Author: admin

Jacinta Hayes

Pained smile pinned to my face, I gingerly eased my aching body into the back seat of the car and greeted my friends. They had convinced me to join them for a day at The Festival of Writing and Ideas and while it is precisely the kind of day I would choose to spend in good times, these times were bad. I feared my body would not cope with a day of walking and standing. That my mind would melt when tasked with listening and talking. I wanted only to hide but here I was and now I needed to do my best to act like a normal person for a few hours.

The chapel was already full when we entered, so we joined those starting to gather behind the pews. My legs tugged their weight from my thighs, my neck struggled to hold my head upright. My arms were tingling and my right eye twitching. I placed my bag at my tender feet and looked around. The four stained glass panels were vaguely illuminated, a predominant blue casting a sickly pall on the faces of those seated near the front. It was a charming building but I wished I was seated, or at the very least, standing next to the stone walls for support.

Three men walked out and stood side by side in front of the altar. I recognised the writer Emmett Kirwan in the centre but not the tall black man with the enviable afro who loomed to his left, nor the older, bearded man on his right. The tallest man began – no introduction, no hello and no title of the poem. His English accent reverberated round the small building; his voice confident.

‘They always said I was over the edge. And now I am. I really am over the edge…’

I was hooked. One of his hands held the black and gold hardback with his name on the front, the other rose to the vaulted ceiling as did his volume.

‘I am hanging on. I am hanging on. I am hanging on.’

I held onto the smooth back of a pew to ease some pressure from my lower back but my eyes did not move from his face. His eyes brightened and dimmed with his words until the grand finale when his face broke into the biggest, whitest smile.

‘I was growing wings all the time And I can fly.’

The applause was spontaneous. Had I been seated, I would now have stood for this man, for his words, his presence, his gift. For the first time I was introduced to the genius of Lemn Sissay and I felt some semblance of light stir within the darkness I carried.

*

A year later, I was sitting on a worn tan leather seat. I had asked for a cert to cover my absence from work the previous week, and that current one. My doctor was accustomed to this, to the days or weeks when fibromyalgia meant I simply could not move. This time, however, I braced myself to tell her a little more.

‘I’m not enjoying my kids as much as I should.’

That was the feeble sentence I mustered, to express my sincerest belief that the lives of my children would be greatly improved were I not in their world. But it was

enough. As tears ran down my face with relief and guilt and the fear of admission, Noleen leaned towards me, her sympathetic eyes narrowing slightly, behind her dark framed glasses.

‘Do you think you might need some medication to help?’

‘Oh yes, please.’

I didn’t need to tell her that this was my first time out of the house, since simply refusing to leave my bed the previous Monday morning. She, my peer in age and motherhood, heard the desperate plea in my inadequate words. She spoke in a voice that was gentle but firm.

‘You have done your job for this week, Jacinta. Just collect your prescription and next week your job is to ring one of these numbers.’

She handed me two business cards, one a beautiful sunset, the other plain white. I simply glanced down at them but held them tight. I grasped the lifeline Noleen had proffered – one job only, one job next week. Surely I could do just one thing?

Finally, someone had given me permission to just be. *

The problem with depression is that I lacked the ability to ring any number for any purpose, so I texted instead. A couple of hours passed before the phone rang and I glared at it in a panicked frustration, afraid to touch the device should it accidentally connect us. It was a long time before I dialled 171, to hear this woman’s voice for the first time. It was business-like. I neither liked nor disliked it. She requested that I call her back. I doubted her qualifications. Could she possibly offer me help if she actually expected me to pick up the phone and ring her in person? I decided then and there

that, should she ever give me the advice to go for a walk, I would follow it. By standing up and walking out.

But I was in a state of utter despair. Life was meaningless and hopeless and relentless. So, eventually, I did pick up the phone and arrange a meeting. I found myself at the navy door examining the various labelled doorbells, in the search for Mary’s name. I hoped she wouldn’t answer. I tensed at the noise of feet descending wooden stairs. I fixed the pained smile to my face and said hello to the blonde bob- haired woman on the other side of the door.

