The Question and The Answer
10
PAST TIME PASTIMES.
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”. That’s what the
Bard said. So we had our recreations. Tennis. The two clubs; “The County”
and “The Commercial”. The former a relic of garrison days. Some
remnants of same were members. They were few and far between. Some professional
and business people who had aspirations to be remnants. Of what I don’t
know. Sure everyone in the Town knew their seed. “The County”
eventually opened its gates to the hoi polloi. It was about the time I escaped.
I think it was the war or the other club that had something to do with it.
I don’t know. I wasn’t interested anyway. Tennis and I never saw
eye to eye. All that hectic activity. For what? To get a ball over a net.
Golf. Now that was a different kettle of fish. Ennis boasted of a nine-hole
course on your way out to Kilmaley. Yes I know, on your “way out to
nowhere”. It was a remnant of our garrison days, but the ghosts had
long since departed. It had a clubhouse. Not a pavilion. Wood and corrugated
iron. Green. No veranda. No afternoon teas. A bar though. It was a basic
building. The lean-to at the end was Paddy’s (the clubhouse managers)
workshop. Anyone of either sex, who had the yearly sub could join. There
was no entrance fee. You had to be proposed. No problem. The members were
a mixed bag.
All the bank clerks’ subs were paid for by their respective Banks.
Good for business. It was the Towns golf club. “Paddy of the muddy
shoes” was a junior member. Doc Harry was captain. Brother Vincent
and I joined. Annual sub for two junior members. Two guineas. £2-20p
to-days money. My Father thought it was a bargain to keep both of us out
of trouble. Clubs? The horse-pistol. One bag and six hickory shafted clubs.
If I had them today, they’d be worth a fortune. Antiques. I was fourteen,
Vincent twelve. One snag. Most of the priests in the College were members.
We were supposed to be studying. Sarcastic remarks. “Oh, you don’t
know it? You could be up in the golf course at five o clock though?”
. I survived. I was meant to in that place.
Like fishing, Vincent became proficient. Like fishing, I was meant to
be a rabbit. I enjoyed myself. It was only a game. Never became a fanatic
in all the years I played it. One year he was a favourite for the captains’
prize. There were no takers for me. “Paddy of the muddy shoes”
won it that year. He subsequently won the South of Ireland in Lahinch, one
of Irelands “Tiger Courses”. He was seventeen.
I came home on holidays after one year in Dublin. I was still a country
member. Shannon Airport had opened. The Town was abuzz. There were Yankee
pilots and stewardesses staying in the “Old Ground”. They had
to have recreation. The Tennis Club? No. The golf club. They had no clubs.
Paddy the manager hired out clubs. He made a little fortune. Before a round
they had to have refreshments. Tea, coffee? No, Irish whiskey. They must
have thought it was Lemonade. They drank it out of half pint tumblers. Have
you ever seen a gang of drunken American bowsies charging up a golf course?
Waving their clubs, whooping like their betters;- Red Indians? Disgraceful.
I was appalled. I was still priggish. Unlike “Scotty the hard man”
I had not tasted my first bottle of stout yet. I resigned my membership.
Anyway I wasn’t coming back on holidays anymore.
Badminton. In the butter-market. Played by the few young Protestants
that were left in the Town. By all the bank clerks of whatever creed. Again
their subs paid by their Bank. Good for business. My eldest sister joined.
I went to it one night to see what it was like. If I thought tennis was
stupid, this was worse. Played in a dimly lit hall smelling of country butter.
Leaping and prancing with their silly little racquets. Trying to put this
feathered shuttlecock over a high net. If that was recreation, they could
keep it. Most of the fellows were called Derek or Eric. Most of the girls
were Cynthia or Audrey. Definitely not my scene.
Horse riding. I’ve dealt with the pony riders. They looked down
on people. The adults who rode horses all looked down on people. From higher
up of course. THE GREAT AGRICULTURAL SHOW gives an insight into the people
who rode with the hounds. There were others. Those with money and aspirations.
Aspirations to what? I don’t know. It didn’t interest me. In the
Drawing room there was this set of prints by some famous cartoonist, called
the Hunt. Those featured were vapid, stupid, nose-up in-the-air people.
That summed up horse riding as far as I was concerned.
Swimming. You started off in the pool below “Droichead na Geabher”.
After learning to do a few strokes of the breaststroke, you graduated to
“The Cut”. Boys only. The “Cut” was on the river that
flowed out Off Ballyalla Lake. It vas very shallow at one end. Only a foot
or so in depth. Then the big boulder just below water level. After that
a drop of six to eight feet. Boys had drowned in the Cut. That didn’t
stop us. You had to grow up sometime and prove yourself. You climbed up
on the boulder and dived in on the deep side. You came up spluttering and
either dog paddled or breaststroked to the far side. None of us knew how
to do the crawl like Tarzan. I learnt how to float. It came in handy later.
