In 1993 Herself and my Mum (then aged only 80!) did a car tour of Ireland, and stayed overnight at the Glendalough Hotel in the Wicklow Mountains south of Dublin.
The Glendalough Hotel – before they went upmarket with a Convention Centre and all that, back when it still had the old-time atmosphere of the 1920s – has a lovely old Victorian era dining room over - and I mean OVER - the Glendasan River, so that just outside your warm and cosy table for two the water comes ribbling softly from under a small two-arch stone bridge, to disappear beneath your feet and out the other side on its run across the Glendalough Valley. One of the best dining rooms ever. And here the two girls struck up a passing alliance with a lovely lady called Mary, the world’s most charming, but most unlikely-looking, waitress.
Mary was then in her early sixties, walked with a bit of a lopsided shuffle, had a whisker or two on her chin, and spoke with a old world accent that often sounded like she was speaking in Gaelic.
For Mary nothing was too much trouble – “ah not atall not atall me dears” – and as the girls were in the place pretty much on their own, Mary had time to tell them her story, gave it to them in installments as she shuffled plates and pots of tea back and forth.
She told how she had done “t’ roight t’ing” when she was younger, had always been what was expected of her as the eldest daughter, and stayed at home to look after her ageing parents. But it went on for too many years, as one by one all the other kids got on with their lives and left her to it, till inevitably she was well past marriageable age. And when her mum died she went on looking after her dad, year after year.
But when her dad finally followed her mum to the grave, as was the way of it he left the farm completely to his eldest son, and Mary, angry and hurt, had nothing, and certainly not her youth any more. But in about her late 40s or early 50s, too proud to put herself on her brother’s charity, she left the only home she had ever known and found a job. Here in this lovely valley of the saints.
The family, who have owned the Glendalough Hotel for several generations, took her on many years ago, but she sort of became more than just an employee, and more like an old family retainer on one of those Downton Abbey type estates in the past, and she saw this as her home, having lived and worked here for so long. Then she added - what the girls thought the saddest thing of all - “And Oi wonder now if Oi moight’ve missed me chance at havin’ me awn fammly.”
But the locals all came to know her and she thought she may have made a good enough life with what she had, and to illustrate this, she tells them of one year when she put her hand up to hold the fort for the family over Christmas, back when the place used to close for the holidays, volunteering to stay here on her own so they could all get away somewhere warm together.
But it snowed really heavily that year and it came right up to the windowsills and cut the place off, and she was feeling just a bit lonely and down, so on Christmas morning one of their farmer neighbours dug out his tractor and plugged through the deep snow, with some Christmas goodies and a present for her, then stayed a while for a whisky or three together before heading back to his own dinner. And she smiled and told the girls he left a very happy old woman in his wake.
The next year Herself and I stayed in the Glendalough Hotel for a night on our way from Dublin to West Cork, and sure enough, Mary was there and still fussing around. And she remembered the girls passing through the previous year with great fondness, wanted to know how “t’ dare ole lady wuz getting on now” and beamed when we passed on my Mum’s best wishes, and my appreciation for looking after the girls so well – “ah twas nuthin atall atall.”
Three years later, in 1997, we went back there for a few days so we could have a decent explore – that valley is just the greatest place for walking, it has scenery and ruins and – geez, atmosphere! – and to renew our acquaintance with Mary.
But the hotel people were sad to tell us that Mary McGrath had died suddenly only three weeks earlier, and if we’d like to pay our respects she'd been buried in the nearby Laragh cemetery. So we drove over to the village and asked a passing lady the way, and she directed us up a side lane, and assured us that “Mary had a good funeral and sure the locals did her well”.
So, next time you’re in a pub in some out of the way place on the other side of the world – whether it’s some green kid with stars in her eyes, or the old lady who shuffles in and out with your eggs and bacon. Stop and have a chat - they each have a story.
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