Category : Stories

Sub Category : Historical Fiction

From hearing my ancestors stories of their fathers, and their fathers, father, I learned a great deal of how they lived. Their way of preserving the past was through storytelling, and they done this so very well.
When technology gave us the means to look back to our past, I found every story they told me not just to be true, but frighteningly exact.
As I studied my ancestors lives, every document I found on them, the story would jump out at me every time, it was almost a bit creepy, but it's a great testament to the gift of the Irish Storyteller, and the gift is to paint the picture, then bring the reader along, like you saw and went through it with them, and it remains with you forever.
The Gentry in the 1800s, were readily identified by the villager's as them and us, their were subtle hierarchys and different levels of wealth and poverty, and respectability, and disreputableness.
For the outsider, and particularly an outsider from the town it was not always easy to judge a villager's standing.
For instance in the 1890s a certain man from Toar went into the bank in our village of Tyrrellspass, one mile from Toar. He had an appointment with the bank manager for a loan. The bank manager asked him what collateral he had, sure I have a big field full of fat cattle, out the Toar road, says yer man from Toar.
That's great says the bank manager do you mind if I come and have a look? Ah not at all, sure it's just ten minutes walk from here. So off they went and the poor awl bank manager was all smiles on the way back, at the big field full of fat cattle. Sure a week later it turns out that the big field of fat cattle wasn't belonging to yer man from Toar, he owned no land not even a blade of grass, and he after landing a substantial loan.
This is where the saying originates, you'd have to get up very early in the morning to catch up with a man from Toar.
Another Toar man was selling horse manure from his farm on the Toar road, he had a sign outside, horse manure for sale, 1 shilling a bag. A man pulled in, in his horse and cart looking to buy some bags, as they began to load the cart, the man with the horse enquired, this is very expensive a shilling a bag, and such a small bag of horse shite, for a whole shilling, it's daylight robbery, ah not at all, sure you don't see what your getting, that's come out of the best bred horses, in the whole of Ireland a great bargain, sir.
My ancestors were poor small farmers, and Bogmen, yet they all lived very long happy lives, to hear them complain, something had to be terribly wrong. Their way was it is not a crime that you are poor, it's only a crime to show you are poor, they were very proud people.
They really knew how to have the craic, after toiling hard all day, they would sing, dance, make music and tell stories every night and late into the night. When they drank it could be the whole community on it for three days, they would celebrate at the drop of a hat.
I remember when I was very young, an awl fella used to burst into the doors of the village pub every evening, saying loudly to the barman, ah jaysus mammy where's me cold tea, like he was dying of the thirst, he done that for year's.
The father in those days had to hand the pay packet up to the mammy every Friday, mammy opened it, and took what was needed, and the few awl pounds be handed back to himself, for porter money, if he didn't smoke, he had more money for porter.
The poor would play along, friendly and respectful to the gentry, but soon as eachother got out of earshot, the sarcastic remarks would come in a stern tone of voice. Classes kept to themselves and wouldn't rush to help each other, but the poor always helped eachother. One Gentry woman in the village, used to blow her trumpet out the window at the poor baker across the road when she wanted a loaf of bread. They often held eachother in contempt, but had mastered a polite and respectful face for their upper class nieghbours.