The Craic and Life in the Mountains

By John O’Dwyer

A nine-year-old boy hooks a twine-held bundle of hay over his shoulder and climbs the harsh steep mountain on a winter morning, with his brother Pat. They trundle upwards against the harsh terrain and elements to fodder the cattle on the hill top.
Some 30 years later, Sligo, his adopted town, is in crisis as development tax incentives have expired and three government ministers are refusing to extend those incentives. That young boy emerges in his elder self, strident and resolute, and fights another uphill battle.
Another 20 years on, now in Derry, the calling from the mountains of his birth surface within him, urging him to return to regain lost fragments of his soul. His return regenerates and reignites the lost spirit within as voices forgotten in a busy life emerge from the shadowy vibrations of the past to soothe, heal and repair his soul. The journey sees a re-emergence of the people, characters, events and places that formed his character in a rich tapestry of recall.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398415348

John O’Dwyer

John O’Dwyer was born in County Tipperary, Ireland, in the early nineteen-fifties. He grew up in a time when rural life in the mountains was harsh, simple and enriching. He spent a life in the public service in Counties Sligo and Leitrim. A keen sportsperson, he represented both counties in hurling, his passion nurtured in the fields of his neighbourhood. He achieved the honour of ‘Sligo Person of the Year in 1995’ for his role in the celebration of the 750th anniversary of Sligo’s foundation. John has four sons from his marriage to Teresa: Keith, Shane, Barry and Gavin.

Book preview

Re-Awakening

It was July 2012 and I was in turmoil. I had retired, divorced and remarried over the last three years and moved to Derry to live. I spent the last six months attending weekly counselling sessions. I felt I was carrying a deep heaviness within that created a still silence. I found it difficult to talk; it was as if my inner being was taking over and wished for silence. There was comfort in this silence.

I walked and walked and walked and as I did, my internal urgings and voice kept telling me to go home, go back to Tipperary. There was within a very strong yearning for the mountains and valleys of a countryside I left as a 17-year-old and, apart from summer holidays, had not been back for an extended period.

I discussed with Seamus (the counsellor) and explained my need to return. I had heard of ‘Shamanism’ and of soul fragmentation.

Seamus advised against this, suggesting that it may be unwise to do so without professional help. Inwardly, I sensed I must. The call of Killeen, the place of my birth and early childhood, and the mountains had stretched across the veil of earthly divide and was asking for a soul, one of its own, to return. I sensed somehow that Killeen was responding to my distress and wanted me to return so that it could nurture me again in its majestic healing earthly arms. I sensed that I needed to reconnect.

I was reminded of a story of an explorer in Africa. He had a deadline to meet and had the support of native trackers to navigate his way through the jungle. He was in a rush. He had a deadline and needed to move fast, so for two days he kept on the move, not stopping to rest.

On the third day, as he set off, he noticed that his guides were resting and unprepared. Impatient and sensing his deadline slipping away, he enquired why they are resting. Their reply is enlightening;

We are waiting for our souls to catch up and need to stop lest we lose them forever.

So here I was after 40 years, taking time out to allow my soul to catch up with me. A lot of catching up was needed. This was a salutary reminder of nature and spirituality and the impacts on our lives. My soul had been restless, missing those fragments it needed to co-ordinate my geography, so it could continue its journey in harmony with the universe.

The cry of my soul had reached out. I had denied its call long enough, not recognising its urgent calls to re-earth in the shadowy mists of Killeen, as it now wished to lift a soft comforting veil over me.

Tom Butler, husband of Miriam (sister) travelled Northward to bring me home. There was a comfort in his presence as we chatted on the journey to Killeen. I was listening to him and over the next period, I started a journey of reconnection with the places, people and memories of my childhood. Indeed, Tom, a man of few words on matters of an emotional nature, sensing my inner turmoil always had that wee job for me; whether it was splitting timber, in the bog or painting.

Here, paint that fence. It will keep your mind occupied, it’s good therapy, still rang in my ears.

During this period, some meaning to my life started to re-emerge. I recall going for a walk one day not knowing where, only to end up in Toor, a place where as a child I used walk to with Dad and my brother Pat a few times a year, to pay the parish dues. It was then for me a tortuous walk over mountain trail and rough terrain. As I arrived there, memories flooded in. I could see the Church and Cooper’s shop and pub. I could see Dad sitting at the end of the pub counter, having a beer as we drank orange crush from the bottle.

