The Day my Grandfather Bought a Cottage in Ireland from a Man in a Pub

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Me, in the field by my grandparent's cottage at Porthaw aged, I think, about 18 months. The gate was propped up with wood each side - I don't think it actually opened, which was just as well, for no-one ever visited. Perhaps it made my grandmother feel as if she was living in a 'proper' home, where people might call.

MY grandfather should have been a pioneer. Instead, as he cycled home from work he stopped off for a drink – and bought a tumbledown Irish cottage and 27 acres of land from a man in the pub. That was back in 1947, when he followed his dream, my grandmother followed him, and my uncles followed her. My mother, just 19 years old at the time, stayed in England, met my father, got married and lived happily ever after – which is a story for another day.

It’s my grandfather’s story which concerns me here. London born and bred, he worked as an electrician ‘on the buses’, but he had ambitions to plough and till the land. For years he cultivated fruit and vegetables, and kept various animals: pigs, goats, chickens, rabbits, which his nearest and dearest were left to care for while he went off to his ‘day job’.

His search for the perfect patch of land took him through a succession of homes, each one smaller and more dilapidated than the last although, conversely, the land available grew larger with every change of address. The more ramshackle the house, the more derelict the land, and the more isolated the site, the better he liked it.


I see the sea: My father and I on the beach at Porthaw.


If there was an easy way to do things and a hard way, you could rely on him to choose the latter. Perhaps he felt he had to prove himself because physically he was such a small man – not much more than five feet tall, but belligerent with it.
Anyway, he certainly chose a difficult path and must have needed all his enthusiasm and ebullience to cope with his new life. Indeed, I’m not sure his family ever reconciled themselves to just how tough things were: conditions were primitive, even for rural Ireland in the 1940s.

On arrival - he had never previously seen his acquisition – he found the cottage had four walls and a roof (which leaked), but that was all. There was no door, no glass in the windows, no gas, no electricity, no running water, no toilet facilities, and no road. It was, says my mother (who made frequent visits to see her parents), the Back of Beyond, bleak, desolate and miles from any other human habitationThe cottage was set in a field, with a stream running through it, leading down to the rocky foreshore, and beyond that a vast expanse of sand, and beyond that the sea. Initially water came from the stream, until my grandfather fixed the well, and there was some kind of chemical loo (don’t ask, says my mother).

Beach Baby: Me, aged around 18 months, on the beach at Porthaw.
Food was cooked on the open fire, until an old iron range was installed. And as there was no road this had to be hauled along the uneven track my uncles created on the rocks and rough land that ran alongside the edge of the lough. Glass, furniture, shopping, tools, household equipment all had to be transported the same way – carted from the town of Buncrana to the edge of the makeshift path, then carried two miles or more to the cottage.

Of my grandfather’s 27 acres of land only half an acre could be used for crops or animals: the remainder was thick with boulders that could not be dug out. My uncles’ efforts to blast the rocks from position using some dynamite they acquired from an unknown source merely left the area scarred with pockmarks, for beneath the rock was – more rock.

Just as he had done in England, while he struggled to scratch a living from the land he had a job, this time as an electrician with the Swilly Bus Company. He was, I believe, entitled to free bus travel, but chose to cycle, crossing the border in and out of Derry on a daily basis, so he must have been incredibly fit.

Eventually he admitted defeat, sold up and bought another house and some more land (which proved to be equally unproductive) up in the hills of Donegal, away from the sea. Life there, though never easy, was a little more comfortable for my grandmother, and a little less isolated – although she must have been desperately, desperately lonely for much of the time.

Porthaw Beach - Buncrana, Donegal, Ireland. Holiday homes have now been built on the site where my grandparents lived. There is access by road, and the track my uncles created along the edge of the rocks has been replaced by a modern footpath.
Originally uploaded by Donegal Cottage Holidays

Irish Memories

The Grianan of Aileach (http:://pdphoto.org Jon Sullivan)

WHEN I was a child we used to holiday in the north of Ireland (geographically that is, not politically). My grandparents moved to Donegal after the Second World War, setting up home on the Inishowen Peninsula, a magical, mystical place, cut off from reality by the water which surrounds it on three sides.

Up the road and a bit from my grandparents’ house was Malin Head (you may recognise the name from the Shipping Forecast), the most northerly point in all Ireland. There we sat on the edge of the word, huddled under a huge umbrella as we watched the rain sweep in from the sea, and my grandfather brewed tea on an antiquated Primus stove. On the beach granite and quartz pebbles glistened, their jewel-like crystals shining black and green and pink and red through the gathering gloom and mist.

