Throwback Thursday: Tea, tipples, lit fires - Corkman recalls road trips to relatives

the days when a visit to the relations was a major event, planned like a strategic campaign? Mícheál Kenefick, who grew up in Whitegate, does.

“In the 1950s, communication with friends and relations who lived any distance from home had to be made by means of a letter or, more rarely, face to face,” he recalled.

“We did, of course, send Christmas cards and an odd present to the chosen few (i.e. those who sent us presents in return!).

“I can well my parents, Jack and May, getting a half pound box of Black Magic towards the end of January, which had been posted from as far away as Midleton or Cloyne before Christmas. Yes, delays did happen, even back in those golden days.

“I still recall the condition of the contents -completely inedible, which was awful since our tongues (mine in particular) were hanging out a mile for a chocolate, as we wouldn’t be likely to have access to another such luxury as a box of Black Magic until next Christmas.”

Now how many readers those wonderful boxes of Black Magic? Especially the splendid gift casket with its red tassel, which always seemed to be brought out by the shops just in good time for the festive season.

Most families can recall the delight at the ceremonial opening of the box on Christmas Day (not a hope of getting a peek before then), and being allowed to choose your favourite.

It’s sad that Mícheál’s much-looked-forward-to treat didn’t always arrive in time. But maybe he got to keep the box once the contents had disappeared? Like the specially decorated biscuit tins which made their appearance at that time of year, those would be kept for a long time, housing a small boy’s ‘fudgies’, a girl’s jewellery or sewing kit. Does anybody keep such ornate tins any more?

“Once a year, or maybe even every second year,” continued Mícheál, “we would make the big journey and go all the way to Ballymacoda to see the relations.” (That would be a major trip indeed, over 24km, or 15 miles in old money.)

“A car would have been hired from Kelly’s and booked well in advance as cars were still few and far between,” said Micheál.

It would always be on a Sunday and there would be an instruction after Mass - ‘keep those clothes clean or we’ll be a disgrace’. This, of course, was easier said than done.

“A few short years earlier, the trip in the opposite direction would have been in a pony and trap.

“We’d have the dinner early and would wait patiently for Toby to arrive,” explained Micheál. “Toby was always the driver, as Jerry wouldn’t be bothered with such menial work. Toby would then become part of the family for the duration of the trip.

“It would be a huge adventure for us as children, as we would rarely, if ever, have been past Rostellan, and we wouldn’t have been there either except to get injections in the Dispensary.

“Both the going and the coming back took a long time but for different reasons. As the trip was so rare, an opportunity was taken to visit all the other relations on the route, and gifts would be brought to each house - maybe a half pound of tea or a couple of pounds of sugar and suchlike practical items.

Tea would, of course, be drunk as a ritual in every house. Coffee was still almost unheard of and wine was a drop of Sandeman port at Christmas time. There would also be a gift to bring home from Ballymacoda, which on one occasion was a live chicken to be killed later and eaten next Sunday for the dinner.

It so happened that nobody had the heart to kill the chicken and as a result he lived a long and happy life in Whitegate thanking his lucky stars for his reprieve!

Micheál continued: Jack would be in the front seat pointing out the landmarks: the lake in Rostellan, Christy Ring’s house, and the Round Tower in Cloyne, the ‘home place’ in Loughane, and the monument to the Manchester Martyrs in Ladysbridge.

“For children in the 1950s, that was the same as seeing the Statue of Liberty for the first time in today’s world.

“When we would get to Aunty Lawton’s, there would be more tea and a few bottles of stout, or maybe a drop for the men. We didn’t see or know how much or how many were imbibed, as the men would go secretively up to ‘the room’.

“Aunty Lawton was maybe 60 or 70 but I thought she was at least 300, and she was a bit cross, and always, like many of her generation, dressed from head to toe in black.

“I would chase the hens to shouts of ‘Them hens won’t lay if you will frighten them’ and come to the half-door every ten minutes for bread and jam. My mother would say ‘Isn’t it a fright to God, and he won’t eat a bite at home!”

“The fire was always lighting at Aunty Lawton’s as it was also the cooker, and it had the most wonderful invention for getting the heat up when required. This was known as either the fire machine or the fire wheel, but we simply called it The Wheel. The faster it spun the more the fire burned, and we (mostly me, as Johanna was a bit more refined) would send sparks flying up the chimney almost as far as the moon.

