Reminiscence

Down, Down, Armagh

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When Armagh won the All-Ireland two years ago, in the midst of my delight I shed a silent tear for Cardinal Tom and his own ‘team’ mate, my Uncle Jamesy, who would have given anything to witness such an event during their lives.
 
Would this side go on to become one of the ‘great’ Gaelic teams?  It was while awaiting an answer to that beguiling question that I delayed adding the team to this Characters list.  I waited until today to decide.  When Armagh took the Anglo-Celt Cup at Croke Park today, defeating Donegal with their best display of football yet – not excluding their 2002 victory – they earned that mantle.
 
There are a few games yet but now I am confident that Armagh will win its second crown before the summer is out and join the great Ulster teams of the recent past, the inimitable Down side of 1959-1968 being the first of living memory.  We all remember men like James McCartan, Dan McCartan, Joe Lennon and Paddy Doherty who not only won titles but changed the nature of the game in the process.
 
The successful Down team of 1991-1994 may not quite have reached the same dizzy heights but won two All-Ireland titles on the way.  Among this side’s great and well-remembered characters were James McCartan, Paddy O’Rourke, Greg Blaney and Ross Carr.  That Paddy and Ross are still highly involved in managing current Down sides speaks highly of their commitment.  
 
Today Joe Kernan gave a number of subs a run-out and they excelled.  There is strength in depth.  I am confident that Armagh will take Sam again in September and that future generations will remember the names of today’s Armagh team.  For the record then, today’s starting line-up was
 
P Hearty: F Bellew: A Mallon: K Hughes: K McGeeney: A O’Rourke: P Loughran: P McGrane: P McKeever: T McEntee: O McConville: S McDonnell: R Clarke: D Marsden
 
(If you don’t know what Christian name each initial stands for, you’d better learn!  Everyone else does!!)

Hector: Fabian

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‘Once’, Fabian went on, ‘my father ordered me on to Hill Street with the handcart laden with herring, to catch the shoppers who mightn’t make it as far as the market.’


‘Pat Phillips, my cousin, who was also selling herrings, protested to the town inspector Mickey Short.  He banished me from the scene.  Pat’s brother, Larry is still selling there!

Read moreHector: Fabian

The Pedlar

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As in most callings there were two or three classes of pedlars.  The King of Pedlars was the man who, with a tidy balance at the bank, and an account with some great wholesale drapery house, usually drove a van with a horse along the principal roads of the country and disdained to call on any person lower than the rank of strong farmer.  As a rule he was loud, pushing and loquacious, a good salesman and a decent fellow all round. 

Then came the pedlar who drove a mule or donkey-cart and who also frequented fairs where his gaudily-decked booth containing coloured, cotton handkerchiefs, cheap muslin and articles of small ware, was a prominent feature.  He was more or less looked down on by the big man who drove his horse; but the man with the mule had in turn a corresponding contempt for the poorer brother who, with his pack strapped over his shoulders, sought the favour of his customers on foot.  But the latter wayfarer had one advantage over his bigger brethren.  He could, and did penetrate further into isolated districts and so reap many small orders from clients who were not so much in touch with highways.   

And in truth this latter specimen of the tribe was the most interesting of the lot.  He was generally past middle-life with the healthy, hardy glow in his countenance that much living in the open air usually gives.  His face seemed so open and truthful that it was difficult to believe he could over-praise his goods or over-reach one in a bargain. 

But with all that our pedlar was a man with the shrewd eye to the main chance.  It was pleasant to see him approach the open door of the farm-house, and if the time was evening and he contemplated resting for the night, his greeting was doubly voluble and gushing:

June Memories

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June switches back our thoughts to childhood days – that joyous period of our lives when everything is idealised and appears to us now as grown-ups a fairyland tinged with a roseate hue. 


It recalls balmy breezes with the scent of greening grasses and wild flowers and herbs.

Read moreJune Memories

Fabian Rides Roy-Rodgers fashion

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Fabian Boyle is our most esteemed local journalist.  He presently writes in the Democrat but formerly for the Irish News.  He reminisced on life in St Mary’s Street after the war. 

‘My father started a greengrocery and fish business in the market at Newry.  He married Margaret Hearty from Dorsey and their first home was in Mary Street.  In the mid 30s the first of his five sons and daughters began to arrive.

We were fortunate in that period of food rationing that my father’s business ensured that vegetables, some fruit and fish were available.  My mother’s culinary speciality was herring baked with bay leaves!

My father would collect the gleaming, silver herring from Kilkeel in the early morning and hawk them by horse and cart all over South Armagh, from Dromintee to Camlough.  My job was to corral the trusty steed from a field at the top of Courtenay Hill, using a hunk of bread as inducement and a rope for capture.  I’d walk him down the steep hill to the entrance with Mary Street.  Then I’d mount and gallop, like Roy Rodgers, down to the market entrance.

Plying his trade at the market-gate, my father would describe the herrings as ‘fresh, fair and lovely as a newly-married woman!’  Again, he would cry, ‘they’ll melt in your mouth and run down your belly like a racehorse.’  He may have been obsessed with newly-weds, for he’d also say, ‘great for young married women.  Makes them jump in their sleep!’  With every dozen he’d always throw one in ‘for the child!’

More later!  

Men of the Roads

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John the Tailor was a big rake of a man who called about once a year.  He was a travelling tailor and a great talker.  He stitched up any torn clothes in the house and he talked incessantly as he sewed.  He had a fund of ghost stories and told them well, so well that his audience was afraid to go out after dark.  The phouca (fairy horse) might get them if they did, or the headless horseman, or the black dog with eyes like coals of fire.
 
All John’s ghosts had eyes like coals of fire, the headless horseman excepted.  Usually flames issued from their mouths and the charms against their powers were a hazel stick cut when the moon was full, and a steel knife.  Failing these antidotes, one had to sprint for the nearest stream for ghosts and phoucas, as everyone knew, could not cross running water.  ‘They’re not so plentiful now because the clergy has banished most of them,’ said John ruefully, as if he resented their interference.
 
The fiddler MacDonald was another visitor.  He was a tattered man with a fiddle and mad eyes.  Everyone believed he played for the fairies when they danced in their magic ballroom, hidden in the secret places of the raths.  He knew all about the leprechauns, where they worked and where they had their crocks of gold.  But he didn’t lust after their gold, preferring the company of the ‘Good People’ to coveting their wealth.  He always went out of his way to please them.
 
‘Never pluck up a lady finger [foxglove],’ he warned us children.  ‘The fairies put them on their fingers when they’re dancing.’
All this happened long ago.  Old John Morgan’s dreamy eyes are now closed and John the Tailor’s talkative tongue is long silenced.  Old MacDonald the Fiddler has left his beloved leprechauns and fairies behind him and has gone to a better, brighter world.  When I often think of them, again I am a boy sitting on lichen-covered rock gazing down the Old Bog Road for my kind, story-rich men of the roads.