It was this view of the past that came to mind while I was working on my latest OU assignment, showing how Irish nationalists used ‘created tradition’ to forge a national identity, and it made me re-examine my own my own memories in a completely new light and set them in a different context.

Take the Grianan of Aileach for example. Up the road and a bit less (everything in Ireland was measured like this) there it stood, an ancient stone ring fort growing out of the heather on top of Greenan Mountain, with the cold wind blowing around and over it. Once the seat of the royal O’Neills, it was, according to legend, blessed by St Patrick, who left his footprints behind when he paid a visit – but no trace of them could be seen on our outings, however hard we searched. One story says it was raised by the Dagda, the ‘Good God’ of the Tuatha de Danann, while another tale claims the Celts gathered here to worship their sun goddess. The truth is lost in the mists of time, but Neolithic activity could date back to 2,000 BC, or even earlier.

Even as a child I could sense the power and history of this place. It was (and, I hope, still is) awe inspiring: it’s a great, roofless, circular, stone fortification, with walls so thick the entrance is like a tunnel. Terraced steps and ledges, just wide enough to walk along, run around the inside of the wall, giving the most spectacular views. Look inland and you can see five counties stretched below you like a living map. Look seaward and you can see Lough Swilly to the west, Lough Foyle to the right, and beyond them the great Atlantic Ocean, with nothing between us and America. Inside the Grianan (http:://pdphoto.org Jon Sullivan).

In actual fact much of the Grianan is a reconstruction, erected in the 1870s by Irish antiquarian Dr Walter Bernard, who was concerned about the monument’s dilapidated condition. It was left in ruins as early as 1101, following a raid by Murtogh O’Brien, King of Munster, who ordered each of his soldiers to take away a stone from the fort. In the ensuing centuries more stonework disappeared, and the remains fell into disrepair, falling victim to age, weather and souvenir hunters - until it was rescued by Dr Bernard.

As a child I imagined him as a wealthy but dotty ‘gentleman’ antiquarian, passionate about preserving the past. That may well have been true, but the project certainly fits with the ideals of Ireland’s burgeoning nationalist movement, which was striving to create a national identity while calling for independence from England. To this end they ignored 700 years of English rule and focused instead on the period before the 12th century. Policies of Gaelicisation meant greater value was put on Ireland’s ancient buildings – the Celtic churches, round towers and Neolithic monuments which owed nothing to English culture but represented a golden age in Irish history, and boasted links with the mythical heroes and holy men of the distant past (Laurence A (2008) Ireland: The Invention of Tradition, in Moohan E (ed) Tradition and Dissent (AA100 Book2), Milton Keynes, The Open University).
The Grianan’s importance is shown because before Dr Bernard took personal charge of the reconstruction, nationalists were involved in repairs. In the early 1870s the Irish Irelanders spent Sunday afternoons working on the site, assisted by members of the Gaelic League and the Gaelic Athletic Association (Sean Beattie, Ireland in Old Photographs – Donegal, http://unknownswilly.orgfree.com/griananbernard.html).
Dr Bernard used information gained from his historical researches to recreate the Grianan by piecing together the tumbled stones from the collapsed fort – but since much of the structure was missing he augmented his supply of authentic material with other stones found around the area. This action, together with the actual nature of the restoration he undertook, has been questioned over the years, because some historians felt the end result was not authentic.

Almost a century later there was similar criticism of Professor Michael O’Kelly’s excavation and recreation at Newgrange. Over the years both men have been accused of compromising the truth with their interpretations of ancient remains, rather than simply stabilising the relics. In years to come new evidence may show their work was flawed: meanwhile their view of the past has helped shape the way we see Ireland and history.

This photo, from Sean Beattie's, Ireland in Old Photographs - Donegal, Bigger/McDonald Collection, shows workers at the Grianan of Ailech during reconstruction in 1878.

The Wonders of Modern Technology

OH I do like to be beside the seaside... a dull day, and I was feeling lazy, sitting watching a craft TV shopping channel ( I didn't buy anything, I hasten to add) whilst rescuing a two-thirds knitted cardigan, when a friend called round to see me.

She showed me her newly created website at http://www.anamcaraspirituality.org/ which is a work in progress (just like my cardigan, but much cleverer), but is well worth a visit, with poems,reflections and photographs. She is aiming to explore a wide range of spirituality, art, poetry, and stories from the Christian tradition, and plans to include visits to places of pilgrimage.

