Also See Ramors - Craigie's Hotel under recent writings  
    

                  Shean and Me 
  http://www.sheanlodgefishery.com/  

                              


                                       Introduction

                                   I can not tell how the truth may be,

                                   I say the truth as twas said to me.

                                                       REV William        H Maxwell 1892

These are the two first lines from, Maxwells Wild Sports of the West, regarded  

by some to be the best field- sports book ever written. Most of the sporting

action is set in Ballycroy,  near Mulranny ,Co Mayo in the late 1800's. To

reach Ballycroy, Maxwell had no roads , so he travelled from Westport by

sailing boat to Croy lodge situated on the estuary of the Owen Duff river, in

what was and still is a very remote place.  He spent more than three months

hunting, shooting and  fishing with his friend who owned the lodge and

recording his experiences in his book . The following stories relate to the area,

but in particular to Shean, a fishing  Lodge which has been in our family since

the early1940,s .

                   Shean is built on the high ground fifty yards from the river

and is serviced by two roads from Ballycroy and Ballveaney that extend  into

bog for three Miles which  expands for many thousands of acres of mountain,

stream, forest  and lakes   .  Next to the house is a large rock named Shean,

meaning in Irish  Fairy. It is said when builders came to construct the

house in the 1850's, when they blasted the rock to make the site larger.

 After the first charge, blood was said to have flowed from the rock. The

terrified builders fled, leaving the rock as it remains today broken in two pieces,

and where guests often go to read in what is the sunniest part of the garden.

 Everyone who ever visited Shean has their own stories about the place   

and its people and this is mine. Inspiration from my childhood mentor and

fishing guide  Frank Mc is never far away , whose  family were and

still are, what makes Shean Lodge  a special place for those of us

who have experienced its wonders.

. 

,

 contents

1 Shean: first visit in 1948
2 An African adventure
3   An adolescent Dream and a Dream fly
4   Worm fishing
5   An American adventure
 6   A house by a river
7   Tea
8  The tale of the honest drover
9   Father Morrisons hat
10 Turkeys
11 100% Christmas
12 Victor
13 The shooting lesson / Jamsie
14  Fishing with explosives
15  Beckets eye
16  The Cannon and the condom
17    A pain in the neck
18 Reflection : As told to me by Mr Fred Mac Manamin
19 Bun mor20 about the Neighbours 
21 The Apprentice
22 Ian : Aportrait of a hunter
23 No Fish for Frank by Eric Craigie (my Father)
24 The basking Sharks of Achill
25 Some famous guests of Shean
26Uncle Edward: Near disaster in the SAS building Copenhagen
27 Frank  McManamin (1899-1983)
28 Shean as a family holiday venue
29 A Final dining room story
30 Maxwells : the drowened shepherd

                     

                               1                                                       

                                   Shean:  My first visit in 1948

            It's hard to remember back sixty one years to 1948, but I will do my best. Then preparations were essential when making the 180 mile journey from Dublin to Mayo. The problems were the roads or lack of them, rationed petrol and problematical telephones for seeking forward route information. My Uncle Robert, for some unknown reason suggested that I would accompany him and my grandfather on my first trip to Shean. They arrived at my fathers house to collect me on a fine dry morning in early April at 6am.  Robert drove a bright green 1920 Crossly car, which had a canvass roof, a brass radiator and headlamps. It was a four door car, where the doors closed against each other and the running boards were fitted underneath the doors. Another feature added by my father was a gas producer (used to substitute petrol), which was mounted at the rear of the car.  It looked to me like a series of joined up metal rubbish tins attached by a rubber hose to a canvass balloon mounted on the car roof. A charcoal fire under a dust bin produced gas, which was stored in the balloon and used to drive the car. On either side of the dust bin were extra sacks of charcoal. Stored in  the back of the car, was our food for the stay, plus more charcoal, fishing gear, three spare tyres, and a very large black Labrador dog and of course myself.

            There was no contest for who controlled the back seat, Bobby won every round, spreading himself across the top of the charcoal and leaving a bare amount of room for me, so that it was difficult to know where the dog began and I ended or visa versa, as we both were covered in char-coal dust. My Uncle was a  tall and thin man in his early forties, dressed in Donegal tweeds and plusfours and grandfather was a copy of his son, he was almost seventy years old ,but a little shorter  and looked more slightly pregnant than actually fat, he differentiated himself from Robert by sporting a tweed pork pie hat .  They began to sing as soon as we got on the main road, and the dog joined in too. As we progressed, people began to wave to us, my relations were delighted and waved back enthusiastically. It was not until some brave soul stood in front of the car to stop it, did they realise that our stock of charcoal attached to the gas producer was on fire, and we had to hurriedly find water to extinguish it. The first seventy miles of road to Longford were good enough; we made a steady average fifteen miles per hour arriving at ten thirty. There was a Fair in Longford town, where we breakfasted in the Arms' hotel. Outside the streets were busy with lots of cattle standing on the main road as well as sheep, calves, vegetables, also stands selling boots, mens and womens clothing, tools, carts of hay , a mobile blacksmith and a preacher calling out, that end of the world was neigh, which was quite worrying when you are seven years old. Uncle Robert and grandfather were in the cattle business, so they knew a lot of the cattle dealers who also breakfasted in the hotel. He and grandfather joined in a discussion group on some current problem in the cattle business, which required a lot of lubrication in the form of whisky. In Longford, we were required to phone forward to discover which roads was passable, a process which took more than an hour. It was determined that the road to Longford to Elphin (the northern route) was the best. The roads had changed for the worst, not helped much by the long liquid breakfast, the mettled road gave way to huge ruts and loose stones instead of tarmac, so a tyre had to be changed on average every ten miles and our speed was reduced to ten miles per hour.  We met hardly any other traffic on the journey except for an occasional lorry, to make the journey more interesting for me; grandfather had me count the numbers of slated houses between the towns.  I still remember in the average eight miles between the towns I would count at most about five houses with slated roofs while the remainder were all thatched.  At Frechpark we had our punctures repaired again in a local garage while we ate our lunch. The remainder of the journey required a further six puncture repairs and took nine hours to complete, we had to extinguish another fire in the charcoal by reversing the car into lock mallard near Castlebar. At Mullrany a village about ten miles from Ballycroy, it was nearing dusk when we stopped at Cleggan mountain for a call of nature, grandfather looked at the hill top and pointed to what he thought was an eagle. I now know it was not, but it might very well have been an Osprey which was blown off course while it was migrating to Norway; I have never seen one since in Ireland though. Just another mile or two up the road we came on thousands of tons of cut turf which would be moved to Westport to be brought by train to Dublin to fuel the fires, as coal was still scarce, due to the ending of world war two. It was pitch black night, when we went into the pub, the only building in the village of Ballycroy for liquid refreshments; there we were asked to bring a telegram to Shean. It transpired that it was the same telegram my Uncle had sent the pervious day to warm of our arrival. So our journey had taken fourteen and a half hours and we had to extinguish two fires in the charcoal, and repair more than twelve punctures, now, the same journey will take less than three hours on roads of near to motorway standard.          

            I was carried to bed by Robert, still looking like a black man while grandfather led the way holding our only light source a wee Willie Willie candlestick to show the way to the bedroom. Next morning, I woke up in a big strange house, which I began to explore. It had eight bed rooms covered with timber V board sheeting, a pleasant dinning room a spacious lounge and a country kitchen. I walked down the eight foot wide corridor with a twenty foot high ceiling. On one of the walls, on racks were fourteen foot greenheart salmon fishing rods, with the silk lines pulled out to dry; on the floor beneath them were glass  bowls of water in which gut casts were soaking waiting to be used. Through the lounge window, I saw the rock, and like every other young fella before and since I had to climb its twenty odd feet to take a look from the summit.   I stared out across 22,000 hectares of blanket bog, which has never been disturbed before or since. The expanse was covered in heather and wild multi -coloured grasses  extending into the L shape of the Nephin mountains, divided for as far as the eye could see by the Owenduff  river, I knew we had fishing rights on it  for more than fourteen miles, only two or three dwellings  were visible in the entire area. This was my first view of the legendry adult play ground I had heard so much about.  I would like to share a life time of personal experiences, memories, and associations that I have made, with Shean Lodge, as did my father before me.      

                                                       2

            Fourteen years later, while on holidays from college with my white African friend Alex, we went bird shooting to Shean. We had spent the day hunting on the Belmullet peninsula, one fowl January day, with my cousin Roy and his wife and some other friends. Roy wanted to visit an old friends pub which was closing down that day. We were cold and wet so almost everyone in the party was drinking spirits to get warm. We had two drivers of which I was one and the other Roys wife who drank orange juice, while I drank beer.  The singing was good in the pub, as was the company; I disappeared to the toilet and returned to find the bar empty and found our party in the pours of rain sitting on the pavement with their feet in the gutter with a river of water flooding over their legs, as they sang lustily. After a lot of persuasion, the drivers got the singers into the cars for the journey home. We got half way home, when Alex began to imagine we were being charged by a herd of elephants. I stopped the car to calm him down. He opened the car door and ran across the bog as fast he could until he got stuck in a bog hole. We did not release him until he calmed down, which took some time.  I had often heard of people seeing pink elephants before, but this was the first time, I seen anyone being actually chased by them. Later, we discovered the bar was short of sprits, and they thought it was not worthwhile  buying the real stuff when poteen was available at quarter price and, and the licence was already sold. But, Alex and I shared another animal encounter, which is still as vivid to me now, as the day it happened.



