Barefoot in Mullyneeny: A Boy’s Journey Towards Belonging
Bryan Gallagher's reminiscences of the Ireland of his youth, first heard on Radio 4's 'Home Truths', transport you to a world of boyhood pranks, playground politics and the confusion of growing up in a land that is every bit as magical and captivating as the stories he has to tell.Barefoot in Mullyneeny is Bryan Gallagher's evocative tale of a childhood remembered through the people and landscape of Fermanagh, near the beautiful shores of Lough Erne in Ireland. Bryan chronicles a time when all the big boys went to school in bare feet and secretly watched the Saturday night bands and dances in halls lit by Tilley lamps; where it was known to be nothing less than the biblical truth that if you put a horse-hair across the palm of your hand when you were about to be punished at school, the cane would split in two.Gallagher's writing will touch the hearts of those who long for the innocence of childhood and the simplicity of an era long past. Whether relating tales of murderous bicycle chases through the darkened streets of Cavan, of ghosts and fairy forts or the anguish of emigration, this remarkable memoir vividly recreates life in rural Ireland in the 1940s and 50s.For those who thought that life in Ireland was one of the poverty and misery of James Joyce or Frank McCourt, Barefoot in Mullyneeny offers a view of the Ireland of yesteryear that combines the touching, homely nostalgia of Nigel Slater's Toast and Laurie Lee's Cider with Rosie with a humorous optimism that is unmistakably Ireland at its best.
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Barefoot in
Mullyneeny
A Boy’s Journey Towards Belonging
Bryan Gallagher
As I write this, the memory of the tragic death of John Peel is still vivid in my mind. He changed the lives of many people with his encouragement, and he did that for me in his sincere appreciation of these stories. He broadcast some of them in his BBC programmes, and it was he who first broached the prospect of publication.
This book is respectfully dedicated to his memory.
Table of Contents
I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls
Three Cheers for the Souls in Purgatory
How Much is that Doggie in the Window?
They say in this county where I was reared, that for six months of the year Lough Erne is in Fermanagh, and for six months, Fermanagh is in Lough Erne. The county is dominated by the vast stretches of the mighty lake. It is from its shores, and the surrounding countryside, that most of my stories come.
It is a beautiful county, with winding waters and rolling hills whose people have retained their own unique accent and the structure and tone of their speech. These people are the heroes of my stories. Their influences have shaped my awareness in so many ways: the gentle cadences of their way of speaking, and the lyricism of dialogue found nowhere else in the world; their courage in the face of adversity; their kindness and humanity, their wit and humour, the sturdiness with which they retain their folk culture; and of course their wonderful music. I spent my childhood among these people and I have never really left. It is my feeling that among the fields and the streets where you grew up, there your spirit will always live.
And there you will leave it when you die.
Bryan Gallagher, April 2005
The sacrament of Confirmation is for ever associated in my mind with the town of Ballyhooley in County Cork. Not that I’m from Ballyhooley. I’m not from anywhere else on the south coast either. But I just cannot think, Bishop, Confirmation, without seeing the bottom half of that old school map—Carrantuohill and Dingle, Cahirciveen, the Blaskets and Courtmacsherry.
This has all to do with my primary school teacher many years ago. One of her methods of punishment was to put me standing out on the floor facing the wall where hung a map of Ireland. I often spent the best part of the day there. I can still remember the colours of the counties; Cork was pink, Tipperary was yellow, Queen’s County was green and King’s County was brown. I didn’t know so much about the North, because you were supposed to look straight in front of you, and I was only a wee boy. But I occasionally stole a glimpse at my own beloved Lough Erne or Cushendall in the green glens of Antrim, far away, almost at the ceiling.
The year before my own confirmation, I was an altar boy at the ceremony. The bishop intoned the names of all the candidates.
‘Con McManus.’
‘Present.’
‘John Maguire.’
‘Present.’
And then on and on, until he came by mistake to my name. How my name came to be there I don’t know, but it brought everything to a halt. There was a flurry of white clerical robes, great whisperings in the episcopal ear. And then canonical fingers pointing from all directions at me. I knelt in a state of trepidation akin to what the cat often felt on wet evenings before my mother gave it a boot out the door.
And then he called me over.
Over I went.
And he smiled. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘it is not the want of knowledge, it is the want of years.’ He shook hands with me, and that was it.
Next day I breezed into school with the air of one who has acquired some degree of greatness. But she was waiting for me.
‘How many of you were at Confirmation yesterday?’ she asked. All hands went up. ‘Anybody notice anything wrong?’ Nobody had. ‘On the altar?’ she prompted. Still nothing.
‘What should you do,’ she said slowly, ‘when you shake hands with the bishop?’
‘Kiss his ring,’ we replied. And then a strange and awful feeling came on me.
‘How many children saw a boy from this class shaking hands with the bishop yesterday?’
Everybody had.
‘And did he kiss his lordship’s ring?’
‘No Miss.’
‘No indeed,’ she said venomously, ‘no. Disgracing me opposite the whole parish.’
It was back to the corner. Face the wall. Ah well…Waterford is green…Ballyhooley is in Cork…Another long morning.
