say that yes, this is the oldest townland of “our” (I love that!) O’Hickeys, meaning here at Lisnaboy (pronounced Lisnabee) rather than Eaglaun, on the other side of the road! I love the sense of ageless “home” that we in Aus just don’t feel. But when I press a bit more, the old reality bites, that his ancestral memory goes back only to his grandfather, who he knew well (the old boy died in 1960 aged 90) but how he never asked about his ancestors – “...people just didn’t worry about all that...”, he explains.

But finally it’s time to go, and he gives me his phone number and invites us to come back for tea one night soon, and I thank him but say that we’re off home tomorrow, and we shake hands, and there’s that indefinable tug again. This country just gets into your bones.

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The Gatehouse

        When you travel, it pays to poke about in the quite corners, and be open to the locals. Be ready to make friends. It’s the only way to really experience a place, and other’s lives.

        Early in the (northern) Spring of 2015, we were living in Kerry in Ireland for a while, and on our explore agenda was the townland of Coolkelure, just north of Dunmanway in West Cork.

        We’d recently tracked down the 14-15^th century origins of Jess’s Hurley ancestors, who occupied a couple of raths (old ring-fort homesteads) on a hilltop nearby, and were wandering about getting the feel of the local countryside, of small rural holdings, narrow lanes, green fields, all very West Cork.

        Stooging along at about walking speed, we came across what was unmistakably a gatehouse, one of those classics that stand at the entrance to most landed estates – sadly in Ireland, always originally in the hands of the English 17^th century usurper landlords, as this one was once.

        It’s just too good to drive past. There’s a For Sale sign outside, two big gate pillars but no gate, an empty drive, and no sign of life. It’s impossible to resist.

        We pull up and stand at the gate, taking in it’s style, but then notice there’s a car around the back, and now there’s also a young mum with a three year old in tow. And a dog. That’s now sniffing my leg. Maybe looking for the tastiest spot.

        Awkward moment, so we smile and stumble through an apology, but she says hullo and comes over, and we get into a chat. She’s 25-28, definitely not Irish, and only too keen to tell us all about the place. And yes, it’s a gatehouse, to the old Shuldham estate – we can’t see the “big house” from here, but she assures us the people now in it wouldn’t let us have a look at there’s anyway, as they’re “not very neighbourly”. Not that we want to see it. But we just love the gatehouse.

        “Would you like to have a look through?” Hell yes, sure would! (Just love the natural friendliness of country folk!). So we put the car in her drive to get it off the crossroads out front, and its intros all round.

        She’s Sophie and her lad is Eli, who’s maybe a touch HDD, but a good kid, although keen to get hold of the video camera, so I compliment him on his scary headwear and all is sweet. He becomes my extra shadow.

        As we stand admiring the place, she tells us that she’s English, that her parents are from Yorkshire and Brighton, but her bloke (I think she says his name is Bryn) is a South African from Wales, and they met in Skibbereen! Never fails to surprise you how much the young of today are citizens of the world.

        Then as she walks us through, Sophie tells how and she and her bloke actually want to buy it and do it up, and are flat out trying to raise the money before someone else grabs it, but are renting it in the meantime from the owners – speculators who aren’t local, but got into too many properties, went bust in the post-Celtic Tiger slump, and are now desperate to sell. So they keep sending prospective buyers around.

        We’re barely into the front reception and I just have to comment that the place will surely be a “challenge” for them (geez it needs everything!), and that’s when Sophie admits a little sheepishly that her and her fella are “...keeping it in its state of glorious bad repair!” (Good move guys!)

        Sophie gives us a full tour of her home, touches on its history as best she understands it – it’s two storey, all stone, but built in the 1870s, which is a surprise, as it looks older, has mock archer’s slots and a few turret-y things, a classic bit of over-the-top Gothic Victoriana. But beautiful.

        She leads us through, pointing out the numerous sculpted “heads” and initials up in the plaster work, being various Shuldhams of note, who used the place as a hunting lodge, big-noting themselves to their guests. But hell, the place is in bad shape, rising damp, bad electrics, ancient plumbing, stone-work that’s as cold as charity. We admire their pluck.

        We thank Sophie profusely for the tour, and she seems reluctant to see us go, and can only think that maybe she’s a bit lonely with her fella away so much, trying to put enough together to ward off the other buyers in time.

        We do so love poking about in the Irish countryside, and even today we wish somehow we could know how it all panned out for Sophie and Eli and Bryn, and can only hope...

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        If you'd like to go for a drive around Coolkelure, click the tag to Google Map...