An    African adventure   
 Africa. I was here, I had done it. A dream comes true and more or less in the middle of the continent too, in Kenya to be exact. I had only been at work for a week when my work mate and old college pal Alex suggested a fishing trip for Tilarpia. The only thing I knew about these fish was that they had peculiar breading habits, in that they made nests like birds.  This trip was to be my first outside Nairobi. We were going to fish Lake Naivasha, which was about a hundred miles or so from the capital. There were three of us, Alex my own age, twenty two,  and his manservant, fishing and hunting advisor Francis, a Kikuyu tribesman and myself. Alex was short, but whatever, he lacked in stature he made up for in vitality and enthusiasm. Francis was married, unlike us who were wild and single.   
We rose early, about six o'clock, it was still dark. We said cheerio to Rupert, who was the other occupant in the house we shared. Alex was excited by his latest acquisition, which was a second-hand Cadillac that had been driven to Kenya from Katanga in the Belgium Congo. During the late fifties and early sixties, Katanga was a dangerous place. When I studied the car it seemed to be longer and wider than the biggest car I had ever seen in my life. Alex was ecstatic with all the cars virtues, especially the small price he had paid for it. I think it was a silver-grey colour, but it was hard to tell from the dirt. It was covered with a thick layer of red dust called murram and I am sure it hadn¡¯t been cleaned since it left the Congo. What I couldn't miss, even in the gloaming was its special decorative features. Four neat bullet holes in the passenger door, one in the bonnet and another couple in the boot. Francis had already climbed into the back of the car which had only two doors and sat on top of mounds of fishing and camping gear, which had found a permanent home on the back seat of the car.  When I climbed into the vehicle I complained that he hadn't bothered to clean the large blood stain from my seat either.
"For Gods sake you're always complaining about something and where would you get value like this?"He said
"I hope you know where those bullets finished up.", I said doubtfully   
"Well! You're sitting on top of where four went anyway." He said.
We set off on the Rift Valley Road, which is to grand a word for it. It was more a one-and-a-half vehicle track with huge craters, in what had to pass for the highway. Alexs driving methodology was to drive as fast as possible so that the car remained on the top of the ruts .But to be honest, it might have been a good theory but bad in practice for the vehicle and its passengers. It was exciting to drive in the open bush, where there was no sign of poverty and people were happy and waved to us as we passed them by.   
At the top of the spectacular Rift valley where the narrow road descends four thousand feet to the little town of Naivasha, Alex had arranged to borrow a boat from a friend. We got to the pub where we were to be given the details. I can still remember its name, the Bell Inn. The barman, a Scot told us where we would find the boat. It was pulled up on the shore about a mile from the pub. Francis got the outboard motor from the boot, along with all the other equipment and we headed to far side of the lake. Why is the far side, of any lake always the best? No matter. Francis produced spinning rods and we got down to the serious business of fishing. Between the three of us, we caught perhaps a hundred fish, which I think were black in colour and swam vertically and there was something about their dorsal fin, which was poisonous and you had to handle the fish with  care. Little did I know the fish were to be least of my problems! We fished away merrily, well into the afternoon. I noticed what seemed to be some very large fish moving in our general direction along the rocky shore. Unfortunately, I kept my observations to myself. What I had thought were large fish in the water about fifty yards away, turned out to be hippopotamus on a feeding trip. It was not until the twenty foot aluminium boat was pushed right out of the water by two feet or more that I realised my error. To put it mildly, we got a fright and returned to the Bell to relieve the tension. The barman told us we were lucky. A woman had been bitten in half in the same place only the previous week. Anyway, to celebrate our escape, we probably stayed drinking longer than we should¡­ We weren't drunk but we weren't sober either. 
By now it was dark. We drove back up the escarpment which twisted and turned its way the four thousand feet to the top. Alex had always had an obsession with speed and a somewhat careless disregard of danger. God only knows what speed we were going at when it happened. I remember we approached a serious-looking hairpin bend at the same time as a bus approached on the other side of the road. Then our cars lights went out; no doubt as a result of one of the bullets in the bonnet. We shot out into space. I knew it was four thousand feet to the bottom; people have argued with me since that it was only two thousand feet at that point. Does it make any difference? I don¡¯t think so! We turned over two or three times in the air but had only travelled fifty feet or so, when the only tree for miles around stopped us. We were told by the people in the bus later, that we out of the car in seconds. We climbed back up to the road, a little shocked I suppose. Alex never dwelt on things very much. He had soon stopped a passing lorry to organise a ride to the city for Francis. I said to Alex that I thought the African driver was a little the worse for wear with drink. 
"Do you want to get home or not!" He asked?
We heard from Francis later that they had only travelled some two miles before having a head-on crash with another car. Francis then had to hitch yet another ride to get back to Nairobi. 
In the meantime, Alex had me emptying the contents of the Cadillac and carrying everything up the steep slope to the road; no joke in the dark. Francis eventually reached the city and our house. Rupert was awakened and given a situation report. The two of them set out to collect us. Rupert was only half informed as to where we had had the accident. He cross-questioned Francis as he drove to the escarpment. He knew no one goes over the escarpment at that point and lives to talk about it. 
We could see a car descending the escarpment. Rupert had put his foot down a little further on the accelerator than he should have done and lost control of the car, which had a spectacular crash into a milestone. The left-hand side of my car was written off. Rupert gamely continued on to collect us with a car half its original size.
 Francis had been in three major accidents in about three hours. I often wondered if this was a record.  His wife banned him from all further hunting and fishing trips with us. Alex told me later that our names were written in a commemorative book in a wayside chapel built by Italian prisoners of war during the forties at the foot of the escarpment. The tradition was to have your name inscribed in this book, but only if you lived. I hear it is a quite a slim volume.

                                                                    3

                                                                       Hiding down river 

             Insomnia is at best energy draining and at worst and has been known to cause suicide. In my youth my solution for insomnia was, to replay in my head a reoccurring dream. If I was lonely or homesick, and living in a remote place of a foreign continent, I would dream of Shean. This allowed me to be brought a little closer to home and sleep.

            The scene never changed, a late May morning on the Owen Duff. It had rained the previous evening and the river is in perfect flood for salmon fishing. In the dark, I drove from Shean, the six miles to Rodgers pool also known as the junction pool because that is where the Tarsaghaun River joins the Owenduff, (which incidentally means black river in Irish). The neck of the pool is about twenty paces long, on the near side a high bank and the far side an expanding bog. Rhododendrons bushes grow along the neck making it difficult for an angler; here the river is only ten feet wide and the water is white and noisy. Careful steps are required, water steeps through the bushes from the river and hidden stones have tripped many an angler. At the end of the path, is a flat red ¨sandstone rock. Even in the half- light a short narrow and delicate footprint is visible. The sole made its mark in the sparse soil and a full print on the rock; I knew she would be here today.    

            I move gingerly onto the rock, and grab some heather to help pull myself the ten feet up the bank to where the pool comes into view. The river is wider now, more than thirty yards and a hundred and fifty yards long. Mist lays six feet deep on the water and land, clumps of white foam pass down the river, indicating the water level is falling, black windows in the water open and close as it rushes for the sea. The opposite bank is composed of shale, gravel and boulders, Scardaun Mountain is just materialising from the darkness in the in the distance, with water gushing from its Corrie lake. Where I stand, the bank behind me rises sharply fifty feet or more and is covered in three feet high ling heather.

            Barbara, I could watch fish all day. She wears a tea- cosy hat, pulled tightly over her ears, wild blond hair escapes from it and strands fall to her shoulders.  Her thin, small body is covered in a closed wax jacket. She faces the river at an angle, to avoid hooking the bank. The double- handed cane rod rises, arcs, rests, arcs again and propels the line in an effortless cast. She sees me and her sunburnt face smiles hello. Meanwhile, on the opposite bank, an expert angler, an Englishman, who I know is busy. He lands his fly on a small flat rock, thirty yards from him. He repeats the performance three times allowing the fly to slip from the stone to the stream. A salmon lunges at his fly, the angler lifts the rod and the fish is hooked.

            The light changes, suddenly its sunrise. To the east, the white clouds on Scardaun have turned red, blasting streams of red light, fan shaped into a dark blue sky. The cascading water from the Corrie streams appears to flow blood red. There is a final call from a cock grouse standing on a turf stump; indicating that morning has broken. Red turns to gold, cold to warmth and the mist suddenly disappears from the scene. A clear blue sky, with and no wind usually equals no fishing.  So, I walk twenty feet higher up the bank for a better view of the battle between the angler and the fish. I remove my jacket, part the heather to find a soft spot to sit on, with my back turned to the hill. I am about sit down, when Barbara arrives to join me; she throws her coat on top of mine to make our grand stand larger.

            We sit side by side, Barbara now bare headed and wearing a sleeveless red shirt, three sizes too small for her, no doubt grabbed in haste from one of her sisters, between the few remaining buttons, I can see dark flesh where the sun has burnt her mid rift. Her hat is removed so her hair falls in ringlets, bleached gold, intertwined randomly with darker inner strands of hair.    

            From the beginning, the Englishman had a fight on his hands. His rod bent double, but the fish had not moved from where it was hooked. He wadded further into the river, so he filled his boots with water, to get closer to the fish. He raised the rod to the vertical and leant on it, so it looked as if it might break. The fish rose slowly from the riverbed, flapped on the surface for a moment and ran. Under my shirt, I feel an ice cold hand against my back. The fishing line cut through the water for fifty yards, the salmon jumped twice, its purple- silver body shimmering in the sun. Long nails dug into my flesh. The angler was tiring, he stumbled out of the water and followed the fish upstream, all the while applying pressure to the line .He managed to shorten the distance between him and the fish; but it was not for long. The salmon ran downstream again; it was almost lost when it threw itself on the shallows of the opposite bank. I could feel blood trickle down my back, as I massaged her ever increasing nipples. The fish logged again and was fastened to the bed of the river.

            The angler wadded again into the stream, his patience paid off, the fish resurfaced, but with its tail first. It was fowl hooked and was eventfully slipped into the anglers' net and lifted out of the stream .It was a small fish of about eight pounds, he removed it from the net and held it aloft, prescribed victory arc; and submerged the fish gently back in the water and rocked it back and forth, until with a flurry and flash of silver it was gone. The angler returned to the bank and removed the water from his boots, stood up, waved cheerio and walked out of sight.    

