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Contents
A Memory of Donegal
It may seem strange to have brought you so far along the road of my life
and then to return to very early days. But it happens that in the years
when I lived alone in Doaghbeg after the death of my beloved Jim I wrote
for the Donegal Magazine an account of early visits to Ireland which I
would like to leave to you much as it was written. I called it Memories of
Childhood Holidays in the "Kingdom of Fanad".
 There must be few people left to remember, as I do, a little cargo steamer leaving the Broomielaw in Glasgow to sail down the Clyde on her two-day journey to Donegal. Lord Leitrim's Ganiamor was the enchanting vessel which each year took my three sisters and myself from our home in Glasgow to our grandparents' farm at Tullynadall , close to Mulroy Bay, in the "Kingdom of Fanad". Our parents were natives of Donegal, and after being married in 1899 in the beautiful little church at Massmount, which overlooks that lovely bay, they, like many exiles before them, left this pleasant place to settle in Glasgow's East end; for it was there that able- bodied Irishmen could find plenty of work. Though they had to leave, their hearts never left the homeland.
 As children we were familiar with the Gaelic tongue, for there was always a welcome in our happy home in Tollcross for anyone from Fanad. Sweeney, O'Donnell, McAteer, Friel, Callaghan and Begley - these and other familiar names belonged to the numerous visitors who appreciated my mother's home cooking, especially her soda bread, which made them 'thinking' of their homeland. We grew up proud of our Donegal heritage, and indeed well-known Glasgow people had their roots in that county: the Scanlans, one of whom became Archbishop of Glasgow, and the Brogans, whose sons were famous in the world of journalism.
A love of learning was implanted in us by our good parents. "Education," my mother would say, "is the only legacy poor people can leave to a family." So the elder girls stayed on at school with great sacrifice, since grants were not easily come by in those days. But we were very happy to see the summer holidays come round, and the large wicker hamper packed for our magic journey to our second home in Donegal. There were no taxis for us in those days, and the electric tram was the chariot which took us to the dream ship which would carry us over the sea to Tirconaill.
One particular journey stands out in my memory. The year was Nineteen- eleven, and my mother had been very ill. "At Death's door" the neighbours said. Too young to understand - sister Susan was ten and I was eight at the time - we gaily set out with our father, who put us in charge of the stewardess of the Ganiamor. We were on our way to spend a long stay in Donegal. We were privileged passengers because this was not really a passenger steamer. Most Donegal folk went by the large Burns and Laird streamers which sailed between Glasgow and Derry. They had only one night on the boat; we were the lucky ones, for we would spend two nights on the water. That evening, we climbed into our little bunk beds, and it was to the sound of the ship's engines and the shrill cry of the seagulls that we settled down to sleep.
Next morning, we found ourselves in busy Portrush harbour. While the ship unloaded some cargo, we went ashore with one of the crew, Tommy Boyce by name, a cousin of my father. From Rossguill, on the other side of Mulroy Bay from Fanad, he was a handsome youth, resplendent in his sailor oufit. We would not be sailing again until evening, so it was pleasant to walk along the beach, and to watch the seagulls wheeling in the blue sky, the children paddling by the water's edge and the grown-ups sleeping in their deck-chairs.
Tommy was the ideal companion for us. He regaled us with tales of the sea. Like most Irishmen he had a vivid imagination, but we accepted his stories. To us, he was a hero, and no wonder the girls who served us in the tea -room seemed so fond of him.
It was twilight when we climbed the gangway to our ship, the lights of the harbour reflecting in the water. We were glad to prepare for bed, and there were no arguments about which of us would occupy the lower bunks.
Next morning, we met the captain at breakfast. I remember him now, a fine elegant figure in his gold-braided uniform. I think he was the most handsome man I ever saw. His fair moustache was neatly trimmed, and his bright blue eyes sparkled when he smiled, as he so often did when my little sister Mary made some quaint remark. We adored him. He was so kind, chatting to us and to the little cabin boy, not so many years older than ourselves, who laboriously polished the brasses - in those days before the less lovely chromium came to be used. Years later we were to learn that our lovely Captain had been lost in the Great War, and we were sad.
Our next port of call was Moville, where a small boat came out to take off more cargo: mysterious bags, which could be gold dust in our childhish imaginings. But some grown-up assured us that it was Indian Meal - or maize, to be more correct. After much laughter and talk in Gaelic and English we sailed away from Lough Foyle, round the coast to Lough Swilly, bound for Rathmullan and Portsalon with more cargo.