As I started to walk back, I reflected on that wee boy unable to keep pace with Dad and Pat as they strode ahead in unison. The walk was torture for me as my legs were not as strong. They strode ahead stride for stride, as I laboured behind in pain, trying to catch up, trying to keep pace. I also wished to be part of the knowledge Dad was imparting. It appeared my weakness was excluding me from something special; that bond.

I so wanted to be part of their world. I could hear their voices. I could not hear what they were saying. I felt I was missing an unveiling wisdom or knowledge that I also yearned to be part of. This created within a deep sense of exclusion. Their voices disappeared ahead, as I laboured.

I then realise that today, I could give this wee boy strong sturdy legs to walk. So now, the wee brooks were magic life streams, the mountain paths were full of the wonders of nature in the soft summer sun sprinkled with soft rain. I felt real joy. I felt I was reconnecting with the John of my youth, that somewhere along the path of life, I had lost in a maze of confusion, drowning in supported past negativism and supported attachment in counselling. I felt I did not know me and I was lost. This was not a feeling of despair; there was relief in that acknowledgement and knowing.

Heartened by this experience, I began over the next days to walk through my childhood, visiting old places with good memories, seeing the faces of my past tending to the harvest, hearing them share fireside stories, watching them work, straining for their every word, as if there was untold wisdom in their every utterance. I looked up to those people. They were my boyhood guides.

The hills still carried and held their memory. They were still alive and present. I could feel them; this was so comforting to me now. A childhood lost and hidden was being rekindled and was re-emerging in the soft early days of a wet summer in Killeen.

Now every field, every gateway had a story for me of a rich childhood. I was in the meadows again saving the hay, listening to the stories, waiting for the lady folk to arrive with the tea and apple or rhubarb tart and savouring every bite as it all tasted so different in the meadow. It had such a wonderful flavour. The tea assumed a different flavour. It was richer, imbued with the smell of fresh hay that seemed to give it more fragrance…the last drop, heaven. The food was eaten like every morsel mattered.

There was a reverence and beauty in the connection created. This was my world, I was on top of the winter haycock building toward the sky. What I did mattered. It was part of nature, our natural world.

We would sit around the bundles of fresh hay listening to Timmy Connors regale us with stories from our neighbourhood. We listened intently to his words as he smoked a woodbine, also wishing we could share a smoke. His life looked so awesome.

I was chasing Paddy and Molly (farm horses) with Pat in the lodge field. How difficult, at times, they were to catch. We would bring them to the top gate, they knew instinctively they were being caught to bring in for work. We would approach cautiously hoping to place our hand on their nose and then slip on the winkers (bridle). With one swift move, they would break through and gallop the quarter mile of field to the bottom again and, so it started again until we succeeded.

I was riding Paddy bareback, no winkers, nothing, steering him to a gallop as we jumped over small drains in the field. This was the gay abandon of our childhood.

I was driving the black pony to the creamery with Pat, racing the neighbours, to gain a better position in the queue to offload the milk. Milk carefully cooled at home that now had experienced constant turmoil in the tank as we cajoled the pony to run faster. The milk was secondary to our quest to gain position. We had to contend with two queues.

We arrived from the west side and we simply fitted in behind the cart in front. However, there was also a queue forming from the east side. This is where the contention emerged as people jockeyed for position. Some of the smart men using the benefit of age claimed position to gain advantage. This caused dispute and spilled into rows. We were cocky enough to stand our ground and mark our territorial position in the queue. We would steer when next on our side even where a scowl on the opposite suggested an advantage could be gained.

We stood firm and guided up to Mick Caplis as we helped pour the fresh milk into the churn. It swirled away in a maze of steel pipes. He always took a sample as we then waited again in the backyard for Jim Quigley to pour some pasteurised milk into the tankards, for the calves at home.

We frequently settled into discussions and arguments with the men on the merits of Tipperary hurling. How much we hurled. On a Monday, during the holidays, we replayed all Sunday’s games. We argued with the men folk, confident in our own knowledge. This went on until Wednesday/Thursday when we switched attention to the games of the upcoming weekend. We picked teams, dropped players and argued with the venom and fervour, that is Tipperary hurling.