            I raised my hand in salute to the departing, and conquering sportsman. I can feel her nails dig deeper and deeper in my flesh. I look down to see a smiling face with partly closed eyes closed against the rising sunshine. Her lips are full, parted, and very red and her cheeks flushed. The checked shirt had given up the struggle and was fully open. Her small breasts are dark, while between the cleavages is deliciously white. The pressure from her nails persisted. Overhead larks began to sing, the morning was becoming warm,  and I got to taste the sweet salt from her lips and feel softness of her breasts against me .The canopy of ling heather closed over our heads, here it was dark, warm, safe and time to turn over and maybe just dream my delicious dream all over again.

Mirrorflorress Jan04

            I had odd dream while staying in Shean;  rain woke me up in the night.  In my minds eye; I saw a salmon fly one which I had never seen before. I rushed to the fly tying table and made it then and there.      

                                                       The Dream Fly  

                             Materials  

A No 6 Limerick hook (or any preferred size will do)

Golden pheasant Tippet.

Silver ribbing  broad

Lime green seals fur  

Red game hackle  

Badger hackle  

Red Angel hair or any equivalent red flash  

Blue jay  

Jungle cock.  

                            Method  

            Tie in golden Tippet tail along with the silver ribbing. Twist the lime green seals fur to form the body, along with the silver ribbing. Mid way on the body, add a   badger wing, mixed with ten percent of red flash. Next, tie in three twists of the red game; dampen down over the badger wing. Add a small beard of blue jay and cheeks of jungle cock. Finnish by whipping and adding a clear and red varnish head.      

            To date, the fly   has more than forty fish to its credit.

                                                   4

          We had sold our hotel in 1997, and I was not looking forward to doing nothing for the foreseeable future.  I tried to think of something to fill my time. By chance a former client from the hotel contacted me, just as I was on a visit to Shean and he came along too as a guest.  It transpired he was a director of angling company in the USA and he offered me the opportunity to represent and sell for his company in Ireland which I did for about four years . It was not that I couldn¡¯t sell the wares, but rather that I could not get paid for them , that drove me out of the business. The following story accounts for my first and nearly my last trip anywhere to set up the business¡­                                               

                                        An American adventure

Oregon. I still think it has nice ring to it even if it nearly killed me. I rented a car at Eugene airport and drove to Glide, a village on the Thunder River or Umpqua River in the local Indian Language. I was to stay at the Steam Boat Inn just a short distance from town. I drove along the narrow gorge, lined with Douglas fir and maple trees. It was a magnificent sunny day and the maples were in full spectacular Autumn colours and broke up the monotony of the dark green of the firs. The River was huge by my standards, two hundred yards wide or more in most places.  It had long pools that would run for over a mile at a time and were connected by what were termed outflows, which were in fact waterfalls. They discharged for hundreds of yards at a time with white foaming water, to join the next pool.

I had barley checked into the hotel when I was meet by a young fly fishing guide whom I had booked earlier, named Tim Caine. He wasted no time and had me fishing a pool near the hotel which had a 50 ft bank to my back, which meant spey  casting, he was a good tutor and I soon mastered the art, I had to get used to the sturdy short American rod and weight forward line, they were both well balanced and capable of casting long distances. The wet fly technique was to cast and allow the line flow down steam until it touched the bank. Then false cast up stream, allow the line to just touch the water; then cast in the desired direction.  A big mend up steam and small roll cast to place the line as close as possible above the fly. It might sound easy to you! It's not. I wanted to give up and go home. Tim gave me great encouragement to fish; the system as we progressed became easier. Tim thought, I was now fishing good enough to catch a fish, but nothing happened.

A final try, at my secret place said Tim;

We drove in his jeep for about 5 minuets. He emerged from the jeep complete with binoculars and Polaroid sunglasses and climbed up the nearest tree.

 Do you see him, he shouted, about 50 ft away?

 I saw the fish eventually. He was10ft further away than I could cast. I practised, then with a well-aimed cast I managed to heave the fly in the general direction of the steelhead, which I could see rise slowly from behind a rock. You give the fish plenty of time to take the fly, to the extent that; I had place one hand placed behind my back. That I can tell you slows you up.

"Strike"was shouted from the top of the tree. Then at the end of my line was my first steelhead, he fought well enough, but no better than our Atlantic salmon.

That night over a communal dinner, at the Steam Boat Inn. Which was taken on long trestle tables with about fifteen people sitting to together. There was only one subject fishing. My host was Jim Van Loam, he was very clear that it takes at least three visits to the river by a stranger before he is due to catch a fish. I think that statement was my downfall, especially as I caught three fish the next day and I suppose I must have lost the run of myself.

I had spent two very memorable days with Tim and was considered well enough trained to fish with my new business colleague Ray Traynor.

Ray brought me to a famous poll close to his home on the river. I was given my instructions on how to fish the outflow, they were simple enough. Fish a very short line and extend each the cast by a yard each time until the outflow was covered. Ray said, he would go below the outflow about two hundred yards away. I fished the outflow as instructed, which seemed to take forever. I was about to give up, when I saw a steel show about 10 yards further than I could cast. All I had to do was wade one steep in the water and mount a rock ledge to gain the extra 10 yards. I wore a full neoprene-wadding suit and sturdy spiked wading boots. I steeped into the water less than one foot deep. One foot was in the water and the other in the air, ready to stand on the rock ledge. What I thought was a very safe procedure. My foot in the river was swept away, so that I was now headlong in the water, I held on to the rock that I had attempted climb on. I can still remember its shape, round, smooth with a funny little crack, which the tips of my fingers fitted into. I knew it was hopeless and that I could not stand up, with the force of water, so I let go, somewhat reluctantly. I now felt I was going toa funeral, only it was my own.

In a split second, I had entered the white water of the outflow; I knew the falls had a decent of about forty feet or so, not directly but over distance 100 ft. I was surprised how easily I could breathe, in the white water; I didn¡¯t see any rocks nor have any fear at this stage. Suddenly the white water ceased, I had emerged into a very fast current, now rocks flashed past me at amazing speed, it might sound crazy, but this was a trip of a lifetime.  I was then sucked into a whirlpool, which brought me to bottom of the river. It was very deep I think, because it became very dark and I seemed to be under the water a long time .At last, I was released again into very fast flowing water, in front of where my friend Ray was fishing. I think I shouted something like, help! Before, another whirlpool processed me in a similar way. I was not afraid of water; as I have a lot lifesaving and diving experience, which probably helped me. Anyway, now I was in the middle of this huge river with my neoprene waders full of water.  What happens is, the waders push your legs above your head and thus force your head under the water.  I had to sort this problem very quickly or I knew I would drown. I solved it simply enough by, placing my arms parallel beyond my head. This allowed me to swim in a kind of away, by moving my hands only, very slowly up and down, which I had been thought t to do for lifeguard demonstrations.  I eventually, got close enough to the riverbank for my friend Ray to grab the toe of my boot and pull me out of the river at great risk to himself.

I was amazed the distance I had travelled, more than 500 yards of which two hundred yards were under water. For the record I still had my fishing rod in my hand and no water in my lungs. I was lucky, the river was in flood, therefore, I avoided rocks but with out my friends help I would not have been able to exit the river. I now held the doubtful honour of the only person to have crossed these particular rapids and to have survived. I thought of Merrill Stweep in the Film ¡®River Wild ¡®and how at least she had a boat. 

                                                                              5

                                                                     Worm Fishing

       I 'm a fly fisherman; some say a purist. But secretly I have a passion for worm fishing. I adore, being alone on a warm sunny day on the river bank, with an old rod and a jar of worms.  It gives me more pleasure than any other form of fishing and brings me back to my youth.

One sunny day, I took a short cut from Shean to cross a ford of the slightly flooded river. The river was deep enough to need waders; in one hand I held a brief case containing books, in the other my worming rod. Sandy my retriever had to swim the river to follow me, as we headed for the far side of  Salt Pan, it is a deep semi circular pool with a peninsula of high ground partly bisecting it, and ideal  for worming . To fish, I pulled out thirty feet of line from the reel and lay it on the ground behind me. I attach three or four juicy worms to the hook and cast them up stream. The excitement for me of worm fishing is that split second when a fish decides that it will take the bait.  In fly-fishing the feeling lasts only a microsecond, while with worm fishing the same feeling can last for several minutes.

            I threw the worms up stream to allow them cross several well-known salmon lies then set down the rod, I released plenty of slack line and waited .I removed my overcoat to sit on, it was not long before the line began to chuck. The rod quivered and two inches of line disappeared up the rings. Was it a brown trout, an ell, a sea trout or a salmon? Only time would tell after maybe another two minutes, a further two feet of line was taken. Then nothing, five agonising minutes passed, then without warning three yards of line disappeared into the river. The excitement was over; I knew I had a salmon and I soon had a second. The fish stooped biting but I had my fish now it was time to study. I pushed the fish to the rear of where I sat and the rod to the side of my camp and surrounded myself with books. Larks sang overhead and sandmartins gave a spectacular air show as they dimpled the water to collect flies and drink. I picked up my first book, pushed the wet dog off my coat again and settled down to read Bernard Russells thoughts on the nature of power. My eyes closed and I nodded off to sleep.

            I felt cold, very cold and then bitterly cold. Wild demented devils music filled my ears. A predominant colour of blood red filled my senses, which slowly changed to purple. I opened my eyes slightly; it was turbid, so I could barley see. To my right a rock covered in weeds changed colour from yellow to dark green as they ascended to light, maybe fourteen feet distant. I looked left, I could see Sandy, a large air bubble exited his mouth, followed by a stream of smaller ones. He swam upwards and away from me and left me alone. A felling of sadness overwhelmed me. I could not move because water had filled my waders. Then the music abruptly changed, to beautiful a mystic and peaceful tune lulling me to sleep. I no longer felt cold and the colours changed to lime green. Abruptly the music changed, to a pitched high screech which startled me and forced me to open my eyes, in front of me appeared as a white ladder. It was then simple enough to put a waddered foot on the lowest rung and climb up the ladder on all fours and out of the water.

