Of The old art pipe-smoking

I wish I had poetic genius to put into verse and delicately applaud the unique spell of absolute mindfulness, peace and freedom from all worries, dangers and afflictions that surrounded the dozing pipe-smoker of bygone days.

I watched the pure serene semi-conscious human state daily as a growing youngster in West Cork when my dear dad retreated into this half hour of well-being after a fine dinner of home-grown spuds, juicy bacon and the yellowy-green cabbage from the gáirdín beyond the haggard. All round-table conversation ceased when he took that special time out to sit back and relax as he watched the soothing swirls of blue smoke puffs rise high into the air and thus leave a scattering cloud dissolve against the small-paned open window.

The whole procedure was a worthwhile exercise in the equivalent of today’s Mindfulness therapy; all that was different was the absence of ‘lullaby lavender’ or a flickering flame from the scented candle. I can still picture my dad settle back in the old armchair and then, the well-practised mission of pipe-filling was happily undertaken.

There was always a plug and a half of Clarke’s Perfect tobacco in a specific corner of the clevvy (shelf) over the fire, flanked by a well-edged pen-knife for paring off the shreds of tobacco, into the curved palm, where they were further refined by a shuffle of both palms, before they were ready for the deeply yearned pipe-filling ceremony.

The recipient píopa had been emptied on the rough-pebbled hearth in several pelting motions, with intermittent pipe-sucking and blowing efforts to completely clear the airwaves for the perfect puff. Then, with mission accomplished, my dad would sit back in pure contentment; his whole countenance took on an air of peace in a dozing slumber, as if he had entered his own special Heaven and ne’er a word passed his lips, he appeared to be happily adrift in another world.

I still associate that rich and rare aroma of tobacco with his special time of day in our house; the smell of tobacco signalled a welcome break from all farming duties, at this sacred family time together and the willing working horse whickered contentedly as she munched the bag of rich oats, carefully affixed on her bobbing head.

The tobacco reddening was often a ritual in social gatherings also and it was grand to watch the neighbours chat happily over the bounds ditch and light up the pipes as they discussed the yield from the crops, the animal prices at the Friday fair and maybe the gathering for a scóraíocht card-game on the Saturday night round the fireside! The only comparison I can recognise now in our modern world is the peaty aroma of the beloved turf-sod that still sends the bright blue smoke swirls into the sky along the narrow country roads of West Cork and Kerry.

I pause by the heather-clad ditch and reminisce on the good old days of strong tea from the large brown earthenware teapot nestling on the gríosach, shiny juicy apple-cake from the greased bastible and dad resting the smouldering pipe on the hob to sup from the fine bulging flowery cup .... aah, those were the days my friend!