It never stopped; we talked of the matches played and of the matches to be played. We picked the teams, we dropped players we knew. Knowledge flowed through our veins with the ease of our blood stream. There was a security in that knowledge. It met with acceptance from the menfolk. Hurling was always a secure if sometime heated topic for discussion. It was the currency of the times. We felt imbued with a largesse we could trade and transfer. Our opinion seemed to matter. In those conversations, we gained their respect. We had knowledge.

The names of those I knew started to flow back; McKenna’s, Hayes, Shinnor’s, Gleeson’s, Morrissey’s, Murphy’s, Duggan’s all flowing into my mind with fresh memories and stories. My mind drifts to a Sunday afternoon when we would all gather in Murphy’s Inch and play a game of our beloved hurling for a few hours. We were the stars of Tipperary hurling. Our names would stand to be heralded and discussed with reverence. We could have a stature, reserved for an elite.

There was a magic in the memory, as we fought and played every ball, anxious to be noticed by the older lads and sometimes the adults that watched from a discrete distance. They, the adults, were always keen to watch for young and future stars. We played for endless hours, only stopping to rush home for the tea and the evening chores. This was the innocence of my neighbourhood.

These were earthy people rooted in nature. They lived decently. They worked hard tending to nature. They worked hard and long hours in the meadows, in the bog and tending to the animals. They were not endowed with material wealth. They supported, looked out for and helped each other. This was expected and done with quiet ease. Their lives were full of rich stories, told around a roaring fireplace over a mug of tea and thick white home-made bread covered in butter and jam.

This is how the traditions and stories of times past were lived, relayed and passed on to the next eager generation. There was no other reliance than the accuracy of recall. They had wisdom and I needed to tap back into it. On 6 August, I recorded in a personal diary;

Tipperary is about rediscovering, re-earthling, finding the lost shattered pieces of my spirit and re-energising, giving me back to me. I am recognising this me.

This was liberating, as an adult. I recall I seemed to remember so little of my childhood and listening to former schoolmates and friends like Mick Gleeson, Seamus O Sullivan, Biddy Healy, Martin Murphy, Denis O Connor and Jimmy Duggan, I began to fill up again with a sense of reconnection and rediscovery of those missing pieces of my life.

I felt I was housekeeping, throwing out what I did not need and reconnecting with values and virtues I had discarded to satisfy my adult and the cut and thrust of business and living in a materialistic world driven by the need for possession and to perform. Virtues and values that I had made redundant or discarded lest they interfere with necessity were now re-earthling within.

I seemed to have too readily forgotten and with them, I had lost me. They would have provided a safe haven had I kept them close to my heart. I realise now my core is strong; it is rooted in the mountains of Tipperary and is vibrant and healthy.

Another experience late in October brought nature’s way into focus. Miceal (brother) had a bull running in the field with a few cows. Most mornings, I walked with him, to feed them. On this morning, we both noted, he was lame in a front leg. So, we monitored him throughout that day and noticed he was lying a lot in the field, not grazing.

After two/three days, this was a concern, so I suggested to Miceal, we move him out of the field and bring him into the sheds, lest he fail to get up in the field as he was now labouring and we both knew given the prevailing conditions, if he went down and stayed down in that field, given his size we would not be able to rescue him.

Miceal has a way, that rarely reacts, he waits; so now he decided to wait and see. He absorbs conversation with a silent observed stillness, giving space to the thought.

I was, however, concerned though so one evening, I went down the field, got the bull to stand and did, from as near as was safe, a blowing Reiki on him. Every now and then, his glare fixed on me with menace, his eyes strong, piercing and fearsome. This was a wounded warrior and he sensed it.

Then I moved him off, only to note within minutes he was lying again. The following morning, Miceal shifted him into the upper part of this field. That evening, having watched him all day, I decided to raise him and do more Reiki. This I did. As I left, he was grazing alone away from the two cows, in that section of the field.

I decided to mention to Miceal again my concern. I went up to the house to fill him in as best I could by relaying my concern. Miceal listened and suggested it be left for now. I walked back down, possibly inside ten minutes. There was the bull attempting, lame and injured as he was, to bull one of the cows.

I alerted Miceal, so we both then shifted the bull to the shed in the yard, lest he injured himself more. Now the peculiar thing here was that as I left the field earlier, he was nowhere near the cow and she was showing no signs of coming around (term used for in season). The bull was now in the yard and had stabilised significantly since.

