Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose…
Sundays. As a boy Sundays were best. And the best of them I spent with my Dad in Rosenallis. It seemed like miles away from St Evin’s Monasterevin. A Sunday ritual.
First Mass. An early start to make the most of the winter daylight. All the gear gathered. The boots, the hats, the coats. Combat jackets, army hand-me-downs. A change of socks, for surely we would get soaked.
The gun. The shotgun. Countless instructions of never touch that. Staring on in wide-eyed admiration as my Dad skilfully and swiftly put the three sections together in seconds. Separate again a box of Ely No.6. Those distinctive orange cartridges, all kept apart from the broken down gun for safety in a house with seven children.
A flask of tea and a pile of sandwiches in tin foil would taste all the better on the side of the mountain in the Slieve Blooms in a few hours’ time; appetites whetted by anticipation of encounters yet to happen and what seemed like miles and miles a of hiking across heather, marsh and bog and forest trail.
We would often meet up with local men also out for a shot and hunker down for an exchange of wisdom and extraordinary stories of the one that got away.
But my Dad was a soldier. He had a great shot. Pheasants, foxes, rabbits and even the fancy flight of the zig-zag snipe were no match for my Dad. He could even smell out the sulphur odour of a fox in season and on great days we would spot curious hares bouncing across the top of the purple carpet of heather or a glimpse of a deer bursting through briar and heavy furze.
By dusk the only problems were being soaked to skin and carrying his abundant quarry. Too good a shot my Dad. I never lost his love of the Slieve Blooms, nature and wildlife, but I never took to the shooting.
Nothing was ever wasted. It was cooked or shared. Rabbit stew and roast pheasant would put hair on your chest.
By dark we headed for the heart of the open fire, smouldering sods blackening heavy kettles for making tea in ‘Aunt Janes’, the water drawn from a well up the hill, the whistling kettle and glow of the fire seemingly a signal to all comers over the half door of an open house.
More tea. More ham sandwiches on thick butter sliced batch loaf with curny cake for afters. Mick Kane on the accordion and between a bad draw from the open heart and copious amounts of Woodbine and Sweet Afton you would choke on the smoke if it’s wasn’t for the respite of the half door on the latch.
By 8pm we were over twelve hours on the go, but were sufficiently recharged and ready for the grand finale. We were heading to Shelley’s Pub on the corner in the village.
Now darts, like shooting, is an acquired taste, not for me. But my Dad was a soldier and he was a great shot. One hundred and eighty!
The Sunday night darts tournaments in Shelleys of Rosenallis were a serious business. You would swear it was the Sam Maguire that was at stake and not those gaudy marblesque trophies with the plastic dart-thrower figureen on top.
Serious business these darts tournaments in Shelleys and the foot of the Slieve Blooms on a Sunday night. All strategies, scores and double tops finishes to be washed down and savoured with a few pints of Smithwicks.
I never took after my Dad for the Smithwicks either but in those days I was a devout TK red lemonade man. Lemonade. We were well on to the lemonade in Shelleys, before Beyonce was born. TK lemonade and Tayto, it’s hard to beat that on Sunday night. Such a perfect day.
By ten o’clock closing and one for the road and another darts trophy loaded into the boot of the Hillman Hunter alongside the rabbits we were ready to hit the road, but only after a full round up and recap of the day’s hunting, the darts and the match results which had come in during the course of the evening.
Homeward bound via Mountmellick, Emo and Ballybrittas. By now the car park in the Montague Hotel is overflowing with motors parked on both sides of the busy Dublin Road. After pub closing crowds out for the bar extension which would kick in at midnight as Monday beckoned, a few large bottles of Harp being nursed until the shutters opened; bar men in white shirts sleeves rolled up and ready for action…
Those were the days…
We listened to music on LPs and cassette tapes. Corporal punishment wasn’t just legal, it was encouraged – Spare the rod and spoil the child/Little children should be seen and not heard.
We smoked like troopers in work. I went on to become a 40 a day man. I still long for those Lucky Strikes.
Jim Yorke spent half his working life in a dark room developing photos for the Leinster, me waiting anxiously on his shoulder wondering did we get the shot.
And I too was a drink-driver. The extent and details of which I am now too ashamed to even say.
It is no excuse or consolation that almost everyone seemed to drink and drive.
Sure we’re only having a few; it’s early yet and there’s no sign of the guards.
There is no doubt that the fear of getting caught and the thoughts of your name going in the Leinster were bigger deterrents than the breathalyser limits themselves. In many instances people would gladly suffer being off the road, as long as it didn’t appear in the paper for the neighbours, family and friends to know. The shame of it.
I am ashamed of myself for ever drinking and driving. For chancing it, even with two.
Every time I see that road safety advert with the Treacy family I am more ashamed than ever.
I can still see their tears. I can still hear their screams.
The public and publicans are ready for zero tolerance on drink-driving, even if some politicians are not.
Yes, I have heard all the arguments about the death of rural Ireland. But I’m talking about the deaths in rural Ireland.
More astounding yet is the contention that priests will now be over the limit after they sip from the chalice after the consecration at Mass. There is as much chance of that as them putting on weight after receiving the host. What next? Sherry trifle, wine gums will put you over the limit too?
Stringent and strict drink-driving laws, to be fully effective, should be coupled with sufficient enforcement and name and shame. But in this day and age, how could anyone in all conscience oppose them?
Shame on you!
It’s way past time to call time on drink-driving.
