IRELAND 1981 From Dave's autobiography

A wet day here in Cheshire 2006, rattled out the latest Yorkshire DVDs last night and off to see The Queen film tonight at Knutsford, a rare cinematic outing.

Latest film list sent free on request to
dave@pmpvideo.com

Meanwhile Ireland 1981 from my autobiography.

TheMandy joined me on one of our excursions to Northern Ireland; she’s been there many years before as a child. The rugged terrain and lack of tourists made Donegal along with the rest of Ulster most attractive. The Lough Swilly hotel was up on the peninsula; we stayed there and went up as far as Malin Head. The hotel echoed to ghosts of the past like a set to an Ealing comedy. We came down for breakfast at 8 am, not a soul could be found, and come to think of it the same situation occurred when you expected shops to open at 9am on a Saturday after the staff had been out drinking most of the night. Not early risers I couldn’t really take the pace, I liked an early night listening to the radio. You could just get reception on BBC radio 4, The Archers omnibus on Sunday mornings was a favourite especially in the winter, I used to do myself a roast chicken which would spin out for half the week’s meals.

The Irish shops paid no heed to sell by dates and goods were often well past their prime or plain mouldy, you really had to look out for yourself. Eating out was still rudimentary, nothing except for chicken and ham with plenty of gloves; this seemed to be universal especially in pubs that is if you dared enter at all. They were grim dark places and never looked open. Some shops still had bars at the end of the counter, bare floor boards, other than Guinness there was a rather ghastly Bitter concoction called Smithwicks, dreamt up during the Watney Red Barrel era and still sold I believe. My transition to Guinness came later and I only had one bottle of the black stuff, on the Aran ferry, in three years living there. An invitation to tea or have a dram really meant saying you’d have the whiskey as tea was a drag for the host, not a simple cuppa but the whole shooting match with sandwiches, cakes et al. If a tourist dream of Ireland was thatched cottages, donkeys and people cutting turf, then in the late 70s and early eighties this was still the reality in many parts.

Irelands entry in to the European Union brought the farmers untold wealth which was instantly squandered on a brand new bungalow, new car and perhaps a newish tractor. The agricultural fleet was put to good use on Sundays when they would pull up outside church with the still large families on trailers. The clan would disperse home afterwards while the men folk would make their way to the bar and perhaps take in the Hurling or Gaelic football; Sunday was the main sporting day despite the universal religious observance. The churches attracted crowds of older ladies with weekly nirvanas to some saint or other; I’m not sure what it was about, a sort of prayer session I think.

The priests were very much of land of and in the community and readily talked and showed friendship to outsiders like myself obviously not of their ‘clan’. The differences between the C of E and an Irish Catholic church were brought home to me soon after arrival when I was asked to stand in as photographer at a wedding. You could and were expected to stand right up by the altar and take pictures right through the ceremony; this was unheard of in England at that time. Afterwards at a raucous and merry reception I was asked to excuse the ‘rebel’ songs and joined in the ferocious dancing and naively learnt that the clerk from work getting married was already several months pregnant.

Drinking and dancing generally didn’t get going until near midnight, this I learnt at the annual carnival at Newcastle West, a small town which had the nearest picture house to my digs. The stage was set in the town square, the band arrived about 8pm, they headed into the nearest bar, by 10pm the children’s dancing was well overdue, the band emerged sozzled much later, I couldn’t even manage to stay up for the kiddies yet alone the main event and what happened to the parade, the floats, all lost to the pubs and bar I fear. The Rose of Trallee, a festival in Co Kerry, an excuse for days of non stop riotous drinking and singing plus dancing. The pubs shut for an hour whilst they were swilled out. I remember a Molly Mallone starting in one bar and passing through another three as we snaked Conga style down the street with the pied piper accordionist in the lead. Afterwards you drove home.

Cars had no MOTs or the like until much later, drivers stooped in the middle of the roads and chatted to each other, other road users drove around them, potholes were rife but the roads were wide and had a lane on either side for horse traffic. Cows and wandering stock were to be expected around every corner, rounding up the herd seemed simpler than mending the hole in the fence it seemed. Bernadette my travel clerk used to borrow the works car especially in the winter months, I stayed at her sister’s house where I had the upstairs flat. Bernie took the car home on weekdays and picked me back up in the morning at her sisters, the car all cosy and the seat warmed up, this went on for a while until she got her own new car, a little Renault. She didn’t like parking it on the site, the bauxite created a gooey white sludge so she used to meet me at her sister’s in Ballynash and come on in to work with me. One day she was late, oh she said ‘I had to swerve off the road and went up a bank; I needed to reverse the car back down.’ Was it stuck I enquired no she said, ‘it’s just that I’ve never done reversing so I had to wait until someone stopped to help me.’ Strikes and industrial action together with incompetence meant that learner drivers (who could drive alone anyway) had only to have three consecutive provisional licenses and they were granted a pass; I think this was all due to a post strike. Another famous strike was in the banks, cheques and promissory notes were written on beer mats, but sure hadn’t this always been the way.

Talking of potholes, the American who had driven from Limerick to Shannon airport wrote from back home to the Limerick Leader newspaper about the puncture on in his hired car which spoilt the last day of his trip to Ireland. The Leader asked the local Guarda sergeant for his comments on the unguarded pot hole which elicited the response, yes I know the pot hole well, I always avoid it myself, and so life went on, these days its East European gangsters and drug, Somali refuges and Ukrainians they worry about, then it was the tinkers. Mary was very wary of the tinkers and when they called she would shout me down the stairs which were normally shut off. I would emerge as if the householder and tell them to beggar off, this brought all manner of curses upon me, none of which I understood or cared about.