            Sandy danced for joy, as I pulled myself on the bank; he licked my face as I lay on the ground. I looked out over the pool and watched as my books popped up one by one. Sandy retrieved all ten in a matter of minutes. My relief was great, as the books were borrowed and would cost me a months wages if they were lost. I repacked the soggy books in the brief case, picked up my fish and headed for home. When I reached the ford, Sandy looked at me then the ford and we walked straight past it, preferring to walk the extra half-mile over the foot bridge to Shean. I turned to look back at the scar on the river bank, where my fishing site had vanished: fifty tons or more of turf had fallen into the pool. I thought as I walked home that I might have learnt something about power that even Bertram Russell never knew.

                                                           7

The following stories are associated with my Uncle Robert, who you met earlier on my first visit to Shean. However, first I have tried my hand at a poem, to explain the fear  adults experienced the day  Roberts daughter Beryl went missing in Shean when she was only two or three years old¡­
          


A house by a river

 A settled river white with foam,
Time for anglers to perform.
Breakfast over, fries consumed,
Each angler to a beat renewed.
By lunch time, each returned
to account for his sojourn.
 
Ten anglers set out and returned,
With various tails, and truth to learn.
Five silvers caught, with sprits high,
the angler¡¯s lunch was not denied.
Wives provided hearty fare.
A mother cried, why is Beryl not here?
The party left the food and wine.
To search, for the baby for a long, long time.
They scarred the river up and down.
They searched and searched but nothing found.
Then someone said ¡®where is Bob¡¯.
The golden Labrador too was lost.
At last in a field of hay,
 Under a cock, fast asleep
Lay child and dog to our relief. 
                                                         


                                                                          8




                                                                         Tea

 Do you like tea, because, my tea-drinking career finished at seven years old.  I was asked by my Aunt, to stay in Shean with my Uncle Robert while she went on holiday.  Robert was more than five times my age and known to his friends as Chi, because of his fondness for tea.  It was April of 1948; we were alone in Shean, except for the housekeeper Mrs Mac.  We ate a late breakfast in the living room.  Outside, the rain fell horizontally on the windows.  Robert asked me if I would get him another pot of tea.
 After my third trip to the kitchen for tea.  Mrs Mac remarked.  "For God¡'s sake, how many cups of tea can a man drink?"  I returned to Robert, to find him, cup in hand waiting for more tea.  "Pour your own first.  You like it weak." He said
 This was my sixth cup and Roberts tenth.  I can't help keeping a total in my head.  Our tea was drunk in silence.  Robert declared the tea as unfit for man or beast.

Robert said he knew where we would get a good cup!  Grab your coat and boots.  "We are off to Newport, to the Hotel.  They do good tea there"  
 As we drove from Shean, I remarked that the river was rising fast and the flood might lock us out by evening.  We were soaked through as we knocked on the hall door of the Hotel.  Finally, the Porter opened it.
  "Sorry to have kept you, Mr Robert, but the Hotel is closed until next week."  "Christ man.  All we want is a bloody cup of tea" 
"Then come in Sir, (indicating to a room with electric light a rare sight then, and a turf fire). Sure of course I 'ill get you the tea". 
 He arrived with a silver tray and the making for tea.  
 "¡'ll be leaving you Mr. Robert"..
 "For Gods sake Peter, will you take easy"?  
 "To be honest I not myself, after what happened to me".  
 "What ails you Peter"  
 "Sir. You know I work here mornings and evenings. I give the afternoon to Mr. Clive on the farm next my cabin. Well, to day morning was a fair- day in Castlebar. We got the filly ready for the fair. Sir, she was beautiful ¡­ Shining. Mr. Clive had his new horse-box and car lined up, ramp down. . You know how excited he can get. God Sir! The rain was coming down in sheets. When the filly was in the box, Mr. Clive shouts from the shelter of the car. "Tackle her up Peter". I close the door. 
 I was late for work in the Hotel."Put the bike in boot Peter says the Boss. We 'ill have you in work in no time" .We arrived in Newport on the horse boxs maiden trip; I hopped out to collect the bike. Mr. Clive shouts to me "You hardly know the trailer was attached to the car". It wasn't! We drove back to the farm, in dread of finding the filly in every ditch. We thanked God and his Holy Mother, for every standing person we met. When we got to the yard, the box was just where we had left it. Mr. Clive shook with anger. "I told you to tackle her up Peter" real mad like! He picks up me bike from the boot and throws on the ground and I have to cycle to work, then you ask me what's the matter".  
 "A Mhuise Peter sure that could happen to a Christian Saint". 
 Robert finished his second cup of tea and Peter departed with the tray. Robert thought this tea was no better than his own. (Ramor 10 cups Robert 16).
 Robert was tenacious in his search for the perfect cup of tea. Next stop will be the Hotel in Westport, fifteen miles away. We walked into the bar and ordered tea. We sat on comfortable club chairs; in front a roaring fire set in a red bricked fireplace with a mantel of bog oak. Above the fire was the telltale mark of a missing picture. The hotel owner Oswald Smith talked to Robert.  
 "Well Oswald that's the nicest cup of tea I had in years. What do you call it"?
  "It's called Red ¨CSi".
  "Where can I buy it"?
  "Level¡s shop in Castlebar. If you go, remember its fair day".
  "Fair or fowl, I 'ill not be without it. " 
  "I must warn you, Lavelle is a little odd! Nevertheless, he still has the best tea in the country.  Ask in any of the pubs for directions to Lavells".  
 "Thanks Oswald . By the way, why is the Stag at bay gone from the wal"l?  
  "Jesus. Don't remind me!  Last week, I was in Dublin with herself. I left the staff in charge of the Hotel. A van pulls up to the hall door. Two men dressed in  official  company dungarees walk to reception. They said ¡®they were here to collect the stag at Bay for cleaning". The staff never questioned them and even helped to load it in the van. They drove off and that's the last we saw of it". 
"Brazen that they were". (Ramor 12 Robert 18)
 The fair was in progress in Castlebar. Horse¡¯s donkeys, sheep, goats, cattle, hens, geese, hay, straw, potatoes and grain, all scattered around the town square. Rivers of manure were trampled by, sellers, buyers, drovers and drunks; who ,sliddered, slipped and skated to find shelter. In here says Robert, who opens a door to a bar. A cloud of yellow cigarette smoke escapes followed by a fowl smell of manure and unwashed bodies. Robert found us a place at the counter and ordered tea, but accepted a whiskey instead and an orange for me. We were sipping away, when the door was burst open by a tinker-man. He looked for a friendly face, saw Robert and made a bee line for him. "Is it yourself Mr Chi"?   
"Don't you know well it is Francis. What will you have "?
 
 A second time, the door was burst open , by two red faced Guards with a weasel faced revenue man in full uniform in tow. They tried to gain entry, but the crowd in the bar moved tightly together to form a solid wall. After a discussion the posse moved away.  
 "They 're after you again Francis. What have you done now"?
 "They are Sir. You know, I have repaired the counties pots and pans for the past fifteen years.    
 "You have that, and only supplied the finest of poteen too".
 "Well Sir , I couldn't keep up with the demand, so the two brothers brought me a  an extra still  from Limerick. They rushed it here in the donkey cart. We set it up in the black mountains. They were on the second run, when we heard the bloody revenue man was in town. The word was out; we would have to move the still in a hurry. We would never have been caught, only for bad luck. The brothers are martyrs to the drink you know. They were sampling the stuff, on the job like. They were lying drunk on the ground next the still, when the guards made the raid. Poor Manny was brought to the station house with the still. But Paddsa ran over the hill and escaped. Sir, all the brothers have in the world is the still. Manny was to be in court to day. Sure, I had to do something to save him. Early this morning, Paddsa and I paid a little visit to the station. As I thought Sir, the police were sampling the evidence and were sleeping on the job. We found the still and emptied the bottles of poteen, sure they had to release Manny for the want of evidence. The guards have been looking for me ever since.
 "Is it true you are in business with the priest Farther Mac, Francis "?
 "it is Mr chi, prayers in the church by day and spirit by night"
"Francis, now that gives a whole new meaning to my favourite hymn ¡­..Oft by the stilly night. By the way, how did the brothers escape with the still "?  
 "They made a break for it Sir, in the donkey cart. The still was given female form when it was made. They put a dress on it, it will pass any casual inspection as woman when it's the in the back of the donkey cart. 
 Lavells store was on a side Street; its windows were boarded against the cattle. Florence Lavelle stood behind his counter.  
 "We would like some tea please".  
  "The tea is here under the stairs". 
  "South American tea? 
 He looked hopefully at Robert, who shakes his head.
"African tea, I have Nandi hills, Longanot, short a lot and Kilimanjaro. 
Lavelle goes behind a pillar and reappears with a black face and wearing an African wig and speaks in a deep voice.  
 "Our brands are extensive , Lion tea, elephant, buffalo and bush ¨C baby. Brook bond, river, creek and stream.  Cut price, half price and no price".
 Robert shakes his head.
"We have, Indian tea, Darjeeling, Assam, Ceylon, Japer, Lahore. Summer tea, winter tea, picked by women, and shredded by men".
Lavelle is now dressed as a Maharaja and sits on howdah and gulps and gasps for air, and has distinct Indian accent.