Nature had found in its own unique wisdom a way to alter the circumstances of the bull to bring him to safety. The lesson taken for me – trust in nature, it has a wonderful way of demonstrating its wisdom and power. Sometimes, we rush in and do not hear that silent, unobserved and unnoticed voice within. It has a geography, that is certain. We need to wait, be still and listen.

Tommy Farrell, a friend of Miceal’s and from whom Miceal purchased the bull off as a young weanling, called over the following day. He looked at the Bull and Tommy, a man of nature, tried to prevail on Miceal to keep the bull, not wishing to see him slaughtered.

He looked at him and says in a concerned voice, That bull is worried, look at his eyes.

I did not see, he did. Then he heard a cow’s mournful bawl for its calf that had just been weaned and sold at the mart, and again he said, The poor crathur, is it not awful sad on her?

This is Miceal and Tommy; they love their animals. Miceal as a young boy used to get lost. We always knew he was with the hens or the stock learning their ways and then knowing their every call. As I observed, I saw what nature and life in the mountains was for these two men of nature. They were at one, were one.

In early November, the bull was ready for the factory. Having recovered, he was by now quite alert and quick. The morning the transport to the factory arrived, his ears pricked, his body tightened. He was a warrior again and resisted mounting the trailer, stoutly. A raging bull is something not to be messed with, so we encouraged him in by releasing some cows to run with him. It worked; however, I was going to lose the nail of my middle finger, crushed in the struggle – a mark of war!

In that moment, a boyhood memory was captured as it flashed before me, as when I was still just a boy, I caught this same finger in a door, lifting the nail and a lot of skin tissue with it. I can recall Dad rushing to Newport some six miles away with me over the middle bar of the old bicycle. It was a cold wet night as he carried me to the doctor. Same finger now embraced a forgotten and old memory.

On this topic of the bull, I will leave the last words to Tommy. Miceal said that Tommy would not come over to visit him while the bull was there, as it was too painful for him, too sore. He could not contemplate the agony of slaughter, as this ran contrary to his nature. Miceal rang him this morning the 8 November, telling him the bull was gone, to which Tommy replied, Lord have mercy on his soul.

Most of us have lost this connection with the animal world. It was humbling to experience this kind of reverent respect and connection. It is still alive in the mountains. Man is still in touch with nature. There is a quiet understanding.

I went to Mass with Miceal, bringing back memories of the pony and trap journey of my childhood in hail, rain, snow or sun. Indeed, I recalled walking with Pat, Noirin and Kathleen when the roads were too icy to risk travelling by horse. It meant something different today as I listened to the words, they had a new understanding.

I shed some tears, as I knelt in prayer in the seat in the Upper Aisle of Rearcross Church where we, the men, used sit with Dad – that exact seat. I recalled childhood memories of looking out through the stained-glass window, seeing the snowflakes fall on the large palm trees and the virgin black macadam ground. There was a magic to it then and that magic was still in me, just forgotten. It was filling me with lost memories of a forgotten childhood that was filled with much richness.

My thoughts drifted to after Mass, when all the men folk would assemble in chat; the weather, politics, cattle prices and of course hurling, all ready topics for discussion. All visitors were met, and memories retraced, this was the communication hub of Tipperary in the ’60s. It was rich and oral, communicated by a hand shake, a knowing nod, a wink, always a welcome. All this took place as the women folk shopped in Ryan’s or Kennedy’s for the Sunday groceries. Sometimes this was the only chance to get that bit of weekly shopping done.

Dad or Mum always brought the Beano, Dandy and Topper; this was our Sunday treat as the comics were devoured for news of our favourite heroes. We waited in turn as they were passed around, whilst Dad read the Sunday Press, always the Press in support of his Fianna Fail tradition. The Independent then never darkened our door as mention of it evoked comments of the infamous ‘blue shirts’ not regarded in the hills of Killeen.

Today, Miceal keeps a tradition alive as once Mass was over, he waited for Tommy Horrigan, sons Michael and William and Johnny Carey to discuss the upcoming matches…little change!!! I engaged and indeed as I did, I heard my own Da and his generation give the weight of their opinion.