THE GATE HOUSE

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An Irish Welcome

 

        It had that tear-y, wrench-y sense of "ending", that feeling of Last Time, of We'll Never Do This Again.

        It was 2017, and our thirty year overseas travel adventure was about to close. You always knew it had to happen some time, but now the reality was on us. It was time to hang up our haversacks and boots and passports. And, fittingly, we were in Ireland, that grand and green and all-embracing place that had stolen us away right from the very beginning. And we were not just in Ireland, but six weeks in West Cork/Kerry where part of us will live as long as we're still breathing.

        We were in Kenmare, a small country town down on the Kerry coast, where we were always made welcome and felt exceedingly comfortable, and in our favourite bungalow, a house we've used many times, mountains all around, and a five minute walk from the town's three main streets, with its pubs and shops and people. People like David and Marian, and Chris, and Gerry and Maeve and Megan. And Mick.

        We'd done six weeks in Kenmare several times of recent years and, as is always our way (same as at home), each time we've quickly stepped into the routine of an 8am second breakfast every morning at one cafe, where the real bonus is that it gets you in with the locals, as any cafe in the world has a full set of regulars at 8am. In the past it was Prego, where we'd struck up quite a friendship with Gerry the cafe-owner, and every Sunday morning we'd sit and sort out the problems of the world together and he'd use me as a crash test dummy for his latest culinary idea. And there was also Maeve and Megan, two of the loveliest lasses you'd ever be likely to meet, both local and about 18 and took turns to tend Gerry's 8am regulars. Including us. And Chris the hairdresser, a lady who made hats - 'fascinators' I think she called them.

        But in 2015 Gerry was gone and Maeve was in Queensland, and Megan was only on fill-in. But Chris was still a regular, and the new manager was Mick. Mick who'd been a firefighter in the US for some years but had settled back home in Ireland to raise his new family. An all round great guy.

        When it was our time to go home we found we still had a souvenir left over - Herself likes to spread a little Aussie culture as she goes, and always takes a few bits from our local touristy gift shop, like little koalas and stuff. For kids. Gets a conversation going quicker than anything. This time we had a talking kangaroo left over, done out in a beach hat and a denim jacket. Yep, crass and ocker but what can I say - you press his belly once and he says in ya best Strine - "G'day mate!" - and press again and it's - "Ow ya goin'?" - doesn't get more bogan than that.

        Anyway, we had it there, and on out last morning asked Mick to give it to his chef, who had small kids. Mick squeezed that roo several times and was smiling like a big kid and right then we weren't at all sure if the chef was ever going to see it. And then him and Chris shouted us our breakfasts and hugs all round and we were gone. Lump in out throat, as usual.

        2017. First morning there, we find that "our" cafe is permanently closed. Deflated we try another one, but not really our style, so already thinking that travellers should never try to recapture a "moment", but just be thankful they had it once. But we run into Chris, renew our friendship, and she tells us that Mick now has his own cafe, up the street, doing it with his brother. So next morning, 8am, the church bell chiming the hour - it starts up every day at 8am to remind all good cafes that they should be open - and we head round to Mick's.

        Now, two years had passed, and we wondered if Mick would remember us - I mean, cafe manager, we only breezed through his life for a short time, and let's face it, Irish country towns see an awful lot of tourist traffic, people must become just a blur. But we push through the door, and Mick is there, sorting out his till change. And we're at least ready to explain who we are, and that two years ago we were... but Mick takes one look, and his face lights up, and he says "Ohmygod it was only yesterday that I pushed the kangaroo's stomach!" and he grabs Herself and hugs the stuffing out of her and then he's shaking my hand like I'M his long lost brother! Geez, you don't get a better Irish welcome than that.

        We had just the best six weeks. And every morning of it at 8am in Mick's.

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A Murphys In The Roughty Bar

    A few years back in the depths of the northern winter we rented a bungalow for six weeks in the smallish country town of Kenmare in Co Kerry, wanting to live like locals as best you can when you’re not born and raised in Ireland. In winter down there on the coast the Gulf Stream makes the weather a touch milder, and oddly enough it’s drier than you’d expect, cold yes, damn cold, some light snow at times, but plenty of fine days. Just a matter of picking the right clothes for the day. 

    But the big bonus is, there’s no tourists, and the natives have time to stop and chat. And when you’re there for that long you get into daily routines that help you develop some passing friendships, in the morning coffee caff, and the supermarket checkout, where the initial “Good morning” quickly turns to “Where are you from?” and soon you’re on to the daily discourse on weather, politics, landscape, movies, grandkids, the world economy, weddings and funerals, and the price of eggs.