I followed her up the stairs rehearsing in my mind the first sentence to say to this stranger who was tasked with making my skin an easier place to live in. As I sat in the plush armchair, I felt fragile in my old, oversized jeans and jumper. I had had no interest in clothes for a couple of years and my always slight frame, had diminished more so. I knew I looked a shambles. I just didn’t care.

‘The past ten years or so have been tough.’

I briefly detailed my mother’s death, the resultant lawsuit, the fractured family, my premature baby, finding my biological parents, the guilt, guilt and more guilt that was ever-present in my thoughts. As I grasped tissues from a discreetly-placed box, I, for the first time, spelled out a litany of disappointments, traumas, pressures and more. And Mary listened. She interrupted with the odd question but largely she remained stoic. Before the session finished, she asked if I thought she might be the right therapist for me. I knew finding the right person was important but for her to ask? For the decision to be mine? I saw a glimmer of hope. I agreed to meet her again a few days later.

There were times I saw a break in her stoic composure. A flash of anger on my behalf. Complete disbelief at the actions of others in my life. A smile at a retort given, of which I was proud. Repeatedly, Mary congratulated me on my hard work but I never agreed. To me this talking part was easy. Tiring but liberating. To be listened to, a luxury. Asking for help in the first place was the hardest. Living my world internally was the hardest. Having kept going for so long was the hardest.

Our twice-weekly appointments became weekly. The weekly, fortnightly. Then monthly. One day, confidently-dressed in new clothes, my hair freshly-washed, Mary told me she wasn’t making another appointment for me. That she was always there for me if I needed her. All I ever needed to do was pick up the phone. But I was good. I was healing. And I would continue to heal. I doubted that in my heart – how could I possibly feel better than I did at that moment, now that I could be part of the world again? But after almost a year of talking with Mary, my head trusted her. If she said life would continue to improve, it would.

*

I have thanked both of these women for their role in my survival. They know that, without them, the likelihood of me sitting, on this humid and overcast day, on a blanket I crocheted, in a room my husband built for me, with a dog on either side as my children play, is improbable. And, while both women refuse such responsibility and turn it back on me, the reality is I know I could not have borne my pain of existence for much longer. They helped lift the burden of that pain. Helped ease the harshness of the world. Helped me understand why I felt so very deeply.

But Lemn Sissay’s words accompanied me on my journey to recovery. Speaking his truth, in his words, on his journey. His survival made mine possible. In

his pain, mine diminished. In his strength, my muscles flexed. As he proclaimed his determination to hang on, my own determination grew. His black and gold hardback falls open onto Mourning Breaks, where the pages reflect the frequency and urgency with which they were turned some years ago. It travelled in my handbag, car, camper van. I read his words aloud at weddings and parties, silently while waiting to collect the kids, or for an N.C.T. appointment. It balanced our Christmas tree and served as a coaster for hot cups of tea. A few months ago, I had to search my house for it, for a now rare and leisurely read of my favourite poem.

*

This year, walking through the grounds of Borris House for The Festival of Writing and Ideas, I spot a friendly face and he flashes his huge smile. His arms open wide in greeting and I gladly embrace him. I take my compulsory selfie and we chat for a little while – I, a novice writer with a story to tell; he, an award-winning, recognised poet whose story has been dissected and written and acclaimed. We have become friends of a sort – well, infrequent messengers. He has read my stories and encouraged me. I have praised his honesty.

And I credit his words with saving my life, just as much as the professionals from whom I sought help.

JACINTA HAYES is from Arklow. A primary school teacher and also a writer with an internal monologue she feels compelled to transfer to paper. She feels privileged to be given the opportunity to share her thoughts with others.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Bernadette Colfer

Munch and I had never seen eye to eye. He would glare at me suspiciously whenever I approached him. He has been part of our family since we moved to Monalea way back in 2008. He was a great addition to the family, the best landscaper you could find. He cleared all the weeds, and there were many, ate everything in sight and made light work of nettles, thistles and just about anything that grew wild.