We usually lit a fire. The shallow side had a pebbly bottom lined with
flat stones. Under these lurked clean eels. You lifted the stone carefully.
With one of your mother’s kitchen forks, you tried to prong an eel.
Some got away. Some didn’t. Those unfortunates were beheaded and gutted
with our scout knives. The frying pan was hidden in the bushes. Fried fresh
eel. That was the life, after a swim in the “Cut”. You talk about
your survival courses. It was just like those adventure pictures.
Next you graduated to Ballyalla lake. Ballyalla House and Demesne were
owned by Lady Vera O’Brien. Bespectacled and mannish, she ran the Estate.
She rode a horse, but did not look down on you. One got a gruff “Good-day”.
The townspeople were welcome to the lake as long as no damage was done.
Or no rubbish was left lying around. Fair enough, she wasn’t bad old
stick. Half way up the lake was a small wooden boat pier into eight feet
of water. That was the men’s and boys swimming place. The shallow end
was for women, girls and children. All very correct and civilised. No mixed
swimming. You know what that led to. It was the same in seaside resorts
all over Ireland. The Bishops preached annually on the evils of such ungodly
acts.
Neither Vincent G. nor I knew how to do the crawl. Early in the war Lady
Vera took in a refugee. He worked as a farmhand on the Estate. His name
was Dr. Schwartz (medical), an Austrian. He was tanned, well built and a
swimmer. He took pity on the two lads who couldn’t do the crawl. He
could do it like Tarzan. The secret was to keep your legs rigid and break
the water with your heels. We managed the arm stroke and the breathing.
We swam up and down the lake. From the bank came his military bark; “Brike
ze voiter viz voir eels” over and over again. No matter how much I
tried I couldn’t “Brike ze voiter viz my eels”. Involuntarily
I kicked mightily with my right leg. Vincent G. Learned to do it after a
while. Dr. Schwartz lost interest in me.
I knew how of float. One day I dived in and swam out about fifty or sixty
yards. The rest were basking in the sun on the bank. I was alone as I tried
my best to “brike ze voiter”. Keeping my legs rigid. I must have
crossed over one of the cold springs for which the lake was infamous. Whatever
it was, my right leg cramped. I went down. Rolled over. I remember looking
up at green sunlight through the water. Did my past life flash across my
mind? I didn’t have time for such stupidity. I had to get out of this.
Luckily I had held my breath. I surfaced on my back. Right leg standing
up like a ships mast. I lay in the water rigid, holding my breath. Mustn’t
panic. Cursed the good Doctor for all my worth. Himself and his bloody “brike
ze voiter”. I even called him a blasted Nazi. I gently paddled my arms.
One of those on the bank spotted me. “Haw, haw just look at O’Dea
acting the clown”. Weakly I yelled “get me outa this you bollix”.
“Jaze, he’s in trouble”. Four of them dived in and towed
me to the bank. I stood up. My right calf was knotted and had shifted an
inch or so to the inside of my leg. True to form I fainted.
Ice-cold lake water revived me. After a half of an hour the pain receded.
The calf went back to normal. The rest looked at me. Nobody said anything.
I got up and dived into the eight feet of water. I surfaced. They all clapped
and cheered. I quickly swam ashore. I’d proved something though.
That was not my first encounter with “what might have happened”.
It was the evening before my First Holy Communion. My sister and I were
playing in Davorans field. She is now a nun. The field had a well at the
edge of the river. The well was six feet deep. It was very muddy at the
edge. I went over to get a drink. Slipped and with a scream fell in. Luckily
feet first. When I bobbed to the surface like a cork, she grabbed me by
the hair of my head. Between us I scrambled out. It’s not going to
be water that’ll kill me.
We finally graduated to the Ennis Swimming Club. They dreamed of having
a real swimming pool. That as they say was “on the back burner”
for many years to come. Meanwhile they had to make do with a stretch of
the river opposite the Bishops Demesne. It had a concrete slip. A one-metre
springboard and a three-metre diving board. It also had an overhanging tree.
The diving branch was six metres up. Proper diving. Now that was something.
I was going to learn. First you had to learn how to swim across the river;-under
water. No problem as they say. Now for the diving. I went first. On the
one metre springboard I tried to emulate the others. Up into the air, tried
to arch my back, couldn’t, and plummeted feet down into the water.
My foot hit the only stone in the river. I surfaced spluttering. Diving
and I were through. Vincent G. Managed the one metre springboard.
He and I were the only ones left. It had been a long hot day. We were
thirsty. I said “God, what wouldn’t I do for a nice juicy apple”.
