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| Furze bushes blooming along the Grogeen Road on Sunday with the Hills of Kerry in the distance. |
The furze
bushes were in full bloom round Abbeyfeale Hill at the weekend. They
spread like garlands of gold along the ditches by the side of the
road. Mount Brandon shimmered in the distance while the
McGillycuddy's Reeks stretched skywards, with Carrauntoohil almost
reaching the heavens.
The county
of Kerry was laid out like a green carpet with a patchwork pattern of
fields and roads and ditches. The landscape here has changed little
over the centuries, except that they have knocked many of the ditches
and made the fields bigger and more manageable for large machinery.
The days of
the small farmer are truly over.
I took a
stroll down the Grogeen Road. Much of the forestry in the area has
now been cut and the magnificent views restored. The remaining rough
terrain looks very untidy but hopefully the area will be eventually
cleared up.
As I walked
around a bend I came across the familiar figure of Tade Tomáisín who
was herding a couple of goats as they grazed contentedly by the side
of the road.
Tade is a
man of interminable years. He was old when we were young and he does
not seem to have aged a day since, although he is well in to his
nineties. He is a font of knowledge about the folklore and the
history of the area and is great company.
“How's
Tade?” I greeted him.
“How are
you, young sir?” he responded. This cheered me up no end. I hadn't
been called 'young' or 'sir' for years.
“Grand
day.” I continued
“A pet
day.” Tade replied. “The swallows are flying very low. We'll have
rain tomorrow.”
We sat in
the sun and Tade lit his pipe. “What brings you in this direction?”
he enquired.
“The bit
of fresh air” I answered.
“'Tis well
for some with nothing better to do.” Tade gave the nearest goat a
tap of his walking stick. “Ate your supper!” he commanded
“They
enjoy the fresh grass?” I nodded at the grazing goats.
“They do
indeed,” said Tade “ and there is plenty of it, and it is all
free. I calculated that the amount of grass on both sides of the road
from the top of Grogeen all the way down to Cahir is the equivalent
of a twenty acre farm. I was even thinking of cutting a few bales of
hay and selling it.”
“The
County Council might not be too happy”
“They can
feck off! What they don't know, won't trouble them.” Tade has a
healthy disregard for authority.
“Do you
see the passage there!” he continued, pointing with his stick to an
overgrown gap in the furze bushes. “That path leads to what the old
people called the 'commonage'. Hundreds of years ago there were
stone quarries in there. People dug out the stone with shovels and
picks and with their bare hands. It was broken up and carved and
dressed and was used to build all the old houses above on the road.”
“Did they
have planning permission?” I joked.
“They did
adéale! Most of them probably didn't even own the land. It was
belonging to some rich landlord over in London with more money than
sense. Local tradesmen paced out the measurements for a simple room
and kitchen, and labourers dug the foundations. The stones were drawn
up in creels and set in red mud. Trees were cut and shaped for doors
and windows and for the roof beams. Long scraws of turf and heather
were cut out of the bog and spread over these beams. Barts of rushes
were placed on top of the scraws and the thatch was battened down
with scallops cut from local woods. The walls were whitewashed inside
and out. Many the big family was reared above on that road – and in
hard times too. There were great men long 'go.”
“And all
the houses are gone now?” I said.
“Knocked
to the ground,” Tade replied. “and new bungalows and big ranches
built in their place. 'Tis good to see people getting on,” he
continued, “but we mustn't forget the past either. Every stone and
every bit of timber that went in to those old houses were hand made
and had a story to tell. And now they are all gone. Time waits for no
man.”
He got to
his feet and called in the goats. “People are buying posh cladding
and fancy masonry now,” he went on “and paying a small fortune
for it, while all that original stonework is being broken up and used
as rubble.”
The goats
began moving down the road. “They know it is milking time.” Tade
said. “They are better than any clock.”
“What do
you do with the milk?” I asked curiously.
“Drink
it.” he replied. “Sure you couldn't drink better than goats milk.
I do have a mug of it with a raw egg every morning, and mix it with a
bottle of stout before I go to bed at night. Signs on, I've never
been a day sick in my life, Thank God.”
“You'll
live to be a hundred.” I predicted.
“That's
the plan.” he agreed as he slowly began herding his goats back down
the Grogeen Road.
I turned and
had one last look at the 'commonage' and thought of all those
long-dead labourers down through the years excavating stone with simple tools
and bare hands to provide humble homes for their families with no
help from government or state. It was true for Tade. “There were
great men long 'go.”
I stood a moment in silent salute to past generations and then went quietly on my way.