When we built our house, almost all the finance was ploughed into the build without much left for outdoors. It was a large site that had previously been a farm with a lot of animals coming and going and as a result, it needed a big clean up. So Munch worked for his living. All he needed was food, shelter and space to roam. Even as a kid, Munch looked like an old goat! He had a meg to start with, that soon grew into a full-length beard. He had a long face and curly horns, which he used often when something got in his way. His expression never changed much… always gruff! He looked much like the senior Billy Goat Gruff. Although he wasn’t pretty or even handsome, he had something majestic about him, confident and unapologetic.

Since he arrived as a young kid, he appeared to be distrustful of me and yet allowed any males in the family to approach him. As a result, I just did the necessary dosing a couple of times a year and performed a pedicure every few months. He required very little maintenance but as he got older, I could see that he had slowed down a lot. He was still doing his work but appeared to have difficulty walking.

Our vet agreed with me that it could be arthritis and so I started him on anti- inflammatories and painkillers, which seemed to do the trick and allowed him to move with ease. Soon after, Munch developed a cough and appeared to be having difficulty breathing. This turned out to be pneumonia and it was time for antibiotics. Again, he recovered well and was soon back to normal.

Every morning I would look out and see Munch in the field or, if it was raining, I would hear him, as he hated the rain and would go in under his shelter. He and Ben (our pony) were good friends and seemed to look out for each other! I was conscious that goats usually only reach their late teens and so, over the past couple of months, I always felt a slight panic when I looked out and didn’t see or hear him.

Then the morning finally came when he wasn’t visible in the field and no sound came from his shelter. Anxiously, I hurried down to see where he was, and with every step I took, my stomach sank. When I saw him lying peacefully in his bed, I felt utterly bereft! The next day, with a heavy heart, I buried Munch. Ben looked sad all alone and I know he missed his pal.

A few days after, two baby goats arrived, unexpectedly. They had been roaming around the country for days and no one knew where they had come from. None of the local farmers owned them and so Nicholas bundled them into his car and brought them home from his workplace. Pure white and full of fun, they appeared to be twins, but one of them had a badly broken leg that looked serious. I took them to the vet the next day and when he looked at the leg, he asked if I would like to have him put to sleep there and then, or the next day!

I was horrified at the suggestion. The vet noticed my reaction and pointed out that it was so badly broken, it was unlikely that he could recover. I was willing to give

it a try. And so, the nursing began. Daily bandaging, manuka honey, antibiotics and strict orders to stay still. The latter was the difficult part. After about three weeks, I could see we were making progress and within the month, he was running around next to his brother with not a care in the world.

I cannot imagine life without them now, but boy do they keep me busy! Scapegoat is a term I’ve used many times and now I realise where it came from. They are like Houdini and will escape from just about anywhere. They are always looking for a way out, even if they have what they want. When they get out of their patch, I try to secure them and they will then instantly try to get back in! Wherever they are, they want to be somewhere else. They have no boundaries or fear and they certainly believe that the grass is greener on the other side! They climb up on the hay bales and jump off, they run under Ben’s belly and around him. They make me laugh with their antics, I’m never sure if the headbutting and locking horns is playing or fighting!

They also make me very cross when I look out and they are nowhere to be seen. I’ve spent many mornings searching for both of them, since they always stay together. To make it easier to find them, I attached little brass bells to their collars. Now I just listen when they are out of sight and within seconds, I hear the ding-a-ling and I know which direction to go. As soon as they see me, they come running. Some things come along at just the right time and it makes you wonder……..

BERNADETTE COLFER lives in Monalea along with her son and daughter and is surrounded by nature. Reading has always been her passion and now she might add writing to that!

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Jacinta McGovern

‘What do you want now?’ my younger sister sighed as she answered her mobile phone.

‘Where are you?’ I grumbled. ‘I have been all alone with these two for hours and I’m losing my mind. I can’t cope!’

