A tribute to Pat Curran: a friend since childhood

THE following tribute to the late Pat Curran was written by a close friend:

On Monday, July 2, I was saddened to hear of the premature passing of my friend and schoolmate, Pat Curran.

Pat was born in Caol (Chapeltown) on March 11, 1952.

He was the fourth of three boys and three girls born to Paddy Curran and his wife, Ellie O’Shea.

He grew up in Caol village, where families were big and neighbours looked out for each other. It was a lively place with six shops, a thriving creamery, a pub, and a newly acquired football pitch. Pat had a wonderful childhood among his family, and village neighbours.

He attended the nearby Ballyhearney National School, whose Principal was Joan Gallagher (née Burke). He attended with Lynchs, Lynes, Murphys, Currans, O’Sullivans and O’Donoghues. There were others too, such as the O’Connells, O’Connors, O’Driscolls, Caseys, Condons, Bobby Burton and, of course, our dear, late friend, David John Lynch. It was a carefree, happy time and Pat is fondly remembered by his schoolmates of that era in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s.

Games of any kind were his strong point. His favourites were football, hunting ,rowing, cowboys and Indians, and he was no bad hand either at 31 or poker card games. Hunting was a great pastime of his. I can still see him with a bunch of assorted terriers and the odd ‘retired’ greyhound on their way to ‘The Lotts’ to hunt hares and rabbits. Pat, with a long stick in hand, would be in charge and would issue ‘orders’ to younger helpers such as Joseph Lynch and GG.

Football was another huge factor in our young lives. Kerry and Valentia were winning championships, and Mick O’Connell was in his heyday. Our heroes were local: Micko, John ‘Dasher’ O’Connor, Jaamer Murphy, and the Cooper brothers, Patie Joe and Willie. The world was smaller then.

Pat came from a noted football household. His brothers Georgie (RIP) and John Paul were two of the finest players ever to cross ferry or bridge. Pat was more in the classic ‘Curran mould’, where ‘catch and kick’ was king. The high ball was his especial favourite. Alas, by the time we got to manhood, Valentia’s fortunes had waned – but only for a while.

As happens in life, we grew up and apart. Pat qualified as a carpenter under the late Jim Lynch. Like so many before him, he went to England in the early ‘70s and spent the next four decades on the building sites of London.

Pat, in 1982, married Mary Flynn from Ballinglera in north Leitrim. It was the biggest day of his young life and also the best. He had met and married a woman of real substance, and she would go on to prove it. Mary brought peace, calm and stability to his family life. He returned to Ireland in 2012 and settled with his family in Enniskillen, County Fermanagh.

Alas, sickness came in January 2018. He fought it bravely, but from the start the outlook was bleak, and so it proved. Mary nursed him lovingly and constantly in his sickness, and she buried him with a quiet and moving dignity.

Pat’s funeral took place in Dowra, County Leitrim. His family and friends from Valentia and north Leitrim were joined by his new friends and neighbours from Enniskillen, and his old mates from London’s building sites. The latter reminded me a lot of a younger Pat: friendly men with open-necked shirts and weath- er-browned faces. I wondered if, like Pat, they would be the last generation of young Irishmen to emigrate for work to England’s building sites. Maybe, just maybe.

Pat’s coffin was draped in the red and gold colours of Valentia, fitting as his brothers and cousins had all donned the red and gold. Indeed, since the founding of the club in 1905, no Valentia team took to the field without one or several members of the extended Curran clan in their ranks. Pat’s funeral, though inevitably sad and emotional, was also an uplifting occasion. The service was simple and family members spoke movingly of his life and leaving. Towards the end of the Mass two Irish ballads were sung with crystal-clear clarity by a north Leitrim singer. Rarely can the emotional lyrics of ‘Dingle Bay’ and ‘The Parting Glass’ seem as appropriate as they were at Pat’s last journey.

We buried Pat in a north Leitrim hillside on a sun-baked day in summer. I threw a fistful of earth into my school mate’s grave and wondered where those 60 years had gone. For now, old friend, I’ ll bid farewell. I’ll meet you down the road. ByMO’D.

The late Pat Curran