In case you're wondering, the name 'anam cara' is a Gaelic phrase meaning 'beloved', 'soul friend'. It was used by Irish poet and philosopher John O'Donohue in his book Anam Cara about friendship and spirituality.

Anyway, my friend has turned many of her pictures into video clips, with music, and I was so impressed I just had to have a go, so here is my first effort, using some of the snaps I took when we visited Chichester at the end of last year.

It brought back memories of a happy weekend, and I was delighted with my efforts(although I'm not sure about the musical accompaniment) so now I'm searching for suitable music for some of my other pictures.... I had such fun, and by the time she left a dull suddenly seemed much brighter.

Anyway, here is the link to my 30-second 'video': www.animoto.com/play/rmEvs924Z7VT7sYsn47dJw

Food for the Soul

EAT, drink and be merry, for tomorrow I diet. So far the New Year diet has not gone well - and it is only January 2. Yesterday can only be described as a disaster on the food front, although I did take take a gentle stroll to the shops round the corner, which must surely counct as exercise, and exercise is good for you.

Today started well, with home-made vegetable soup for lunch, followed by baked potato and grated cheese this evening. I felt quite virtuous, especially as I woke with a headache and sore throat and have been feeling shivery and off-colour all day.

Fearing I might have caught Elder Daughter's cold, and feeling sorry myself, I bought some Lucozade, which always makes feel better, although I suspect this may be psychological, since it always conjures up memories of childhood illnesses, when my mother administered chicken noodle soup (this was long ago, in the days before I became a vegetarian), Ryvita and Marmite, and Lucozade. Food for the soul, as well as the body!

I once asked her about this sick-bed diet, and she insisted the choice was mine - it was all I would eat and drink when ill.

Anyway, I digress. Having spent the day eating sensibly I then read the label on the bottle and was shocked to discover just how many calories there are in Lucozade(175 in 250mls in case you are interested, presumably from the whopping amount of sugar it contains).

And I appear to have consumed the better part of a bottle of the stuff: not one of those piddling little bottles, but the decent 1-litre size. Now my maths may be wobbly, but if there are 1,000mls in a litre, that works out at 700 calories a bottle (tell me if I am wrong), which is horrendous.

I think I shall stick to water in future!

Happy New Year

IT is January 1, the New Year: a time to reflect on the past, and to look ahead to the future – and what is a diary, if not a reflection on one’s life, past, present and future?

So what better way to mark the occasion than by considering what some of our greatest diarists have to say about the day (bearing in mind that until Britain adopted the Gregorian calendar in 1752, New Year was officially on March 25).

The incomparable Samuel Pepys penned his first diary entry on January 1, 1660, telling us: “This morning (we lying lately in the garret) I rose, put on my suit with great skirts, having not lately worn any other clothes but them. Went to Mr Gunnings church at Exeter house, where he made a very good sermon… Dined at home in the garret, where my wife dressed the remains of a turkey, and in the doing of it she burned her hand.”

During the afternoon he stayed at home looking through his accounts, then he and his wife went to his father’s for supper, observing the ‘great posts’ set up by the city council at the Conduit in Fleet Street.

Dorothy Wordsworth described a quieter life in her journal for January 1, 1802. “We walked Wm and I towards Martindale,” she wrote.

In 1871 the Rev Francis Kilvert saw the New Year in with his mother and brother. They heard the sound of bells ‘faintly and muf fled’ over the snow. “We opened the dining room window to ‘loose in’ the sound of the chimes and the ‘new year’ as they say in Wales,” explained Kilvert.

It was bitterly cold, but they went to the door to hear better, and he adds: “I was carrying my travelling clock in my hand and as we stood on the terrace just outside the front door, the little clock struck midnight with its tinkling silvery bell in the keen frost. We thought we could hear three peals of Church bells, Chippenham, St Paul’s and very faintly Kington.”

He and his family were not so very different to modern families checking their digital watches as they watch the television and wait for the sound of Big Ben to be relayed across the country, thanks to the wonders of modern technology.

One of my favourite diarists is Barrow housewife and mother Nella Last, who wrote for the Mass-Observation project during and after the Second World War. On January 1, 1941 describes how she heard a boy singing on the doorstep, and as her husband searched for coppers for the wassailer, she realised the dog was behaving strangely.

‘Then all was laughter and confusion and tin hats, as my Cliff rushed in and said, “Happy New Year, folks – I’m glad I managed to get here tonight!’ He had got 14days leave and was lucky enough to get a lift to Preston and catch a train by minutes! He looked so well and gay – says he feels well too.’