‘Calm yourself, it’s only been ten minutes since Bernie left you. I met her on the road outside of Kenmare,’ she reassured me.

Really? Had it only been ten minutes? It felt like ten hours!

‘I’ll be there soon. You can do this!’ my heavily-pregnant sister comforted as she hung up.

I felt I had just been abandoned, left alone to deal with this unpredictable duo.

I started spiralling down into a vortex. Breathe, Jacinta breathe… I would have to

deal with this stressful situation – on my own! Oh god I thought, I’ll have to find

somewhere suitable for them to eat, they must be hungry by now. So I explored the

town and found a pub that served food. It had a downstairs toilet and enough room for the chair. Cheerfully, I headed back to the hairdressers.

They were there, waiting for me, like two bold children. The Princess sat in

her chair, dressed in a pink tracksuit, with her white sparkly sandals, God forbid she would wear any other colour. Her mischievous cousin sat beside her watching me from beneath her newly-coiffed curls.

‘We’re hungry,’ they both chorused.
‘Where have you been?’ groaned the Princess.
‘I need my game,’ shouted the cousin. ‘My game, my game!’
‘Yes, I know,’ I replied through gritted teeth. I’d been plagued with “I need my

game” since breakfast. I paid and thanked the hairdresser.
‘Have a nice day,’ she uttered with a fake smile.
Have a nice day? Oh yeah really, chance would be a fine thing. I think the

salon lady was just happy to see the back of us. We headed out of the shop. But the chair wouldn’t fit through the door.

‘What’s the problem?’ the Princess moaned, sitting there with that cheeky face. ‘How the blazes did Bernie get you through the door? The chair is far too wide for the gap. Did you walk in?’ I demanded.
‘How do you think I got in here?’ she replied sarcastically ‘By plane? Bernie

pushed me in. Bernie always looks after me so well,’ she beamed, continuing to sing the praises of “Saint” Bernie, as I headed towards the road to phone my long- suffering older sister.

‘Yes!’ Bernie snapped. ‘What is it now?
‘Emmm, I wondered how you got Mammy into the hairdressers? The

wheelchair won’t fit. How did you push her in? Is there a back door or something?’ I whispered.

‘I didn’t push her in,’ she declared ‘I folded the wheelchair and Mammy walked in.’
Mother trucking son of a biscuit. She gets to me every time. Count to ten, go to your happy place. Breathe… I told myself firmly.

‘And Jacinta?’
‘WHAT?!’
Silence on the phone.
‘Don’t forget the game before you head back to the house,’ she advised. ‘Yes, yes,’ I growled inwardly. ‘Thanks, and have a safe trip home.’

I could hear her singing “Welcome to my world” as she hung up the phone.

I braced myself and headed back to face my mother.

‘Mammy, Bernie just told me you need to get out of the chair and walk through the door, as that’s how you got in,’ I confirmed, menacingly.

‘Oh yeah, yeah, yeah I remember now,’ she giggled as she lifted herself lazily from the wheelchair. I folded it up and my mother slowly ambled out the salon door, helped by her elderly cousin, or as I called her, her partner in crime. Mammy got back into her chariot and we headed off down the busy town. I kept looking behind me in case I lost sight of her elderly cousin. I had already lost her twice that day. She trailed behind us and I could hear her talking to herself, repeating and repeating:

‘I have to get my game, my Telly Bingo. I have to get my Telly Bingo game.’

God give me strength!

After lots of chair pushing and navigating the town, which I might add was not wheelchair friendly, we got to the pub which was aptly named “The Queen’s Fool”. I herded the duo inside. After we were seated, I grabbed the food menus from the bar.

Ah, I could relax now. I handed them the specials. For the next fifteen minutes, they had a heated discussion about what they wanted to eat. One wanted lamb, but a small portion. Or maybe beef but oh the chicken looked tasty? A lively squabble ensued regarding sharing dishes. It went something like this.