“Me too” said he. The evening was getting duskish. We were still
in our togs. Great minds think alike. You could walk and play in the bishops
Demesne, as long you did not try to steal his apples. The crusty old gardener
would be gone. The apples would be really juicy at this time of year. Talk
about the temptation of Eden. We both entered the water at the Clip. Make
no noise I told him. He wanted to dive of the blasted springboard. Clot.
To make it more dramatic I said “let’s swim under the water, like
they do in the pictures”. I had to organise everything. We surfaced
on the Bishops side. It was a snip.
We sat on our side eating the forbidden fruit. As we threw the cores
into the river at the rising trout, Vincent put a theological question to
me. Was stealing the Bishops apples a mortal or a venial sin? His opinion
was that stealing Dr. Pat’s apples was a venial sin. The reason being
that Dr. Pat kept dogs to guard his rotten old apples. I replied “Search
me, I’m not confessing it anyway”. He looked at me in admiration.
Still he could do the crawl and dive off the springboard. One had to show
that one was “on top” of some situations.
“Paddy of the muddy shoes” introduced us to billiards. Doc
Harry was a great believer in that young fellows should learn early about
the pitfalls of life. He should have known. According to my Father, Harry
in his young days was a great man for the horses. As indeed my Father was.
Harry went to the Galway races. He had to walk home. That cured him of horses.
That was my Fathers story. He was a great man for parables.
Billiards was a gentleman’s game. Most of he “Big Houses”
had a billiard room. The County Club and the Farmers Club had billiard rooms.
Then the gurriers latched on. There was the workman’s club, it actually
had a couple of billiard tables. The in-between was the commercial club.
It was in the lane leading to the Convent. That’s where we started
on the road to perdition. Paddy had an “in” there in the evenings.
Roger was in on it at this stage. Why not. He was one of the poker school
in No. l. Anyway, he had a miniature table in their playroom. Things got
worse. I acquired an “in” at the workman’s club. We started
to learn snooker. I was ripe for my transition to Dublin. I might not be
a hard-man like Scotty, but I wouldn’t be exactly a “red neck”,
a culchie mohawk. I could play snooker. Badly. Needless to say we never
played in either Clubs. At this stage anyway the County was moribund. Even
if we did get an “in” at the Farmers, it was much too close to
home territory.
Gaelic Games. There was only one in the Town. Hurling. Gaelic Football
was played in such out-of-the-way places as Kilrush and other West Clare
centres. Cusack Park. A pitch surrounded by concrete walls, surmounted by
barbed wire Inside, concrete blocks with springy planks for seating. Dressing
rooms. A dreary concrete structure that looked like a bomb shelter or a
public lavatory. Not so to day. A large Stand, with proper concrete Terracing.
Hurling was the sinew and the muscle of the G.A.A. in Ennis. In the Park
we had inter county club hurling matches. An occasional Inter County match.
It’s the Town League I remember most. That’s where the brawn and
the sinew of the game were shown most clearly. You had about ten teams in
the League. Rivalry was intense. Tempers could flare up. Old scores settled.
Trojan contests were fought in Cussak Park. Like all such contests, blood
flowed freely. Fists, boots and hurleys flew in all directions. We the faithful
followers had many tribal chants. One in particular I remember. Bouncing
up and down on the springy planks. “Eggs and Rasher for the Boreen
Slashers, and the Sickens of the pan for the Clare-road auld gang”.
A number of the teams were called “Slashers”. A hurley could be
a pretty lethal weapon. Ah yes. The grace and the beauty of our Gaelic Game,
Hurling.
There was one last recreation. For Adults. It was said that there were
fifty or more Public Houses in the Town. I couldn’t tell you. There
were a lot. You also had three licensed Hotels. All this had nothing to
do with us. Except of course the recounting of stories as to who went into
and who did what. The stuff that made life bearable in a small town. Pubs
of course were places of ill repute. No decent respectable person “darkened
their doors”. Well, that was it in theory. The Hotels were different.
They were considered respectable. Why even Ladies in the company of their
husbands were seen to frequent them. Occasionally there was a whiff of delicious
scandal. ”She was seen in the old Ground with You-Know-Who”. Nods
and winks were exchanged. The Town lived off that for weeks. Pubs and Hotels
had nothing to do with us. Occasionally though they did impinge on us.
It was a Saturday evening. I was Walking alone past the side of the Old
ground Hotel. From out of the famous side door came our English teacher
Mr. D. A little unsteady on his feet. Mr. D. made us learn the complete
text of King Henry the fourth Part two, off by heart. He asked me could
I recite Prince Hal’s soliloquy. Rather appropriate for the occasion.
“I know you all awhile, and will uphold the unyoked humour of you idleness”.
I recited the entire passage. The Saturday evening shoppers looked on in
amazement at this incongruous tableau. A flush faced teacher listening ecstatically
to a young fellow spouting the Bard. Like “Stikes” he wasn’t
a bad sort. Education in the right hands is a grand thing.
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