Through Rose-Tinted Specs
Memories of Balbriggan in the 50's
By Roger Turner
The End of the Line?

As much as I enjoyed train journeys, the one that took me home to Sheffield was never one of my favourites, for it signalled the return to boring normality after six glorious weeks in Balbriggan. Gone were fine views to the Mountains of Mourn and the clean fresh air on the Bower only to be replaced by the grime and smell of the industrial city devoid of all beauty.

Yet once that grime was taken away and the factories stopped belching clouds of acrid smoke, Sheffield did become a beautiful city.
Not, in my opinion, as beautiful as Balbriggan, but beautiful nonetheless
You know, it wasn't one way traffic from Sheffield to Balbriggan, for in the 60s Balbriggan came to Sheffield more than once.
Auntie Eileen came to us on a few occasions as did Rita with some of her friends. In fact one of Rita's friends, Sheila Grafton, as was, dropped me an email some months back, after reading my memories on b.net, and told me she had a very embarrassing photo of me taken in Sheffield in the mid 60's. Pity she didn't send it me, for I could have included it in this final part (always game for a laugh at myself).
One year Auntie Eileen turned up with a girl she had befriended on the way over and, as you do, she invited her to come and stop the night as she had nowhere to sleep. Mother was only too happy to make up a bed on the lounge floor for her. Back then people helped each other out. Nowadays we turn the other cheek and pretend it's nothing to do with us. But it is.
By the mid 60's Sheffield was cleaning up its act and on the outskirts where we lived the air was becoming more breathable, not as good as the air in Balbriggan, but much sweeter than it used to be. And right on our doorstep was the beautiful Derbyshire countryside, where barren peaks towered majestically over the verdant valleys below.

All our Irish visitors marvelled at the beauty we enjoyed no more then ten minutes drive away, beauty we take for granted. "Why do you come all the way to Balbriggan when you have this on your doorstep?" was the question most asked.
Well, it's like the other mans' grass I suppose.
Balbriggan was then, and will always be, special to me. I think it was because I grew from a babe in arms spending the summers there and it became a way of life.
Apart from a few neighbours, people who lived in the city tended to rush about like headless chickens, minding their own business. Whereas, in Balbriggan, people always found time for a chat. Oh yes they wanted to know all your business too, but that's just them being friendly, for if you had a problem then once you had shared it with them, then it was no longer just your problem.
And no matter what job you needed doing, a word here and the person you were talking to knew of some relation who had a friend who would help you out.
In fact back in the 50's and 60's people's attitudes were so different. Even in Sheffield, immediate neighbours watched out for one another. Curtains would twitch when a stranger walked past, cups of sugar were exchanged, clothes were passed on to those less fortunate... the list was endless. If you were on your uppers then all you need to do was ask and help would be forthcoming.
But one reason that Balbriggan is written all the way through me is the relaxed way of life. We children could safely play in the streets, wander down the lanes, chat to farmers, explore the harbour, and climb aboard the fishing boats.
You were never far away from home yet could escape into your own play world. We didn't have all the gismos and gadgets the kids do nowadays, yet we were never short of things to do, games to play and places to go, all within a few minutes walk.
Plus the fact that the sun shone all summer long and it never ever rained, well, not that I can remember much.
I think I had better clean my Rose-Tinted Specs again don't you.

I must say at this point that I didn't only come over in the summer, but have experience many different seasons of Irish weather.
One year, maybe 1960/61 mother was quite ill and wanted to go to Knock with Auntie Eileen. She was too ill to go on her own so I was taken out of school to accompany her.
We left Sheffield in driving rain and high winds and the further west we went the worse the weather got. In Liverpool, the waves were lashing the boat well before we left the safety of the dock and once out in the river, well it twisted and corkscrewed towards the open sea. Out of sight of land the boat struggled against the wind dipping its nose deep into the swell then rearing up like an un-broken horse, only to drop back to face the next giant wave. Hour after hour this went on, as if we were not moving at all, rocking back and forth like on a giant see-saw. But also rolling from side to side like a drunk staggering home after a good night out.
It was so bad that most of the crew were ill, the bars and restaurants closed and deserted and the whole boat filled with the stench of vomit. All over the boat, people were laid moaning and groaning as the motion of the boat effected them.
Everyone was seasick apart from? Yes, that right, me. I still wanted to be up on deck looking for land.
I think it was almost lunchtime the following day when we finally tied up to the North Wall. And well into the afternoon before we got to Craoibhin Park tired and hungry.

Despite the weather, I still took my walks up to the Bower and can clearly remember the howling gale and the spout of angry seawater that shot upwards from Isaacs Hole. I will never forget the waves crashing up on the back strand throwing granite boulders all over like confetti at a wedding, or the sight of the sea towering over the harbour wall.

You see, it's these memories that are so vivid in my mind. Yet memories like going to the Irish school for the day while Mother and Auntie Eileen went to Knock has all but faded. Strange, perhaps I didn't like experience. But I can remember going with Uncle Raymond and his battered pram down to the back strand to collect driftwood after the storm

I will never know if it was the pilgrimage to Knock or the storm that raged all the time we were there, but Mother was far better a week later when we got back to Sheffield. I know that a good storm at sea always makes me feel better and I have seen a few good ones in my time.

Now, I was the only one of our family to come over to Balbriggan, for our Pats' eldest girl, Jenny, came over with my mother in the mid-60s. Mind you, Mother must have been going soft in her old age, for they had started to fly across. By this time Auntie Eileen's second brood of children were growing up and one, little Raymond, took our Jenny all over the place.

Our Pat only went over once after she was married, but Nan and Steve continued to visit until poor health prevented them. The same with my mother and dad who still visited up to my mother's death in 1980.
I came from time to time up to the mid-70s but once I got married, for some selfish reason best not mentioned, I stopped visiting. But like in the song 'The memory lingers on'.
Well, here we are in January 2006 over a year since I started writing and I feel the time is almost right to finish.
It's strange, but every time I sit down to write, I think of something else to tell you. When I read back, I ask myself, why I didn't say this and remember that, and as I scan some of the old photos now in my care they remind me of people and places long gone.
So, I wonder where the next 12 months will take me and my writing. You know, I have always had a yen to write the book for a musical... 'Balbriggan the Musical?' Or 'The wreck of the Belle Hill?' Maybe some musician may have tunes needing words?
But I still have not answered the question so often asked of me. Why do I love Balbriggan so?
Well, as they say, thats another story...... Like the time...... But this is supposed to be the end of the line, so stop waffling........