 "My best brands are , amber, gold ,black ,CA ,RC,CO,FS,BK,ED,MB,MP,JL,PO'D, DO'C and EM¡'.
 Robert shakes his head.
 "In China tea we have, Manchoo, Foocho, Honchoo, Tyfoo and CU".
Lavelle is now dressed as a Mandarin, complete with pigtail. 
 "Best brands Yellow Si, Casp Si, Irish Si, Yank Si, Brit Si, Med Si and You Si. Green Si, Pink Si, Purple Si"and red Si.
 Lavelle looks at Robert 
 "I will  have  Red Si" ?
 "A so, Red Si"!
 He walks a few paces, puts his hand into a tea chest and removes an engraved, red painted box. He hands it to Robert
 Shean looked beautiful under a blue sky; it was a pity the swollen river barred our way. Robert looked at the water and decided to park the car and wade to the house, he had me hold the tea and climb on his shoulders. 
 Robert wadded the hundred yards of shallow water to the house. Before he took a bath he ordered tea. I had delivered our new tea to Mrs Mac who made him a fresh pot of tea as well as thick cuts of freshly made brown bread straight from the AGA. His afternoon tea waited for him in the lounge. When the tea was drunk, Robert remarked on its fine quality and how it was well worth our journey to find it. I returned the empty tray to the kitchen, to find the box of Red Si in the middle of the large pine table unopened. (Ramor 14 Robert 24) 
                                                         



                                                                                          9

 The following story is one that Robert told us as children and he swore that it is true. I have added two of my granduncles to the story to play the part they would have played in the family auctioneering businesses; they both loved their time spent in Shean
                                            The tale of the Honest Drover 
 Alex and Arthur were elderly bachelor brothers.  Alex was a lean, ruddy-faced man with the bowlegs of a horseman.  Arthur was shorter and slightly corpulent.  Alex worked their farm, rearing the cattle and Arthur the auction business, selling them.  The brothers had a peculiar habit of prefacing each sentence they spoke with a verbal tic.  Alex would give a sniff and declared 'begob¡' while Arthur coughed and uttered 'begora'.  It was not surprising that they were known as 'Begoba and Begora'.
Alex rested on a bar stool in the City Arms Hotel in Prussia street, the hossilarry serving the Dublins cattle market.  He had in front of him two enormous plates of T- bone steak and spuds, which rested on the speckled red marble counter, of the bar, in his hand a large glass of whiskey.  The business of the market was not yet finished.  Alex knew that if they were late for lunch, they would get neither seats nor food.
The City of Dublin cattle market was spread out over three acres, bordering Prussia Street and the North circular road near to Phoenix Park.  Today was no ordinary day, as the City fathers had decided that driving cattle through the city was no longer acceptable to the citizens and had decided to close the market down and today was its final day. 
Arthur made for the vacant bar stool next to his brother, for their last market lunch together.  The mood in the bar was sombre and the air thick with smoke from cigarettes, pipes and cigars.  It gave the place a unique aroma.  Everything seemed brown, the floor, walls, ceiling and even the people.
An extra large sniff, 'Begora', it's a sad day Arthur.  What will we do now for business?"
A short cough, "That can wait.  I¡¯m famished.  No breakfast for the men or myself.¡" "Begora, was Mary sick?" "No worse.  Gone Alex,  She's gone.  She left a note."Arthur passed a crumpled paper across the counter.  It read, "Dear Mr Alex & Mr Arthur, " I 'm off to join my own Patsy.  Thank you both for your goodness to Patsy and me too.  Your Obedient Servant, Mary Maguire. The letter had an Australian stamp and return address.  Patsy Fahey, Proprietor, Ottago Station, NewCastle, NSW. Australia. "Mussia Alex, we can only wish them well ,"Begob, it's hard to believe it's more than five years since Patsy is gone." "Did you here what happened?" "I worked it out from bits and pieces, I heard.  Do you remember the day it happened?  I was ill. It was Patsy who was in charge of that drive to Liverpool.  The funny thing was, people could never best Patsy.  Not because he reared at them but because he always won their respect."   
"Begora.  He had no cross word for man nor beast and not a dishonest bone in his body." 
"Well, at five in the morning they drove the cattle to our yard in Prussia Street.  Fifty Angus, black and shining animals.  He then went to the sales where you had bought the other hundred cattle.   'Begora', you said,"they were the best lot we ever sold." A tidy profit they left too!  It took ten drovers to manage the cattle to the boat.  Each man had a bicycle, and a man to every twenty animals.  Two men went  ahead, to warn traffic, three on either side, to protect pedestrians and shop windows, two at the rear to keep the cattle on the move.  The drive took an hour-and-a-half from Prussia Street to the North Wall boat.  You gave Patsy a thousand pounds from the safe to pay the drovers and the expenses for transport and food.  A lot of money in those days.  You could have four good family homes for the same money today. 
Even though it was wet, the drive went well.  At Doyles corner, Patsy had to visit the bank to exchange the Irish money into English notes, a straight swap in those days.  He nodded to the porter at the door and crossed to the customer counting table in front of the shop widow.  He removed a sack he wore over his khaki overall coat to keep the rain off him and threw it beneath the table.  He joined the queue.  His wet clothing smelled of cattle and there was not a lot he could do about it either!  Patsy had swift access to the counter.
The Teller was a certain Russell Grimes, an officious twenty-three year old young man.  Russells parents had influence in the bank and had charted a clear upward path for him.  Russell had just finished serving the Hon Lady Virginia Aungby when Patsy presented himself for service with a bundle of notes in his hand.  He asked for them to be exchanged for the English equivalent.  It was then that the smell hit Russell and he was keen to complete the transaction as quickly as possible.  Patsy returned to the counting table to collect his sack and check his money.  But almost at once, he rejoined the queue.  As was his previous experience he was at the counter very quickly.  He explained that there was an error.  Russell was surprised to see the drover again.  He didn't speak but pointed to a large notice on the wall behind him.  It read, 'The Bank will not accept responsibility for any errors after a client leaves this cash point.  By order
 The Management.'  
 Patsy was a quiet man who avoided trouble.  He returned to the counting table for a third time.  He ran his fingers through his hair.  His face was flushed, he was sweating profusely and he unbuttoned his shirt, which exposed more of his unwashed body.  The Tellers eyes blazed red in anger when the drover reappeared.  Patsy protested, the teller pointed.  Patsy stuttered, "Your last word Sir?"  The Teller pointed again to the sign. 
Patsy saw the steam rising from the cattle as he rejoined the drive at the five lamps.  His younger brother Sean was in charge in his absence.  Sean said when he returned that Patsy was flushed, out of breath and silent.  Patsy paid for the crossing and gave each man his wages.  The men took turns to feed the cattle.  He would normally take his own turn but that evening he said he was unwell.  While the drovers drank their way across the sea, Patsy remained alone.  He neither slept nor drank that night.  Sean thought the poor man might expire.
Early next morning the drovers fed the cattle before they landed.  Patsy came to Sean to explain that he was ill and passed the balance of the one thousand pounds, along with the receipts to his brother.  He gave instructions that these should be given to Mr Alex in person.  He would find a doctor.  Sean took the money and promised to follow orders.   
Meantime, back in the bank, Russell was pleased with his day.  In particular how the Hon Lady Virginia Aungby had complimented him on his service.  Closing time was three-thirty and then time to balance the books.  Russell, a fussy little man, was never a halfpenny astray in his work, so when he was short by £9000, he simply could not believe it.  The Manager requested the days closing balance from each Teller.  Russell panicked and said he would be working late on share transfers for the Hon Lady Aungby and would have the balance in the morning.  The Manager accepted the explanation, although it was against the rules and besides, Russell was such a charming and reliable a boy.  The midnight lights burned brightly.  Russell could not find the missing funds.  The Manager was very understanding; however he quoted the bank rule.  A clerk must repay the bank in full.  He pointed out, at £20 pounds per week, repaying all his wages; he would easily repay the bank over nine years. 
Patsy left the boat long after the cattle had departed.  He walked slowly to the deep-water section of the port.  He was seen talking to a sailor and then boarding a ship to make his first trans-world crossing to Australia.
Naturally the police were called to investigate the banks loss.  Russell, a prime suspect, had his house searched by the police to the horror of his parents.  Nothing was found.  It was not until a policeman questioned the porter that an explanation emerged.  He said that he had watched the drover go three times to the tellers booth and return to the counting table crestfallen.  He watched as the drover left with a determined look on his face. "So what happened?¡¯ Asked the policeman.  "Oh that's simple enough.  It's all English tenners that are missing.  The drover was given a ten pound note in error  for each one Irish pound tendered by Patsy.
"Begob! So that's what happened." "Yes.  Twice Patsy tried to return the cash and twice, he was insulted.  According to the Porter."
"So Mary is gone from you too."
"She is. God bless them both, honest young people and the bloody bank can well afford the loss." 
"And, what of the Clerk, what happened to him?"
"Him  Begob!  I heard he is in charge of the regional office now."  

                                                                                                  9 

 After Christmas Derik and I would go shooting to Shean. At that time the young people who had emigrated from Achill to England would be still at home and on holiday which added an extra buzz to the Island. We would go dancing in a fifty mile radius of Shean, including Dukanella parish hall on Achill Island. We would drink in the pub near the hall, with the rest of the lads until well after twelve o'clock.  We paid for our tickets and entered the rickety wooden doors of the corrugated roofed building where the Parish Priest was on stage making an announcement. "The next dance will be a snake dance" He said. I had just returned from some exotic foreign places and had witnessed several snake dances, but was surprised to be about to see one in Achill. He went on..." I know every last one of you here, and all ye lads that snaked in through the ladies toilet window can bloody well snake back out again." So began the next story.                                                
            