Portsalon! Its lovely beach and handsome hotel in the background fascinated us. We watched the swimmers in their modest attire, splashing in the sparkling water.
Soon we were steaming out of Lough Swilly on our way round Fanad Head into the Mulroy and to the little pier at Leatbeg where our grandfather would meet us. Susan was praying that he would keep his promise never again to bring that terrifying jaunting-car. She had an unfortunate habit of watching the road rolling giddlily away beneath the wheels, and had a dread that one day she would lose her grip on the seat-rail and fall. This time she was happy to see the brightly-painted cart of red and blue, with our beloved mare Molly in the reins. Grandpa, looking more like the pictures of Mr Gladstone than ever, hugged each of us as we stepped ashore. But why was he not glad to see us? Why was he crying? Aren't grown-ups strange! Later I realised that he was thinking of his dear daughter back in Glasgow, and that, even then, we her children might have been motherless. As we left the little ship, we thanked our Captain and crew. In those days, good manners and discipline were the rule, something I have never forgotten and am grateful for.
With all five of us talking at once, asking questions about Blossom and Blackie and Roanie and Starry the cows, our grandfather patiently lifted us into the cart, to sit on sacks of chaff, which to us were the finest cushions in the world. Molly set off with a toss of her mane, her shoes making a musical clip-clop on the white road stretching away to the distant hills of Kindrum. Lovely-sounding names come to my mind - Umricam, Ballyhorke, Between the Waters, Tombane, Cashelmor, Massmount. As we came to a high turn in the road, the wonderful view of the shimmering waters of the Mulroy silenced our singing of the songs our grandfather loved. We were almost home once more.
Our frail little grandmother greeted us lovingly, and our two aunts bustled around removing our coats while asking anxious questions about our mother. Very soon, we were seated at the snowy scrubbed table enjoying a lovely meal: chicken soup, piles of laughing potatoes "bursting from their overcoats" as Grandpa put it, and delicious chicken. "Can I have the wishbone?" After that, to our cosy beds at the top of the house.
That was a lovely time. Letters from Scotland told us that our mother was returning gradually to good health, but in any case we were to stay long after the school holidays were over. For the first time we were to help with the harvest.
I never remember rain in those golden days.There were ripe luscious blackberries to pick, potatoes to gather, and the cows to drive home for milking We were even allowed to milk Blossom, the placid one; the others would kick the milkpail over if we attempted to milk them. When Gradma sat down to her spinning wheel, it was our pleasant duty to card the rough wool into soft piles which she spun into balls of creamy white wool to be woven later into blankets and tweed. I can remember picking lichens from rocks, then watching fascinated while our clever Grandma prepared a beautiful magenta dye from one and a golden brown from another. It is one of my regrets that I did not learn her secret.
She wore a quilted skirt of that unusual shade of purple which she conjured from the lichen. Grandma took a great pride in her appearance, and on Sundays was attired in her jet-trimmed bonnet and tiny-waisted dress with a little velvet cape. She took us to join the crowds of neighbours on their way to Mass at Fanavolty. Some would have come from the townlands of Ballyheerin and Ballyhorke south of where we lived, and many from miles away to west and north. The talk was cheerful and animated, about the crops and the animals and thanking God for the lovely weather.
Happy memories. I see again the the little whitewashed dairy where the brown glazed crocks were filled with cream ready for the butter-making. The large churn was scrubbed and scalded, and the cream poured in. Each of us took our turn at the plunger. Soon the yellow butter came to the top, to be gathered and shaped into pats with butter spades... And I stand once again on the pebbly shores of the Mulroy, where we filled buckets of limpets from the rocks, later to roast them in the peat fire.
The years between have brought two world wars, but I am happy that my own children, and now my grandhildren, are storing up memories like mine. School holidays can now mean excitedly boarding a plane on the way to dear Donegal. Is it any wonder that I have retired to spend my last days among the quiet hills?
by Mgr John McIntyre It is some years now since I first began putting down on paper my mother's memories from her own accounts of her earlier years and from some notes she wrote herself or dictated to my sister Rosaleen on one of her visits to Girvan.. She had always had the idea of writing down her memories at some length, and the last chapter, already published in the Donegal Magazine, was a first essay at something of the sort. Perhaps it can give you an idea of how the whole might have read if my mother had been able to put it all together herself.