    The Irish are the friendliest people on earth, and in no time at all you become far more than just a visitor. Especially in these smaller country towns where everybody knows everybody. And Herself’s West Cork great-grandparents helps no end, each with names that resound with rebel glory and the hard times of the Catholic Irish. It’s like having the password.

    As part of my own immersion into things Irish - hey, my online DNA thingo says I’m 3%! - not that it’s capable of seeing my 50% Irish spirit! - I decided to have a pint some afternoons, in one of the town’s small bars, y’know, breeze in like a regular about 3pm with newspaper under arm, and make out I’m reading it while I absorb the atmosphere. With a pint.

    Small Irish country pubs aren’t like the English equivalent, but do have a bit in common with those in Aus – always have a few locals at the bar, Sky TV always on sport, drinks in hand, plenty of chat. But in Cork and Kerry it’s a leg in if you drink Murphys. Guinness is okay, but down there going for a pint of Murphys helps make you look more of a local. If you’ve ever been to the top end of Tasmania and NOT asked for a Boags you’d know what I mean.

    Tasmania is small, not a lot more surface area than your average party sized pizza, population only about half-a-mill, but they still see themselves as North Tasmanians or South Tasmanians – well, they did in the mid ‘80s when we took the kids for a fortnight’s fly/drive holiday around the Apple Isle. During which we stopped off in Launceston (and I’m sorry England but here it’s ‘Lawn-cess-tun’), up in the top right corner. Girls and youngest lad went shopping, eldest son and I went for a pint.

    Small pub, three locals propping up the bar, two big locals with no necks playing pool, and the guy behind the bar. We front and order Cascades, a fine Hobart-brewed ale we had the day before. In Hobart. Way down south. About fifty kilometers.

    Instant silence.

    Pool playing suspended.

    ‘Cascade’ hanging in the air.

    One of the no-necks smiles – you know, that smile that says - ‘We’re giving you some leeway here fellas but I’m not really smiling’.

    “We drink BOAGS up ‘ere...”, he says.

    “Ah, yeah, great – we’ll have two pints of Boags then...”, and they went back to being two big blokes with no necks playing pool.

    Anyway, in Kenmare it’s called Murphys. And the pub is ‘The Roughty Bar’. 

    It sounds ominous but The Roughty Bar is simply named after the local river, and it’s typically one shop-front wide with one plain door and heavy drapes on the windows, so from the outside you can’t see inside. Which means the first time you have to go in cold. With no idea what’s on the other side of the door in the way of denizens, décor, protocols, or culture.

    But it turns out to be warm and fuggy and the fittings are sort of nineteen-fifties and in various shades of dark. Like a wonderful time warp where nothing changes because it shouldn’t. Except for the TV on the wall pumping out Sky Sports and it’s always horse racing.

    This day there’s two fellas hanging onto the horse that’s running fifth, there’s about four other locals tall-stool-sitting or standing at the bar talking, two more off to the side on the brocade upholstered seats behind small round tables, and the barman. Pints of the black stuff in every hand.

    I step in, momentarily blind from the sudden change in light, and all talks stops as they check me out. The barman nods with the suggestion of a smile, everyone goes back to horses/chat/drinks, and I front the bar. I order a pint of Murphys, leave a fiver on the sop-cloth, take a quiet corner seat under the front window, sort out the paper, wait respectfully for the glass-filling ritual. See, I know how it works.

    Best part of an hour in, I’m on my second pint and feeling no pain. Best I can make out no-one’s backed a winner but they’re still making jokes and stirring each other up. One of the bloke’s wives comes in and I half expect her to drag her fella out but they make a space for her and soon she too has a pint.

    A big bucolic type at the bar bumps his glass down, says something to his mates, laughs, turns to go. When I say big I mean big. I’ve seen smaller apartment blocks. Hands like mallee roots.

    He stops and towers over me, clearly had more than a few, but he sounds cheery and matey, launches into conversation in a rich rural Kerry brogue, has a quick laugh in between comments, I laugh when he laughs, wag my head knowingly, make ‘Geez, you’re right there mate’ sort of noises, and with a ‘See y’ lairter now’ smile and nod I give him a ‘Yeah, see y’later mate’ and he’s out the door.

    I look across to the barman, who’s wiping a glass, and I realise he’s been quietly watching, with a small grin on his face that says – ‘You didn’t understand a single thing he said, eh?’ Nup, not a bloody word! But a couple of afternoons lated when I drop in, the barman nods and the locals make a space and it’s like I’ve been coming there for years. Geez I love this country!

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