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Through Rose-Tinted Specs
Memories of Balbriggan in the 50's
Copyright. 2005 By Roger Turner
Part 12: All Good Things...

What do Daddy Longlegs, Blackberries and the Stars have in common?
Easy! They are all vital to this latest chapter of my ramblings.
Let's take Daddy Longlegs (or the Crane Fly as is it known in posh circles,) first.
This creature seemed to appear from nowhere once the calendar was turned from August to September. One day they were nowhere to be seen and the next they were attacking the light bulb and getting stuck to the ubiquitous fly paper that hung down from the ceiling. They fluttered around the walls and frightened the girls, until we boys came to their rescue with the aid of a rolled up copy of the Topper Comic.
SPLAT! Mucky mark on the wall.
CRACK! Thick ear from my mother for making her jump.
I was only trying to help.
That's the trouble with grown ups, they don't want you to help them.
Now that the Daddy Longlegs disposed of, so let's move on the blackberries.
Didn't you just love to go down a quiet country lane with a bowl picking blackberries? And didn't those blackberries taste so wonderful whe fresh from the bush, especially if the sun was shining and maybe with a hint of morning dew still washing them?
With purple hands we would fill the bowl, or a paper bag, and once there was enough to make a pie we would head back home, where they were all washed, pastry made and the whole pie sprinkled with lashings of sugar and cooked until golden brown. Mmmm Can't you just smell it?
You know, I used to love sweet things and had a passion for bread and butter sprinkled with sugar for my supper. But them who are supposed to know better tell us that we need to cut down on sugar for it rots our teeth. Well, all I have to say is that I have all my own teeth, despite all that sugar. So why haven't our teeth all gone rotten? I wonder if my Guardian Angel also has a sweet tooth?
So we have done Daddy Long-legs and Blackberries, but have you got any idea what the connection is yet?
Well, let's look at the Stars.
Back in Sheffield in the 50s we hardly ever saw the stars due to the pollution. Ok, on a crisp frosty Sunday night we might just have got a glimpse of a few hazy stars, but it was the exception rather than the rule. But in Balbriggan with its clear pollution-free air, the stars were a delight to see or were they?
You see, to look at the stars you need a dark sky, and when we came over in July it didn't really go dark until well after bedtime. But now, six weeks later, our nightly walk to the Bower is taken in rapidly diminishing daylight, and on the way back to Craoibhin Park, all these constellations would appear like magic from the firmament, with the plough sitting high above the Mountains of Mourn.
Now have you got the connection? Yes that's right, for when blackberries are ripening and the Crain Flies attack the fly paper and the stars are out before little Roger goes to bed, then its almost time for us to go back to Sheffield.
There are many other clues, like the fact that Dad is over and we have been buying clothes in Dublin and Mother making me wear them all at least once so that when we go through customs in Liverpool, she can say with all honesty that they are not new. She even removed labels from things that had been made in Ireland.

Yesterday Mother had dressed me up for the early Sunday Mass in a new suit she had bought me, and then took a picture of me standing next to Rita.
Every year I asked my dad the same question.
'Why can't we live here, in Balbriggan, Dad?'
But the answer I desired was not forthcoming.
Talking to him nowadays, I now know that the type of engineering work he did was not available in Balbriggan. In fact, jobs in Ireland were few and far between and it was for that reason that locals were emigrating in their thousands. I suppose that most families living in Balbriggan back in the 50s and 60s had at least one family member who had emigrated. In fact, emigration was big business back then. You only have to look at the messages on B.net to realize how far flung around the world Balbriggan folk are. Yet when you read between the lines Balbriggan still tugs away at the heartstrings of its expatriates.
Balbriggan still tugs away at my heartstrings even after 30 years, and I know now that once I have penned my memories I will have to come over once again just to see how much it has changed.
Its almost a year since I started writing my memories down and back then I thought I would only take a few hundred words, and maybe one or two chapters, but here we are on part 12 and 34,000 words later and I am still at it.
So, I hear you ask, how can you remember all this from half a century ago? And what is it about Balbriggan that gets to me so that I have to write it all down?
Well, first and foremost I must say that for as long I can remember Balbriggan has always been in my thoughts. In fact I have so much around me to remind me of Balbriggan. In front of me I have a painting of the lighthouse, (with the dome) by E Fitzgerald 1968. Downstairs I have other pictures, plates, playing cards and much more to remind me of Ireland, and if I am reminded of Ireland then Balbriggan comes straight to my mind.
I have many hundreds of Photos taken in the last 80 years by various members of my family including myself, and I love to listen to Irish music, from all styles and ages.
But it is not what you see that means so much to me. It's the memories carefully stored deep in the corners of my mind. Memories that I can recall at the drop of a hat.