                         Father Morrisons Hat
 
The elephant grass swayed three feet above their heads as they walked through the scraw bog.   A scraw is an overgrown lake covered with thick weed and can just about support a person walking on it. They were shooting snipe. Thousands of snipe left cover as they made their way across the bog. Although the birds blackened the sky, and flew away in clouds not a shot was fired by the two boys. Each time they put their guns to their shoulders; they would sink into the bog and could not fire.  At the far end of the bog, about three hundred yards away, shots began to ring out and continued until the two exhausted boys and their dogs reached the road. In the middle of the road was an elderly, red faced man with a huge nose attached to his face. Two hands like shovels fell on either side of his old and tattered shooting jacket and in the hands rested an ancient shot gun.  His face had a smile on it that could easily have been designed by an angel.
¡°Well thank ye boys, thank ye. "Ye gave me the best shooting I ever had for snipe in me entire life." he said. "Look, more than a twenty birds collected." There in the middle of the road were the birds guarded by a very proud chocolate Labrador. ¡°Who are ye?  But wait, I recognise ye all right. You're from the Lodge aren't ye. By the way I¡¯m Father Morrison the PP.¡"he said. The boys introduced themselves to him.
"My God will we ever see the Lodge. 
I 'm famished, frozen and wet."said Derick.  "There it is.", said Ramor, "about a mile away."  The lodge stood like a big grey shadow in the middle of a massive bog of several thousand acres. Rhododendrons surrounded the house, twenty feet high in places. The two boys made their way quickly down a stream that lead to the main river, carrying the game they had shot and controlling the exhausted gun dogs as best they could. They reached the lodge and were greeted by the house- keeper Mrs Mc. 
"Well Boys, you're back and it's near dark too. I thought I 'd have to send a search party to look for you. Mr Derik", said Mrs Mc in a confidential way. "Don't you know that today is a fast day?" Derik was a devout catholic, while Ramor was a Protestant. In the 1960s fasting was a serious business, policed heavily by the legion of Mary, of which Mrs Mc was a leading light. "You 'ill be having the eggs, Mister Derik."  She said with a malicious smile.
"Now here's a test for your religion." said Ramor jeering his friend. He could smell the beef from the kitchen? Derik looked Ramor, straight in the eye.
"will too." he said to Mrs Mc. "The eggs will be fine with me."
Soon afterwards two eggs were brought into the dinning room by Mrs Mc. The famished Derik laid into them as if his very life depended on them. Mrs Mc arrived with a big roast of beef and vegetables and placed them on the sideboard in the dinning room. "By the way boys, you're both expected to attend mass to morrow. Fr. Morrison has sent a messenger to say that you have been invited to shoot the Anna Island white-fronts after mass."
Ramor licked his lips in anticipation of the roast of beef, which he had cut thick slices from and set on his plate.
"Another test of religion." he jibed at Derik, who had just about finished his eggs. Ramor cut the meat and commenced chewing. He got up from his chair and ran for the bathroom. The meat was not just off, it was putrid and he had to get rid of it fast. When he returned, he asked Mrs Mc, what else there was in the kitchen.
"Nothing.", was the reply and Derik had just finished off the eggs.
 The boys set off to Mass the following morning. They drove up the unmade road to the village. When they reached the church it was a hive of activity with dozens of donkey carts and bicycles parked outside it. They were ushered to the front under the instructions of the priest. Fr. Morrison arrived and explained to the congregation that from today the service would not be in the Latin, but in English for the first time. Things did not go so well. The only one who knew the responses in English was the Protestant Ramor. After the service they all met up in the Presbytery.
 Fr. Morrison sat in a big leather club chair in front of a roaring fire with a glass of punch in his hand.
"Welcome boys, welcome. My god Ramor without ye in the church this morning to give me the responses I would have been talking to myself and God, and ye a Protestant too!  Ye 'ill be having a glass boys, to keep out the cold."
The kettle was sitting by the fireside with steam coming from it and he produced the two punches with a well-practised hand. The proffered punches were accepted by the young inexperienced drinkers.
"It¡'s okay boys. Think of it as medicine. he said. "Oh, why did I ask ye to come to Anna anyway? Sure the place has my heart scalded this last four years but at least I know it better than any other mainlander does nowadays!¡±
"What caused all your grief, Father?", said the boys.
"Have ye heard of Communo Papa?"
"What's that?", they said in unison?
"It's a special rite of a priest to deal directly with the Pope. Ye can understand in my lowly position in this church, surrounded by only snipe bogs, it's unusual to get to deal with the boss himself."
"What has this got to do with Anna", said the youngsters downing their punch. The Priest was fast on the job of replacing all three glasses.
"Sit back there boys and i 'ill tell ye all about it. The Island had only the two families living on it. Two brothers were married to two sisters. The husband of one family died and the wife of the other, all in two months. I buried them both on the Island, a terrible business! Not long afterwards the two remaining partners came to me to get married. As ye probably know, that¡¯s against the cannon law. A brother cannot marry his brothers wife. I wrote to the bishop, but a letter came back real fast, which gave me flea in me ear, I can tell ye. All went quiet for about nine months, until the first child was born. The couple were now desperate to get married. I went to see the Bishop. I knew writing wouldn¡¯t do the job. The Bishop said you must enact Commune Papa.  I tell ye no word of a lie. I 'd to put on me thinking hat, for every letter had to be in the Latin and me out of the seminary this last forty years too.  Sure, me dictionary was near worn out with letters toing and froing, never mind me poor right hand. Two more children and a ton of paper later, I got their special permission. Three years it took, to get them married. What a day. People from every corner of the parish turned out to congratulate the couple. I married them and christened all three children all on the same day. That's the reason I 'm always a bit nervous about the Island. Sup up lads, its time we was off. Michael will be waiting for us with the currach at Annacloy .
They got to the little cove about a mile from the island where Michael Dorgan kept his currach.
"You're late.", he said to the priest.
"Blame it on these young fellas.", said Father Morrison.
"Are they coming as well?"
"Didn't I promise them a shot at the geese, Michael.""Can they shoot?"
"That they can and they're tough too. I saw them walk the Tamaracara scraw with me own eyes."
"That do will do me.", he said.
"Well get in the boat, we 're late already before we start."
A very fast current flows between the point of Annacloy and Anna Island. The currach, now low in the water with the four men, Michael hard the oars, heading for the Island. Michael had a cap pulled low over his eyes and his coat opened to let off some of his perspiration. He over-did it, though. The timber toll pin which held the oar snapped.
"Okay.", said Farther Morrison. "Where's the spare pin?" 
"What spare?", said Michael, all confused as the currach swept past the Island.
"Next stop America." said Ramor.
"And I think you had better enact the Encommuno Dio.", said Derik to the anxious priest.
 Michael was well used to life's little crises, after all he had fourteen children, and could be relied upon to fix things eventually. "Hand me up me gun."The priest picked up the rustiest single barrel shotgun he ever seen. Michael grunted his thank you and inserted it to replace the broken toll pin. He turned the boat around just in time to see the white-front geese, circle the island for a second time which singled that we had missed our chance  on to shoot the Anna island white fronts.

                                                                                            10
                                                                                        Turkeys
                                    
It was morning of Christmas week 1957. I ate my breakfast with mother and my three sisters; father arrived home from work to join us for our meal. In his hand, he carried the morning mail, Christmas cards, a newspaper and a letter from Frank. It was his custom that he would read Franks letters to us when they arrived. Frank lived in his cottage near Shean, he acted as caretaker and ghillie to our family.  Frank was also: - repairman, stonemason, carpenter, plumber, Mechanic, confident, valet, chauffeur, naturalist, and manufacturer and purveyor of the finest poteen. He knew, what¡¯s what, who¡¯s who, who¡¯s what and what's when. He was also a collaborator and co-conspirator in many of my father¡¯s little schemes. Father opened the envelope, and began to read to us the two closely written pages in Indian ink, with Frank¡¯s characteristic hand. He read slowly with great empathy, it began¡­

