A walk on the wildside MEMORIES OF GRANNY’S HOUSE
Last week’s story, The Grove brought back many happy memories to one of our companions from those long-a-go days. It reminded him of our adventures in The Grove and also in the nearby Old Sandpit. But, every year I would leave The Grove and The Sandpit for a week in my Grannys house in the country, how different it was. It was wonderful to wake in the morning to the sweet sound of the birds singing and look out over the halfdoor and smell the roses which grew in such profusion around the orchard and there seemed to be fuchsia everywhere.
In one of the small fields outside the haggart there was a furze break, near that was a small stream which my granny always called ‘the river’. The stream was so small that you could jump across it, being used to the mighty Blackwater, I couldn’t understand how someone could call it a river. I know now that the little stream is called the Shanowen and that it flows through Sunnyside Fruit Farm and on into Rathcormac village before it flows into the river Bride.
On the outside of the house, facing onto the road, there was a rustic garden seat which was built back into the hedge and it was here that the neighbours would gather for a chat in the warm summer evenings. At that time everyone seemed to smoke either cigarettes or a pipe, Clarks Plug Tobacco and Woodbines were very much in demand. If the evening happened to turn out wet everyone would go inside, sometimes to play cards or maybe to listen to the gramophone. This was one of the old wind-up machines with a big horn, shaped like a trumpet and there was always a shortage of the needles that were needed to play it. I remember that these needles came in a small tin box made by His Masters Voice company and on the cover there was a picture of a little dog called Nipper, with his ear cocked to the gramophone.
The records were very precious and were always put back neatly in their sleeves. One of the most popular was John McCormack singing ‘Mother Macree’, Paul Robeson and Delia Murphy singing ‘The Spinning Wheel’ were also very popular. The night would always end with storytelling, many of them were ghost stories that would frighten even Kitty the Hare.
The last embers would be dying in the fire before we would go to bed. There was a ritual before we went to bed, the fire would be stoked up and the fire-blackened, saucepan full of fresh milk would be placed on the embers. A little lump of butter and a few pecks of pepper and we had a drink fit for a king, one that sent you to sleep straight away. It takes a drop of Bushmills to do that now.
I went back recently to where I spent those now so long-ago summer holidays and all that remains of the old house is a ruined gable. The apple trees, the roses and the fuschia are all gone, but near where the garden seat used to be, there still grows a little mint-like plant which we used to pick and crush for its fragrant smell. I picked a small spray of it and the fresh, clean smell of it brought back so many memories. As Shakespeare said of the plant, rosemary; that’s for remembrance, pray, love and remember.