When I am having one of my bad days I just close my eyes and let my mind wander up the Bower to watch the sea breaking over the rocks. Or perhaps I will stroll all along the shoreline to place a stone on the Sailors Grave.

Maybe then I will walk back to the harbour and watch with the fishermen. Then back through town to cast my imaginary line into the canal and wait for the fish to bite.
Oh dear! So much to do and so little time left to do it in, for the cases are all packed, our Pat is being a pain as usual and it's my last day in Balbriggan, and, oh dear, I am now feeling very sad.
They do say the condemned man ate a hearty breakfast, well in our case we ate a hearty dinner. See, I am back onto food again, for after dinner Mother took me for a walk (via the harbour for me to say goodbye to the lighthouse) to Hagans Butchers shop for a parcel of freshly made White Pudding to smuggle home. If time permitted then a last visit to Corcoran's for an ice cream soda was in order, then a walk back to Craoibhin Park via the canal to collect our bags and cases.
I have to admit to dragging my heels from Craoibhin Park to Dublin Street, for I was in no rush to go home.

With tear-filled eyes, I waved from the bus window to Rory and Rita, who had walked down to the bus stop with Aunty Eileen, to see us off.
Six week earlier the bus seemed to crawl along the road bringing us, yet on the way back to Dublin and the boat, it seemed to race.
At least I had the boat to look forward to for the return journey was always action packed... well it was for me.
For a start the trip back to Liverpool always took longer because the boat was loaded with cattle for Birkenhead, and one of my first jobs was to twist someone's arm on the crew to let me go below to see them. Our Pat hated the smell of cattle for it turned her stomach (not that it ever needed an excuse). It didn't worry me though, for every Thursday, whilst in Balbriggan, you would find me in the cattle market. Again it was the auctioneer that grabbed my attention, with his excitable arm waving, and incomprehensible chatter. And farmers spitting on hands as a deal was made.
But it was the cattle that I really liked, and down in the hold of the ship I would look to see if there were any I could recognise from Balbriggan market. Never did recognise any, but it didn't stop me looking.
Another thing that fascinated me about the return trip was to watch the cranes swinging huge steel vats of Guinness on board. I used to think, they don't half sup some Guinness in Liverpool!

The other thing that pleased me was that we always had a meal in the restaurant before the boat sailed. It was no good them eating as we sailed for I wanted to be at the back of the boat to see our departure.

To see Dublin basked in the setting sun is one of life's true pleasures, but viewed from the river as the boat heads up the channel towards the open sea, is truly spectacular. And I was faithful to that sunset, for I would never move until the darkness engulfed the sky and only pin pricks of lights were visible on the shore. Even then I usually had to be forced to go below.
Often on the return trip Mother and Dad would see if they could upgrade to a cabin, and find a berth for me. Now although I didn't mind them sleeping in a bunk, I always wanted to be up on deck, so a paying for bed for little me was a total waste of money. One year they got me a berth in a double cabin with a priest. Didn't like that much, far too pious for me and as soon as he was snoring and I knew me mum and dad would have settled down for the night I was up and off to talk to the crew.

In all my trips to and from Ireland I can never remember actually sleeping.
And by the time the boat docked in Birkenhead to unload the cattle I was still wide enough awake to watch them being driven up a gangplank to the dockside pens that awaited them. When we arrived the darkness of the night was still surrounding us, but by the time the last of the cattle were on the dockside, the sun was starting to lighten the eastern sky.
It was a short trip across the river to Liverpool and the tight squeeze through the lock and into the maze of docks.
Once we left the boat we headed to Lime Street Station for breakfast in the cafe there. But soon the excitement of the night started to leave me and once on the train sleep took over and so my holiday in Balbriggan was now well and truly over...
To be continued...

I would like to say a big Thank You, to all who have read my memories and have taken the time to contact me with their own thoughts and memories.

Also my thanks must go to those who have allowed me the use of photographs like DublinBuses.com. and to many others.

My final thanks must go to my Guardian Angel for being there to help and guide me throughout the past months, for without that help and encouragement I doubt if I would have actually got to this final stage of my writing.