Shean Lodge,
Ballcroy,
Westport,
Co Mayo.
15/12/57

   Dear Master,
I had the luck to meet the postman on the street, and gave him this letter to him to post. I hope this letter will find you and the family in good health, and prepared for Christmas. I trust you arrived home safely from your visit here. We have the long nights upon us now; at least the few bottles I slipped in the back of the car will help to brighten them up for you. Sir, about the painting you asked me to do. I was working in the kitchen like you said, to tell the truth, I am lucky to be alive. I was alone, with a lightning storm outside and only the oil lamp for light. I had my hand on the ladder and was about to mount it. When a flash of light came out of the AGA cooker, it blew out the lamp, I was lifted up to ceiling, so that I was covered with the wet paint I had just applied. I was held up there with all the spiders and their webs; I could even see the patches on the ceiling where I had failed to paint. I don't know how long I was pressed to the ceiling. It was if the little people had turned against me. As you know Sir, I had nothing but the height of respect for them. I was near dead from the fall and the fright, so I won't be painting for a spell now Sir. (I  have to wear my red flannel vest and pants to try to cure the awful pains that have got into my bones).
I suppose by now you have heard about the geese. Well, Master William went against my advice. He set off with that old fool Cafficky to shoot Fahy Lake. The geese streamed over the young masters head. He bagged a dozen, along with six mallard (he is a very good shot now you know). He was delighted with himself, until the following morning, when Kane went to feed his geese and them all promised in the neighbours houses for the Christmas. Mister William had to pay Kane thirty pounds for the geese plus fifteen for his trouble and had to even give him the bloody bird¡¯s birds back too.   
Master, can you help me? I fear an American wake for my Elizabeth. For the past year, every week she has received a letter from our Paddy in New York. She guards her letters very tightly, I met the post man on the road the other day and took our mail from him. Among the post was a letter for Elizabeth. I went directly to the Lodge and boiled the kettle and steamed it open. It was as I thought, she is planning to go and live with Pat- I have lost my dear son for America, and I can¡¯t bear to loose my beautiful daughter too. Master please help me.
                 Your obedient servant,
                                                 Frank   
PS. Sir, I 'ill try my best to get back at the painting soon.   
Father made no comment, but was clearly upset by his friends predicament and determined to help him, if he could, but how? Over the sitting room fireplace hangs a picture of a turkey shoot set in New England in the seventieth century, it inspired father to action. He reasoned, if he supplied Elizabeth with turkey chicks to rear, and she had an extra income, it would allow her a choice to go away or to stay at home. He did his sums and he would buy the chicks and food for them and could be repaid when the birds came to market. It would allow Elizabeth a year to think what she should do and yield more than enough money for her do what she wanted. Father departed for Mayo in April 1958 by car and trailer packed with 100 turkey chicks, meal and a book on turkey rearing. The birds were reared by Elizabeth, but not without difficulties from foxes, stray dogs and disease. Nevertheless, 56 birds were ready for the Christmas market of 1958. They were judged to be in excellent condition when they arrived in Dublin to be sold.
There were ten days before Christmas, and I had returned home from boarding school. I held my first driving license for six months then, but had little driving practice. When invited by father to deliver the turkeys to Market, I jumped at the opportunity to drive. I washed and polished the car so that it gleamed. I watered the turkeys, but could not feed them as they had to be starved for three days before slaughter. I felt sorry for the birds as they sat in the trailer. Father had an affinity with all animals and was always kind to them. He had made a slatted top for the trailer, so although it contained their bodies it allowed their heads to pass through the slats to freedom. The trailer looked like a submarine with 56 red toped periscopes. Next morning I arose at 4.30 AM to drive father to work and the turkeys to market. I passed by the five lamps and entered Fairview road on the way to Merchants warehousing, where the birds were to be sold. I saw, a notice placed on the road, turkey Queue...It was at least a quarter a mile from the factory. The Queue, consisted of barrows with metal wheels, hand carts, motor vans, flat tops, tippers and various types of private cars, horse drawn vehicles, coal carts, farm carts and horse drawn vans for milk, bread and laundry, there was a scattering of bicycles with a single turkey strapped to its back carrier. I joined the Queue, behind a blue van with rear opening doors. We moved at a snails pace, so the driver of the van had time to come and have a chat with me. He was a tall and, muscular man, sallow in complexion   and had an angular chiseled face. He smoked a corn cob pipe and wore a pork pie hat. His facial expression was that of an amiable cow, his clothes looked as if were pored into them and he had forgotten to stay stop. His name was Liam and he lived in Garristown, a small village to the north of Dublin. He thought me somewhat out of place with my gleaming Mercedes- Benz car an immaculately clean trailer with the all seeing turkeys in a sea of vechular detritus. Dawn broke and the road became busy with city commuters and traders. In front of me the blue van moved closer the factory gates, which opened to allow Liam¡¯s van enter the factory yard. I followed him quickly, before the gates could close again. I was stooped between the gates. The gateman rushed in my direction and informed me that the plucking -machine had broken-down and the company would only accept oven ready turkeys, but they would pay a shilling a pound for plucking, if they were delivered in the yard by 9 am next day 
 I not absolutely certain what happened next, except that I watched Liams expression change from that an amiable cow to a raging bull. He flung the rear doors of his van open. A hundred live beautiful black turkeys took to the air as one, it looked as if someone had broken a pillow and shaken it in a windy coal mine. Somewhere in the middle of this black cloud were the turkeys, some flew into the factory pursued by the factory staff, others ran across the yard, through an open door and into the company offices, producing a great volume of noise from the resident staff, others ran up the bonnet of the Mercedes and over its roof on to the trailer, watched by my bemused birds and thus to the road. The gateman made valiant efforts to slow their progress, but to no avail. I watched Liam helpless with laughter in front of me, while behind me on the road, a bus driver had stooped his bus and jumped out of his cab to capture an escaping turkies, and his passengers got the idea and joined in the chase. Traffic was brought to a halt as shopkeepers, barbers, postmen, chimney sweeps, policemen and even an elderly clerk joined the chase for a fee Christmas dinner. I returned home with my cargo intact, to report that slaughter would have to be performed on our 56 unfortunate turkeys.
 Father knew better than ask mother to help in any of his save 'the world ideas'. That left me, my sisters plus the stalwart Mrs. Buckley, our housekeeper to do the work. Mrs. Buckley was a strong, good-looking Tipperary woman, who had been widowed, early in her life. When it came to organisation, she could perform the most amazing feats. She was viewed in awe by my mother, who thought of her, as a cross between a saint and Charles Atlas; as she handled my fathers latest whim. But when confronted with 56 large turkeys to be made oven ready, she was not pleased. She got us kids down to work. She placed a broom handle between two stout chairs and secured it at either end. A turkeys neck was placed on the upper part of the brush handle its body one side of it and it's head-on the other. One person pulled the body down ward and the other pulled the head until the neck broke. It sounds barbaric, but the system worked well, it still took one hour for two people to deal with a single bird. By 10 PM and with the help of father only 26 turkeys were ready for tomorrow¡s market.
I rejoined the Queue. at eight am. I thought that progress would faster than the previous day, but I was wrong. Each bird had to be inspected separately, graded, weighed and paid for in cash. So that the motley collection of turkey vendors were stuck with each others company again. Liam sought me out for another chat. He said that he was paid in full for all his birds from the previous day, even though 50 of them escaped. He mumbled something about company negligence, and in the same breath" didnt they make a fine dinner. He had to work through the night to have the birds ready for the days market. He was exhausted, hungry and thirsty.   
"Do you take a drink "he asked   
"No "
Will you move my wagon up the line for me, if I go for some refreshment in the pub?" "Of course, no problem."
If the line moved at a snails pace the day before, to day the snail must have been injured. As I moved Liams van forward, other drivers asked, If I would to the same for them. There must have been a dozen pubs to be passed on the way to the factory. It seemed the only one who did not suffer from severe thirst was myself. I moved the entire Queue, forward single-handed, the hand ¨carts, horses, tractors, vans and bicycles. When the factory gate opened, I would drive or push the vehicle into the yard and then go to find the owner. The drivers had gone from sober to drunk and then back to sober. When they sold their consignment, they insisted on celebrating the sale. Each driver gave me a tip for my efforts on their behalf and I returned home with £3 pounds in my pocket .We had sold our birds at an excellent price.   
At home I rejoined the killing and plucking party for the remaining 20 birds, we did not finished the work until 2 am. Next day, the Queue was somewhat shorter, but. I noticed that the gate- keeper had left his post and walked in my direction to the middle of the Que. he stopped at a van in front of me and spoke to the driver. The news he brought was devastating, only 500 more birds were to be accepted by the company. He estimated from my position in the Queue, our birds would not be bought. All our effort wasted, never mind poor Elizabeth. I watched for the gate- man to return and as he approached me, I jumped out of the car to speak to him. I offered him a deal, he could have my £ 3 in my pocket, if he would spread the word, to drivers in front of me, that Byrnes, Finlaters and Haffners were offering an shilling a pound extra for any birds with them before ten am. I watched as drivers departed the Queue hastily ,to make their way to the grocers, fish merchants and butchers of the city centre. I just made it into the yard as a result of my ruse; my consignment was accepted at the same price as the previous day. I paid the gate-man his dues, exhausted, but happy I returned home. 

                                                       11
I include the next story as it was how I remember a Craigie Christmas at more or less as the turkey story unfolded.

                                                                    One hundred per cent Christmas 

 If Christmas began and finished for you on the same day, you are of a certain age; in 1955 I was fourteen, it began at five A.M. by being shaken awake by Father to go to work, it was an icy morning, I dressed and scampered downstairs to the warmth of the AGA cooker, two cups of tea and heavily buttered slices of brown bread awaited. He started his car, I poured kettles of hot water on the screen and we slithered down violet hill and up Cardiff bridge road to collect Henry our blacksmith, then drove to my familys Dairy. Henry had fifty delivery horses to shoe with one thousand four hundred frost nails. I helped lead each horse to the Smith while deliverymen waited impatiently. By seven ,he was finished,  and  I found  Father in a bad temper , because  Joe Durkin  the man who prepared the machines for work  was  an hour late  . He said , he  cycled past our house at seven o'clock and encountered a six foot wide river of rats coming  out our gate which crossed  the road and  into Glassnevin  cemetery, he waited for a half hour for them to go by, but gave up and came to work  by another route.

          At eight , we  breakfasted and I  feed  the animals  at home,  first the  ponies who were spooked when I cleaned, feed them , as was the dog . But when I opened the hen house door, the ground literality moved with Rats. I got my shot gun and in one shot killed thirty rats. I heard next day, the open graves in the cemetery were full to the top with rats and the grave- diggers had to fill them in and dug new graves.

          At nine, we returned to the Dairy and Father visited each worker. He wished them season¡¯s greetings, often they were third generation employees who worked with my family. Then he delivered Christmas hampers to the company widows and drank whiskey and I drove him home. At eleven thirty, it was time for church with my Sisters and Mother, she sang in the choir, so we had to stop Father snoring too much during the service. Twelve thirty, back to the dairy, only a matter of tidying up as most of the staff had gone home, but a milk delivery van was missing, and we had to go and look for it. 

"The bloody horse will have more intelligence than the man, said my Father ", with no traffic on the road it will think its Sunday, so we drove to the church on that route, there was the horse and van, but no driver. I drove it home, unloaded the van and fed the horse; Father arrived later with a drunk delivery man who he left home. It was now four o'clock. 

          Uncle Robert( who you know well now) and his  family came for children¡¯s Christmas dinner , we gorged ourselves , exchanged presents and played games .At  five thirty I checked the weather  forecast ¡­ severe frost and  drove back for  Henry to  install  more frost  nails on the unfortunate horses.  Eight o'clock, after a bath, it was off for Christmas dinner at St Helena my Grandparents house, this was to be my first adult Christmas with eleven uncles and eleven aunts. The open front gate lead to a large double fronted and two storied house, which had a three foot red candle burning in the dinning room window.  Inside the ladies wore long silk dresses of bright colours and of different designs, the men wore evening dress hunting coats of red and green. Presents were exchanged, punch was drunk; each man took a partner, linked arms and walked to the dinning room singing the doxology.

          Praise God, from whom all blessing flow;

          Praise him, all creatures here below;

          Praise him above ye heavenly host 

          Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost 

The table centre piece was a mirror covered in  sphagnum moss, on top of it was a piece  bog oak, inset with  flickering  candles surrounded by  berried holly.  We ate and drank until ten ¡®clock, when I was sent to check that the dairy was safe, a walk of a half mile, back the avenue of  a double line of  beach and oak, for light a full moon, for company the chatter of rooks and a screech from a barn owl,  it was freezing cold . I  checked the stables for a cast horse, as  the heat rushed out and a  soft moon light fell through the sky lights, all the horses seemed to be  kneeling, as if in prayer and took no notice of me , then  to the dairy,  the quiet  machinery, waiting for tomorrows work and  back St Helena. It was almost mid night now. I was tired, cold, and got to sit in a leather chair in front a log fire. I  thought, how well I knew this place, its people and fell asleep in the knowledge, of how I much I loved them and was loved in return . 

 27/10/0

                                                                                                  12

When I sit in the lounge in Shean by myself on a winter night, with a high turf fire and listening to rain pelting on the windows with the wind attempting to make a sail of the curtains, I can often feel my ancestor's presence. In particular my Uncles Edward and Victor who seem very close to me in this room because of the wall panelling which they fitted.  While I got on exceptionally well with Edward, I had an extremely odd relationship with Victor. I never really understood why until after his death, when old memories came streaming back...