‘I only want a small portion – maybe I can share with you?
‘No – I can’t have gravy, it gives me heartburn!’
‘Do you think there’s butter in the mashed potato? They always put in far too much.’
‘Do they have to put bloody black pudding in everything?’
The cousin then decided she wanted a scone and tea.
Or a scone and milk.
Or a scone and a Club Orange…

Oh my good God it was just a fiasco. You couldn’t write it. The cousin continued mentioning her Telly Bingo numerous times, as if I would EVER forget. I promised to find a shop the minute we left the pub. Eventually they decided on what food they wanted and I headed to the bar to order.

The barman was slowly cleaning glasses as he watched me approach the counter. A skinny man in his sixties, he had a tattoo of an anchor on his forearm. I had been aware of him watching us ever since we had arrived. He would have heard the entire food debate.

‘Did you want to order some food love?’ he enquired.

‘Yes, yes,’ I said excitedly. ‘I know what they want.’

He eyed me sympathetically over his horned-rimmed glasses and lamented, as if he was at a funeral.

‘Oh I’m so sorry love, but the kitchen closed five minutes ago.’

I stared at him in horror. What the hell would I do now? He spoke some words but I couldn’t hear him. I opened my mouth but no sound came out.

‘Hello? Hello are you alright pet?’ he snapped his fingers. ‘You look like you’re going to pass out! Would you like a glass of water love?’

‘Huh, what, no…Emmm I mean, yes I’m ok,’ I answered meekly.

`We only serve food on weekdays till two pm. And the other cafés and shops close half day on a Wednesday,’ he informed me. ‘I can give you a pot of tea, some pink Snacks and Tayto?’

‘Ok,’ I heard myself mutter.

I stood for a moment in contemplation but couldn’t put it off any longer, so I headed back to the table to outline the situation. They were not impressed. According to my mother, when Bernie, her first born, takes them to lunch this never happens.

‘For heaven’s sake Mammy, I can’t do anything about it,’ I cried.

She threw me the “look”. You know, the “look” that Irish Mammies have? That look of sheer disapproval. Irish Mothers have been practising the “look” since the day their children were born. I felt her disappointment in me, flowing across the table.

For the next fifteen minutes we sat there. Nobody spoke. The pub was empty so it was dead quiet, apart from the crunching of our Tayto crisps and the slurping of our tea.

You could cut the air with a knife.
Then suddenly the voice of her cousin broke through the silence. ‘Don’t forget I have to get my Telly Bingo!’

JACINTA MCGOVERN is new to writing. A member of the Hollyfort Writers’ Group since 2020, she gains her inspiration from family and nature. Jacinta enjoys doing photography with the Gap Camera Club and she loves cats and travel.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Rona Fleming

At the entrance of a small key-shaped cul-de-sac, stood a gooseberry bush. It wasn’t located in front of a beautiful view, and it wasn’t even that pretty, but every year without fail, it would ripen full of gooseberries.

The bush was situated in a dense thicket in front of a medium rectangular-sized, and overgrown grassy patch. Sometimes, early in the mornings you could see the droplets of dew glistening on top of the grassland, basking in the glow of the watery sun. The grassy and musky aroma would fill your nostrils and permeate the air, as you approached the spot.

To the side of this thicket, was a small forge run by old Furlong himself. You would know the man was there working, when you happened to catch a sight of his thick-bodied, tan and white Jack Russell – Jack. On a working day, you would be sure to see the oul’ dog, rambling around and sniffing outside the building, or else cocking his head to one side as he tried to recognise who was approaching the forge. Jack was elderly and half-blind you see, so it took a while before he would figure out who you were. However, most of the time, you would hear Furlong beating the wrought iron into shape, before you would even see him or the dog.

Making horseshoes was Furlong’s main trade. He was a master craftsman and so were his brothers. However, I never saw any horses outside waiting. (In later years, I was told that people did bring their horses to his forge). I only ever saw stocky and ruddy-faced men. You know, the type who always wore a grey suit jacket, with an open necked shirt and sometimes a flat cap. Often, I would see them loitering around the forge, and overhear them mostly chatting about the weather.