Then we would get scolded for wasting the turf when there was no requirement for heat, and there would be blue murder if the belt came off.

“The coming home would take a long time as Jack and Toby would call to Bertie Shanahan’s hostelry in Ladysbridge (Jack’s home village ) to talk about old times, with a few pints of the black stuff to lubricate the vocal cords and to help more clearly the ‘good old days’.

“We (the children) would be allowed to stay in the back kitchen, and would be given a bottle of Little Norah lemonade and a biscuit as a treat.

“Mother, God love her, would wait in the car as women rarely, if ever, went in to a pub in those days.

“Finally, it would be time to go home and the men would be in high good humour with much laughter in the front while we struggled to stay awake in the back.

Happy days, and I would love one more spin off The Wheel!

Wonderful recollections, Mícheál! Don’t his words bring back memories to everybody else of those old fires, the hanging hook for the kettle, the big blackened teapot standing in the ashes until the liquid inside became “so strong you could trot a mouse on it”?

People like his Aunty Lawton would have looked askance at today’s genteel teabags, dipped carefully into mugs, and then thrown away.

Another reader, Tim Cagney, was interested to read in recent Throwback Thursdays of other correspondents’ dancing days.

“My memories go back to the Rolling Stones, Beatles, Dave Clark Five, The Fortunes, The Animals. All these featured at the ‘record hops’ at Collins Pitch & Putt Club,” he said.

“Collins (or ‘Colinses’, as it was often pronounced) was up near the barracks of the same name. As a pitch & putt club, with the usual Cork social pretensions, it was definitely aimed at the well-heeled set.

“You had to come from the ‘right’ background, and apply in writing for hip. Myself and a small group of friends never bothered with such guff, of course - we used to gain entrance through some bushes at the top of Sydney Hill, and play away, to our hearts content.

On weekdays, there were few other players there, and we were seldom (if ever) challenged.

“But back to the dancing,” continued Tim. “Those record hops of the 1960s were my first-ever foray into the delicate world of engaging with the opposite sex.

“They would play alternate sets - one slow, one fast. I especially favoured the former. I had a stammer, and was unable to do the chat-up routine at which most of my male peers were good. As a result, the only chance I had of getting close to a female was to avail of a ‘clinger’.

“My conversations with my dancing partners were reasonably successful - we mostly chatted about the current chart hits. However, when the set ended, it was a case of ‘thank-you’ and that was it.

“There was a mineral-bar at the venue, of course, but I couldn’t muster up the courage to invite any of the ladies I had been in such close physical with to me there for a cool refresher.

“Over time, I became acquainted with one particular girl. She was about my own height, had long, blonde hair and was rather timid. After many weeks of dancing with her, I finally managed to ask if I could walk her to the bus after the dance. She agreed, and we strolled down Patrick’s Hill - no such thing as even holding hands - and chatted about this and that outside Barry & Hyland’s, until her bus arrived. I was dying to ask for a date, but couldn’t summon up the courage.

We bade our farewells and she boarded the bus. I don’t recall ever seeing her again and I think I stopped going to Collinses soon after that, switching my dancing pursuits to a venue on the Grand Parade known as The Stardust.

“One night, however, myself and a buddy decided that we should strike out for the big time - the Majorca, in Crosser. We both had motorbikes which we parked right outside the hall, before embarking on a pub-crawl. This involved visiting four pubs in the village, having one pint in each. (Our tipple of the time was Watney’s Red Barrel.)

“I was convinced that - being such a major venue - the Majorca wouldn’t finish until around two in the morning (maybe later) by which time we would both be sober enough to drive home. Imagine my shock - and dismay - when the band struck-up the National Anthem somewhere around midnight! No choice but to risk the drive back to the city.

“There was a single-decker bus outside, for the convenience of patrons, so I thought I’d use that as a sort of guide. Unfortunately, the vehicle stopped at Carrigaline, and I was on my own, for the rest of the journey, which somehow I managed, without incident.

Until, that is, I arrived home, at Gardiners Hill. I switched off the engine, but, when attempting to dismount, lost my balance and fell over.

“I gingerly gathered myself together, parked the bike on the garden path of the parental home, and tottered upstairs to the safety of my bed!”

Well, we won’t touch on the inadvisability of inebriated motorcycling, Tim, but after all that was back in the 1960s when things were a mite less strict than today. It does make for a good story though. Wonder if that girl from Collinses is reading this?

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