Victor

Victor Craigie, at home peaceably aged 84 years.

Deeply regretted by his nieces, nephews and

many friends.   Finglas parish church 11.30

2^nd September 2001.

Victor was my bachelor uncle, my fathers brother.  There was always something about him that I distrusted, perhaps even disliked.  I had only a hazy, childhood image of him and I knew I would have to attend his funeral or answer to my father when my time came to join them all. 

As I read the death notice a second time, past images became sharper.  Like the time when I was taken by Victor to Dublin Zoo, where he was a problem-solving committee member.  Apparently some newly arrived cheetah were not thriving.  Victor diagnosed the problem as lack of human companionship in the quarantine quarters. The cheetah came from a family in Kenya and missed children to play with them.  No problem for Victor.  He opened the cage and popped me in with the animals, where I stayed for several hours and had great fun too.  On returning home my mother asked me how I got on.

¡°You what!¡± she said.  Playing with wild animals!  That Victor again I didn't see Victor for quite a while.

Another time he decided he would paint the local church.  A great job, except for all the paint on the floor tiles.  He asked me help clear up the mess.  Victor came up with the bright idea to use petrol to remove the paint, which worked fairly well, but to add a bit more speed; he set it alight, which was okay except I was standing in the middle of the fire.  Victor returned me to my mother with no eyelashes and black clothes.  "That Victor," said my mother.  "I think he is out to get you killed!"

 Victor had  eleven brothers and sisters, all steps and stairs.  I sometimes stayed at my Grannys house and often watched as Victor and his siblings would prepare for a nights partying.  Victor would lay out his entire wardrobe on his bed but would be unable to decide on an outfit.  He would then stay home, rather than make a decision. After I was returned home, my mother would say, "You mean that he couldn't even decide what to wear to a party?  Poor Victor, she said, some day indecision will cost him dearly."

          The church was packed to overflowing, with people paying their last respects.  I sat in the front, so near, that I could have touched his coffin.  I looked across to the choir stall where he used to sit, under the statue of a beautiful sculptured angel.  I knew the church well; it was where Victor had attempted to incinerate me.  The service droned on, and the memories flooded back.  The priests voice had a hypnotic effect on me and time stood still.  My right arm began to ache, just as when my Granny held it when I was four years old.  My arm was held up so that my legs were barely on the ground.  The pain was excruciating.  Granny knew I was precocious and prone to escape at any opportunity and her only hope of containment was a secure grip. 

In my mind I had had returned to 1944, the world war still in progress, Granny and I watched a parade of army and Red Cross volunteers pass us by.  Victor was a member of the Red Cross as were my aunts, while my other uncles were members of the army reserve.  The parade  had passed Burns shop on Finglas road and as I said, I was an accomplished escape artist and I broke loose from my Granny and ran at full speed towards the marching Victor.  I was just about to be mowed down by the army, when I was lifted from behind by slender arms.  They belonged to a young lady who ran back into the crowd and returned me to Granny, who made certain that I now had two sore arms.  My saviour spoke with a strange kind of accent and seemed to know Granny slightly.  She was Rossieen, the English niece of the two spinster Miss Durhams. She had been sent from London by her parents to Ireland to avoid Hitlers V2 rockets.

          Later at Grannys house, as my uncles and aunts returned from the parade, they discovered that I had pulled a glove from my rescuers hand and had put it into my pocket.  Victor questioned me closely about my rescuer.  Who was she?  Where had she come from? In those days everyone knew one another in Finglas.  All the family questioned me about the newcomer in the village.  I was once again the centre of attention.  Victor seemed to be the most interested in who the lady might be and volunteered to return the missing glovs and to have me apologise for my bad behaviour.  We walked the mile to Finglas village and then the half-mile to the Durhams house.  I remember that I was very tired when we saw it.  It was big, with three stories over a basement.  It had bay and bow windows on either side of a hall door and steps leading to it and all covered with emerging Virginia creeper.  An unkempt garden with two lines of confers on either side of a grassy avenue led up to the front door.  Victor knocked and was answered by the older of the two Miss Durhams.  She led the way to a large sitting-room where the family were having tea.  Victor made me stand me in the centre of the room, right in front of the lady who had rescued me earlier.  When I look back now, I thought she resembled the statue of the angel in the church.  I began to cry but no words came out.  She picked me up for the second time that day.  Now I could look into her clear blue eyes and her freckled face which was so white that it could never have seen the sun.  Her glistening black hair had the scent of lavender.  ¡°Now stop that crying please.  That was an was an exciting morning, she said with a laugh.  "but you must promise me not run away again from your Granny."  And she put me down.

Things must happened over afternoon tea, because Victor, Rossieen and I went walking.  It was a Sunday afternoon and we walked to Moffats castle which was about a mile away and stood on a hill overlooking the river Tolka.  The castle was set in woods where violets and other wild flowers grew in profusion.  "This is my favourite  place in all the world,"said Victor.  "I think that it might become mine too," said Rossieen.

          Every Sunday from then on Victor would bring me with him to collect Rossieen and we would all walk to Moffats castle.  I was always sent to collect wild flowers for my Granny on the far side of the woods while Victor and Rossieen stayed together on the sunny side. Sometimes I worked really fast and came back to find them both in tears but I could never understand why and they never said.

          So life progressed, Sunday by Sunday until one day we didn't go for our walk, nor the next Sunday.  I was a brat, no doubt and created a fuss.  I wanted my walk with Rossieen and that was that!  Victor, my uncle and my best friend, suddenly beat me with without mercy.  Now at his funeral I was reliving the pain and astonishment at what he had done, from which I never recovered.

          It had taken forty years for me to recall what had happened and now with my hand touching his coffin, I understood for the first time how much they had loved each other.  It was hopeless of course;  She being catholic and he a Protestant.  He never did marry but loved children, except me, or that was what I thought.  Only now did I realise that I was his last link with his lost love, and each time he saw me it reminded him of Rossieen.

A postscript, I was on holiday in Mexico seven years after Victors funeral and I happened to meet a lady , who turned out to be Rossieens niece and learnt that Rossieen too had never married ether and was still alive at that time.

                                                                                        13

Next, I combine two completely separate stories with a common theme of shooting, both are set in Belmullet, as I have already said is about a half hours drive from Shean and was loved by generations of sportsmen. Sadly, most of the birds are gone now due to the loss of habitat in Belmullet and in the birds' mother countries.

The shooting lesson

I was aged seven and on holiday in Shean with my family; when a telegram gave the news that Jamesie Geraghty was dying. Father and I left the family to drive to the Mullet peninsula of Co Mayo, so he could pay his last respects to Jamesie. As we drove, he spoke off Jamesie non-stop for the half hour journey. Like why he was nicknamed Shakespeare. It seemed, he was given the complete works of Shakespeare as a memento, when the local estate was sold. Jamesie was illiterate, but he had his daughter read each play in turn to him, so that with his perfect recall, he could quote, at will any passage from the bard of Avon. Or how, he was honoured by the Royal Society of birds for his work on the preservation of the red necked phalarope, a rare visitor to Ireland and Co Mayo. He could name each bird that flew and each plant that grew around him, in three languages, Irish, English, and Latin. He could even tell the number of pinion feathers on any bird, in his Domain. But above all, he enjoyed recalling how they first met. It was a mid November afternoon in the early 1940¡¯s, he wanted the help of a Gillie to shoot a grey lag goose and Jamesie was recommended. He found his thatched house nestling in a hollow, below the brow of a small hill that overlooked Tamacara Lake. To the north bog-land filled with snipe, to the south the Atlantic Ocean. It was a cold and grey afternoon with a strong north wind, when he knocked on his door and asked if he would act as his Gillie. He said he would, provided, he was a sportsman and could shoot straight. Jamesie was six feet tall, with a thin body, but broad shouldered, white faced with ruddy cheeks. He always wore a large cap that covered a mop of untidy grey hair. He had intelligent black eyes, which missed nothing and saw beyond the superficial. The shooting plan was simple; Father went to the seaward side of the lake where the sand-hills had bent grass in which to hide. Jamesie walked to the opposite end of the lake, about a quarter of a mile away. The lake was only three feet deep. But he had no waterproof cloathing and walked into the lake as he was. Father watched as he decorated his cap and baneen jumper with heather, he found driftwood, camouflaged it too with heather to form a floating hide. He set out across the lake moving from one island of elephant grass and bull rushes to another. He did not disturb the hundreds of pintail, pochard and brent that he passed, they simply moved out of his way. Three quarter way down the lake he came on the grey lag, which took flight and within easy shot of my Father, who raised his gun and fired two shots. The discharge frightened the geese, but they lost not a single feather. Jamesie came out of the water and looked in disgust at my Father, who had rejoined him at the lake. He refused to be driven back to his cottage, to change his clothing, preferring to walk. Father stood on a little bridge and watched as the birds took to the air. They were framed by, black clouds trimmed with white edges, the hill with the red door of Jamesie cottage visible, the sand- dunes and the lake . The birds were layered, at the top, tens of thousands golden and green plover. Beneath them were thousands of snipe, jack, common, great. Lower again hundreds of duck of all kinds from the dainty teal to large colourful shell drake. By the sand dunes he saw the geese pitch on to the deserted beech. To add colour to the scene, sea birds came to investigate, great black gulls, herring gulls and little sanderlings. Father was well above an average shot and could not understand his embarrassing miss. He sat for half an hour watching the wild life spectacle; before he plucked up the courage to face Jamesie. He knocked on his door and was bid to enter. He apologised for his failure to bag a grey lag. Jamesie, suspecting something amiss, asked if might examine a cartridge .He found a penknife and removed the cardboard cover and emptied the contents on a table. Then he began to laugh and laugh and laugh. Father too looked to see what was so amusing, on the table where there ought to have been shot was confetti. He was not long married and his brothers knew he was on a sporting honeymoon and had substituted confetti for shot. They laughed together for a long time, which sealed a bond of friendship that was never broken.