It was a moment of happiness during the dark days of the war, when families up and down the country must have hoped and prayed for the safety of loved ones fighting far away.

Finally, a diary entry from actor Alec Guinness for January 1, 1995 (quoted in, My Name Escapes Me, the third volume of his autobiography), will strike a chord with all those who over-indulged last night – or with anyone who just hates mornings.

He said: "Through a chink in the bedroom curtains my unenthusiastic eye caught an early-morning glimpse of the New Year; it looked battleship grey... I never liked New Year's Day anyway."

What's Wrong with Soap?

RIGHT everyone, this is my Wednesday Whinge. Yes, I know it’s a day late, but yesterday I had a Wednesday Witter instead, so I guess this should really be a Thursday Tirade. Or possibly a diatribe (because I like the word!)

Anyway, whatever you call it, today’s moan is about those annoying adverts for no-touch hand wash systems which, apparently, overcome the problem of germy soap pump handles.

Now I can’t say this particular difficulty of modern life is something that has ever given me sleepless nights.

Personally I still favour a bar of soap and lots of hot water, but as far as I can see you press the handle, out comes the soap, enabling you to wash your hands thoroughly before using hot water to rinse off the germs along with the foam. Simple.

Come to that, if germy soap pump handles are such a threat to our health, what about things like clothes, door handles, light switches and the handles or buttons on toilet cisterns?

Perhaps we should have self-flushing loos to help eliminate the threat of spreading infection?

And if you are that concerned about bacteria on a soap dispenser, why not clean the top of the container?

It’s the same with all those anti-bacterial cleaning sprays and surface wipes. Manufacturers seem to be preying on our fears, making us feel guilty and inadequate if we are not using these products.

We are urged to protect our families by killing the germs that could make them ill. The implication is that if we do not we are ‘bad’ mothers who have dirty homes and are not caring for our nearest and dearest as we should.

As I have said before, although I hate housework I am always seduced by lotions and potions which promise to transform my house into a gleaming show home with very little effort on my part.

But I would question the methodology behind those adverts – and ask whether we really need to turn our homes into sterile rooms where kids are scared to move to fear of spreading the dreaded germs.

I am not denying the importance of good hygiene (which includes hand washing and wiping surfaces), but perhaps we need to get things into perspective, chill out and enjoy family life, with all the mess, dirt and upheaval it brings.

Sun, Sea, and Stones

IT is Wednesday, so it should be a Whinge Day, but instead I am having a Wednesday Witter about the seaside and posting some pictures taken at Bognor during our mini-break.

The town owes its regal appellation to King George V, who recuperated there following an illness. Residents were so delighted with this honour they asked his permission to add Regis (from the Latin for king -rex, regis)to its name.

Their royal visitor was less impressed and is alleged to have uttered the immortal word 'Bugger Bognor' on his deathbed!

When I was a child we holidayed in and around Bognor on several occasions, and I remember a bustling seafront, packed with deckchairs on the shingle beach, and crowds of shrieking children paddling in the sea.

But on Monday, despite the blue sky and sunshine, it had the deserted out-of-season look common to most seaside towns at this time of the year, and it seemed smaller and less prosperous than I remembered.

Most of the businesses based in brightly coloured wooden huts on the promenade had already locked up for the winter but a few were still plying their trade.

I was tempted to buy a shiny, metallic windmill, stuck into a polystyrene base sculpted into sand-dunes and painted a particularly bilious shade of yellow - but the display was so cheery and cheeky it seemed a shame to disturb it.



Instead we sat on garden chairs beside a strangely impermanent-looking cafe, and sipped scalding hot tea in paper cartons as we watched the waves break on the shore, where a small boy, undeterred by the lack of sand, set to with his plastic bucket and spade to create a stonecastle, surrounded by a traditional moat.



Back in Chichester unexpected pleasures included the beautiful rainbow light filtered through the stained glass windows of the Cathedral and reflected on walls, floors and ceilings - and the discovery of the Arundel Tomb, which inspired the Philip Larkin poem.

Here, hand in hand, lie Richard Fizalan, the 13th Earl of Arundel and his second wife Eleanor, with their dogs at their feet, just as Larkin desribed.

"Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet."

Close up, the white stone effigy has an almost chalky quality, with a powdery residue on the surface which softens the hard stone, and makes the couple seem more human.

On a pillar next to the tomb hangs Larkin's poem, so what better way to end this post than by quoting the final stanza.

"Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love."