I noticed one change though that astonished me. Tipperary hurlers when I was growing up had an invincibility, an aura about them. They were heroes. We always back then felt on any given day we could beat anyone. The voices today were less confident in that ‘Premier County’ and I chided them.

Since when did we lose our invincibility, Tipperary will win today, they will beat Cork easy…All this pessimism is filtering through to the mindset of the players and creating doubt. We will win.

That is my attitude, always has been. I hear Mum’s voice in my head as she said to Pat and me as we left home for the first time, Walk tall, walk straight and look the world right in the eye.

A line in a popular 1965 Val Doonican hit single Walk tall of that era.

It was 7 September, my birthday, and I celebrated it alone in a sense, away from Susanne and my own family. However, I am conscious that as Killeen welcomed me in 1953, that this day also marked a new birth for me; that today I was reborn in Killeen, that Killeen was my haven of peace, my place of redemption. Killeen, I can only describe as my Tara from the epic film Gone with the Wind.

It has a mystery, a spirituality, and a real sense of place for me. I was imbued with the clay earth of Killeen. My clay earth, from which I came, was of this place and it was here that very same clay was re-earthling me.

I walked through the lands of Killeen, absorbing their strength, filling myself with the spirituality of the clay earth that is my home. I was renewing my clay/earth body with the very earth/clay that I came from as in every sense of being I feel of Killeen, though this may not be so. Yet my every fibre beats Killeen in its raw natural and wild untamed beauty. I sensed that I was giving me the best birthday present ever. I was renewing my acquaintance with the land of my birth, of my childhood and perhaps of more importance, I was acknowledging my origins and who I am.

Childhood Memories

I am a young boy again; it was the winter of 1961. The weather is harsh, with snow on the ground. They are all sick with the mumps except Pat and me, so some of the chores fell to us. Martin Murphy, John Morrissey, and Sean Caplis the neighbours came and helped with milking the cows and some of the harder work.

Yet we had to fodder cattle up the hill in the mines field, in Spike or the Lacken field. Killeen was then a farm of in excess of two hundred acres, much of it poor bog and wet land. It was also very hilly with sharp terrain that rose from the valley to the hill top.

Each morning, we gathered hay into piles from the winter sheds, placing either a horse rope or hay twine around, so we could carry the pile on our backs up the hill, fighting with each step the sharp hill, the strong rushes, the deep snow, and frost in biting cold.

The chord cut into our hands as we manfully struggled against the unforgiving elements. Our shoulder blades numbed and got sore with the weight of the hay bundle, weight that increased with every step. Our fingers numbed with the cold yet holding tightly, never stopping lest we not be able to start again in the biting cold.

Our small statures lost in the rushes, struggling with a foot of snow, making the journey a trail of epic proportion for someone so young. I wanted to get the mumps, so I could be sick, then I would not have to work. Struggling in the wet and cold hands frozen, feet frozen, would it ever end? Time freezes when in pain and more so when you are only aged seven and eight years old.

The struggle, all made the more difficult as we never knew where the cattle might be on this sprawling mountainy farm of over two hundred acres. Some of the land harsh and forbidding. However, they, the cattle, knew. Their inner instincts alerting them to much-needed fodder in the cold winter climate. They stayed near hand in the fields at the back of the house.

Yet by the end of the day, in the dim light of the gaslight from the kitchen window throwing a gentle shadow into the yard, we were hurling with the neighbours, such was the resilience of the mountain child. A resilience that stood me to good stead in later years. Pat later got mumps. I never did.

We travelled across the roof rafters over the cows baled in the cow sheds. We used the rafters to carry handfuls of hay along. We would drop the hay at their heads and watch then as they chewed contentedly the fresh hay. The nearby hay houses also provided a hiding place or haven if we needed to get away, having caused some bother. It also was our playground.

It was early on a frosty morning, the cattle were in Spike field. Each field had a name. Dad had moved them down the night before and gave them hay so they would stay for the night and be nearby for that early morning start. We were going to the fair in Newport which was over six miles away. Armed with the obligatory stick (plant we called them – it was a status symbol, as we admired the ash plants others had, ours always seemed lesser), we drove the cattle out of the field at 5.30 am to start the walk in the cold sharp frost.

Our breaths like beacons exhaling as white foam in the sharp frosty air. Dad, Pat, and me walking, chatting, meeting other small herds on the same journey, running to block the cattle from escaping in a gap down a road, in a state of