Across the road from the forge was a small farm, owned by a man called Cassell and his sister. They were quiet enough people and I don’t recall ever seeing them that much. The farm was only accessible by a lane that ran behind a large galvanised gate. If I remember correctly, at the end of the lane was a bunch of hay sheds, small stables and a field or two. It was perfectly hidden away from the road, a little spot of Eden nestled within an urban setting. To the side, like a sore thumb, stuck out Cassell’s large three-bedroomed, granite stone house. Morning and night, without fail, the front bedroom windows gazed over the farm and the road, constantly noting that everything was in its place.

There were about twenty-five two-bedroomed townhouses gathered around the cul de sac. My great aunt’s house was nestled right in the middle. Until I was thirteen, I stayed over in her home on occasion, and I have many fond memories of the place. Great Aunt Peg was a type of lady whom you would never meet nowadays, since these types are an ‘old fashioned’ and dying breed. She was a lady who would never dare to venture outside the door, unless she was well-presented and her hair was perfect. Peg had her own set of rituals and routines that she never strayed from and although my aunt could get cross and speak sharply, I don’t recall a time when she ever shouted or raised her voice. Guests who came over to the house would always be served tea in a small flowery cup and saucer, along with slices of Victoria sponge

cake and a never-ending supply of triangular-shaped sandwiches. I still remember so well the patterned carpet of rust, beige and green and the smell of the lavender wax polish that engulfed the air.

I recall one particular summer’s morning, when I came downstairs half-asleep and noticed my aunt standing at the front door. When I joined her and looked out, all I could see were some cows! Black and white cows, mucky cows, stunned cows, smelly cows! Cows that seemed to be enjoying their new-found freedom, away from Cassells farm. One or two of them were running around the road, their eyes large and mouths open, trying to get away from the lanky, hired hand who was chasing after them. There was another cow, just standing idle in a neighbour’s garden, not bothered in the slightest. Instead, she was more interested in eating whatever delicacies that lay in front of her. The chasing and handling of these lofty bovines went on for the whole morning, for as soon as the men managed to bring them to their gate, they would break away and the whole comical situation would begin all over again. I was the grand old age of nine years when this occurred during the final summer of the 1980s. It was a retro summer of hot sunshine and warm pavements, ice creams, the blaring radios, pebbles, the beach, beautiful gardens, Victoria sponges and the gooseberry bush.

I would sometimes sneak out during the late afternoon to meet up with some of the cul-de-sac kids, and play outside on the road. I wasn’t allowed to play with one or two of them you see, as they were rather naughty. Yet these naughty kids always managed to tag along with the rest of our small group, trying to figure out new ways to be mischievous. Mostly, we avoided taking part in their shenanigans, as we knew we would be the ones to get caught and not them!

We always ended up stopping at that all too familiar gooseberry bush, playing around it. Going in and out of that bit of grassy land, through a small opening within the briars. There was a feeling of magic that hung in the air whenever we would enter, and it was like a thick red curtain opened and allowed us to cross over into another world. We used to scare each other, telling tales such as the one about a haggard spectre, who sat behind the briars waiting to grab you when you least expected it, or point at you as you walked past, with an outstretched and bony, curved finger.

Sometimes the group of us would pick a few of the ripened berries, and pop them into our mouths. They were of a yellow-green, chartreuse-like shade, with vertical lines going down the sides of each round berry. In the bright light of the day, they were almost transparent, reminiscent of green hot air balloons ascending into the blue afternoon sky.

Although these places and the people are long gone, the above are a sampling of the recollections that have filled my heart with joy and nostalgia over the years. I will forever be grateful for those happy childhood experiences and the memories that were created as a result. I will treasure them always.

RONA FLEMING is originally from Bray, County Wicklow, but now lives in Gorey. A crazy cat lady with two cats, Lucky and Megan, she loves to partake in anything creative and finds writing and painting very therapeutic.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Patrick O’Neill

The longest journey, they say, is from the head to the heart, but I’d like to recount an experience I had a few years ago which came close.