As I write this in September 1997 my mother is still living, being taken
care of by the Sisters and kind helpers of Nazareth House Home beside St
Joseph's Church in Kilmarnock. There she sits in the pleasant large sun-
room, delighted to see visitors and tell them that 'this is a lovely place to
end my days'. She has to be reminded that she is now 94, but is happy
about it because it sets her off on an old Harry Lauder ditty: The memories I have transcribed are faded now, and the people and places of four generations mingle in her mind with the more recent times in Girvan. A few sentences only can be given to the ten years she passed there, between her eighty-first and ninety-first year. She lived a tranquil but busy enough existence, occupied with the worries of a house-holder - burst pipes and dry-rot among them - and never really lonely as long as she could set up her easel and work up sketches made in the past into the oils and water-colours which still gave pleasure to herself and others. She became once again part of a parish community, finding in Canon Eugene Matthews a congenial and helpful pastor. Twice she went with other parishioners to Lourdes, travelling by 'bus and plane. She had a joyous meeting with her schoolgirl grandchild Una on one of those trips, and regarded the chance encounter among tens of thousands of pilgrims as a small Lourdes miracle of her own. Visits to Reading and the beloved 'famous five' were also often air-trips, which she accepted as readily as she did the long car-journeys she made for the weddings of her first two grandchildren, Kate McIntyre who married Gerard Hague-Holmes and Angela Carr who married Nicholas Crawley. And by plane, early in 1987, she travelled back to Rome on the occasion of my silver jubilee in the priesthood, John and Rosemary McFadyen accompanying us, to visit the new Scots College and see the sights again of the eternal city, and travel on for a few days in Florence to look for the first time at some of the masterpieces whose reproductions had inspired and delighted her in the far-off Art-school days. (The return from that winter trip was even worse than twenty-five years previously. A snow-blizzard at Pisa airport meant that we had to ask for Rosaleen's hospitality in Reading before getting a morning flight north. Glasgow was a nightmare of snow-drifts, and both the McFadyen home and the little house in Girvan were uninhabitable because of burst pipes. But Mamma stayed serene through it all.)
She continued to have a talent for endearing herself to others, from the stewardesses on the plane who she thought were far too much taken for granted (and told them so), to her home helps and many ladies of the Girvan parish who watched over her wellbeing at home and on the trips to Lourdes, to Sister Bernard of the Girvan convent whom she taught to do flower-pictures, to the doctor she overheard through her telephone (on one of the rare occasions when she sought medical help) saying to the receptionist : ' Good God, I thought she was dead years ago!'
Let me, before my pen begins to run on things too close for a just perspective, express our family's gratitude to Girvan folk too numerous to mention or to name, neighbours and health-visitors and home-helps and Social department workers, of her own and of other faiths, who made that decade now ended answer to the remark she often makes nowadays as a kind of refrain: 'Oh, God's been good to me; I've had a wonderful, wonderful life!' The name that I would wish to put down among all of those is that of her next-door neighbour Mary Williams, a friend when she was most needed, in the anxious time which came not long after the joyful family get-together for Mamma's ninetieth birthday. It was she who watched quietly over Mamma when she became frailer and a little confused, who got medical help quickly when two falls caused fractures, and was a constant visitor to her hospital bedside while final arrangements were made for her transfer to Nazareth House.
Mary has been a most faithful visitor in the last three years, and she and other Girvan friends are given a smiling welcome. They probably follow with more difficulty than members of the family the conversations in which dreams of the past and small fantasies of the present, and the jokes she has with sisters and staff, get a little in each others' way. With all of us it usually ends with a request that she recite a poem for us, something of the stock of verse retained accurately in some depth of her mind, from schooldays or the Art-school poetry club, or the time when my father gave her a fine early edition of Yeats' The Tower as a birthday gift. Her eyes, which do not now see much of what is around her, light up when she recites, and she uses the diction and hand-gestures she was taught eighty years ago. She cannot manage too much of The Lady of Shallott, which enthralled us in childhood. But John Anderson, My Jo, John, is still there, and the words of The Old Bog Road, Home Thoughts from Abroad, and always the early Yeats pieces, The Lake Isle of Inisfree, and the one that seems to move her most:
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
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