On paper, it should have been one of the shortest house moves in Irish social history, about a mile from one townland to the next, Toberpatrick to Rosnastraw. The summer chalet I was renting was not winter compliant. I’d had to move out twice during storms Ophelia and Ivan, the Beast from the East, when the water and electricity shut down.

In the morning, the farmer revved his tractor provoking the yearlings into a barrage of fretful mooing in the barn next door. The dogs laid siege to the front door in a feeding frenzy although I enjoyed the dogs and became friendly with a few of them. They were sustaining – a reason to live, but I felt frustrated I couldn’t get any writing done, so when the opportunity came to live in a two-bedroom stone dwelling down the road, I took it. If I’d packed everything carefully, I could have made one journey less.

As it was, I drove my loaded car down the pot-holed road to the bridge at the bottom of the hill past Toberpatrick or Saint Patrick’s Well, an ancient spring dating from fifteen hundred years ago, that fed into a stream running nearby.

About the size of a large bath or jacuzzi, huge flagstones flanked the well on two sides, a hawthorn tree over-hanging the pool. Usually, clear water bubbled up from an unknown underground source in a foot or two of water, the bottom obscured

by stones and pebbles. Historically, adjacent families used it as a source of drinking water.

As I passed the well, I ran into a herd of cattle approaching downhill from the farm, returning from milking. I panicked and reversed the car into a culvert next to the wall. I tried to manoeuvre out but couldn’t get traction.

I switched off the engine as I didn’t want to sink further into the ditch, scraping the drystone wall and damaging the car even more. I waited for the farmer following the herd in his white van.

‘Could you give me a lift out?’ I sheepishly asked.

‘I will when I get back from putting the cattle in the field,’ he replied.

As I wasn’t going anywhere and the well was nearby, I decided to visit. The caretaker, a man in late middle-age, in bucket hat and overalls, was strimming the grass in the narrow grounds of the well while his daughter sat on the bench by the spring. I got chatting with her, thinking, maybe she’s available. I’m single and looking to get married, and I started thinking romantic thoughts about her until she revealed she was married which put an end to that! So, I just had a chat with her and her father, enjoying a pleasant social moment while I waited for the farmer.

As I talked with her, I noticed that the well was bubbling up very lively. I’d never seen it that active before and thought, it’s probably Saint Patrick having a good laugh at me because of my accident.

I continued to chat with the caretaker and his daughter until somebody else stopped by who wanted to get some water. And we had a discussion with him, and

what I’d thought would be a simple matter of moving from one house to the other, a straightforward anonymous event, had turned into a social occasion.

The purpose of the well is that you’re supposed to hand over your burdens. Surrender to your Higher Power in the material form of pinning something on the hawthorn bush, like a pen if you want to succeed in your exams or a ring if you want your marriage to work. The tree was festooned with pens, rags, ribbons, rosary beads, miraculous medals, photographs, keys; each object carrying a symbolic significance.

Frankly, I hadn’t handed over that morning. Owing to my worsening arthritis, I’d gotten out of the habit of getting on my knees and didn’t hand the move over. I didn’t bring God into it. I hadn’t checked it in with the Higher Power. Getting trapped in the culvert wasn’t a punishment. Just a nudge, you know, a reminder of who’s in charge. That’s what I believe. That’s what sustains me. And it’s a form of Christian belief that has sustained people in Ireland for thousands of years and still sustains many.

A lot of people have turned off, they say, ‘I’m spiritual, not religious.’ Well, that’s OK. I wanted to write something for the website because it’s about the Gap, and Toberpatrick is only a few miles away. If you’re at the Arts Festival and you’re having an enjoyable time, that’s great. But always remember you’ve got a Higher Power in times of trouble.

Maybe if you get a chance, visit the well, (I went the other day), and sit there. God already knows what you want. Just sit in silence for five or ten minutes. You never know what might happen. As they say in AA, if you get out of your seat for long enough, you might get goosed by the Holy Spirit.

I see this diversion as part of God’s plan to get me out of my head and back in touch with God Himself and other people, to free me from my fixed ideas and learn again a little more of the language of the heart.

PATRICK O’NEILL is originally from Dublin and now lives in south County Wicklow. He is passionate about writing and looks forward to sharing his work with many readers.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Kieran Tyrrell

Big David pulled up in his jeep and let the window down. ‘Corney, the very man.’

Oh no, I thought to myself. Big David was a farmer and his parents owned a few businesses in town. He was that cute he wouldn’t even tell himself the truth. You see, in those days he often looked for a couple of chaps to herd sheep. You could be gone working all day with him and he didn’t pay well. He told me he had a right handy job; short hours and the money was good – perfect for me. We arranged to meet at the marquee at two o’clock that day. The marquee was put up every summer on the Fairgreen in Tinahely and there would be a dance on every Friday, Saturday and Sunday night for two or three weeks.

When I arrived, the men were nearly finished putting up the marquee. The wooden dance floor was laid first and then the tent was erected and when you stepped inside it was almost otherworldly. There was an immediate increase in temperature and every sound echoed around you. It was bigger than the ball alley, maybe three or four times. The poles, with all the coloured lights strung along from pole to pole the full length of the drive, were in position.

‘There must be two hundred lights,’ I said, amazed. ‘Five hundred,’ he replied.

At night, when they were lighting, it was a beautiful sight; red, blue, green, yellow. He offered me eight pounds, I looked for twelve. We settled on ten.

You see, there would always be a crowd of chaps playing football in the tent during the day with the result that a lot of lights would be broken. And then of course, there would be a crowd sliding down the roof of the tent – not to mention a certain crowd would be taking pot shots with catapults at the bulbs hanging from pole to pole on the driveway. On one such occasion, Fr. Molloy was driving out the new road when he could see across the fields the crowd sliding on the tent. He was in a fit of rage and whilst turning, crashed the car into the ditch! Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the marquee with Sergeant Connelly. There were a lot of chaps grounded for the rest of that week, including three of the Sergeants’ own chaps!

At tea time, I came home to the sweet smell of fried potatoes with a fried egg and toast with the butter melted perfectly into it . The Angelus bells rang on the telly and then came the news.

‘I hear you got a job for the next few weeks,’ said me father.

‘Three weeks,’ I quickly corrected him.

‘You are going to sweep up the marquee after every dance and keep an eye on it during the week too, I heard.’

‘That’s it,’ said I. ‘And I’m getting ten pounds a week for it.’

‘Aye,’ said he and then he passed some remark to me mother and she laughed. I didn’t understand.

I would cycle me bike around the inside of the marquee, pulling the wide- headed brush behind me until I had all the rubbish together. Putting it all in a black plastic bag, I’d leave it at the ticket box outside, then carefully inspect all areas around the edges, foraging, as there was usually money behind the seating. On the ground near the cloak room, at the mineral counter, and outside at the ticket box were more lucrative spots. I did well in this job as I found on average four or five pounds in change the morning after every dance. Great to have money to buy Mars Bars and Patsy Pops. The Committee had a good season too, with very few bulbs broken that year. Big David told me the job was mine next year if I was interested. I had to think about it as next year I would be nearly fourteen.

Sometimes I think back on all the adventures and experiences we had during our summer holidays. Making hay, dipping sheep, working at the Tinahely Show, minding the marquee. Fishing, building huts, making catapults. The anticipation, the fun, the danger, the excitement, the devilment, and of course, the innocence.

It was only years later I understood what my father was saying to my mother all those years ago when he made that remark. ‘Poacher come gamekeeper!’ And I always laugh.

KIERAN TYRRELL lives in Carnew County Wicklow and works for A.M.V. Systems Enniscorthy, as an air conditioning service technician. His hobbies include directing plays, acting and all things to do with drama. Kieran directs Bunclody/Kilmyshall Drama Group on the Amateur Drama All-Ireland circuit.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)