There wasn’t a child in the country who didn’t go out blackberry picking in the 70’s and into the 80’s. And of course long before that too.
We’d go in small groups, walk for miles in our wellies to find the best blackberry bushes. Our buckets sat nearby, and we used a can or a jar to collect the berries; the red and green ones went in as well the dark purple juicy ones. When our can was full we’d tip it into the bucket. Scratches on our hands didn’t bother us, neither did damp feet when our wellies had holes in them.
On a Saturday we stayed out until our buckets were full. We went for as many days until the blackberry bushes were bare.
Blackberries by Lucy McBreen
We did it for the fun, but mostly it was for the money. We’d take our berries back into town and bring them into Peter Murtagh’s yard. He weighed them and paid us. It was very little but a fortune to us. If it had been a good day’s picking we went straight to Francey McDonald’s for sweets but didn’t spend all our money. We had to have something to show our parents for our long day’s work!
The more berries we had in our buckets, the more money we got—which is why we didn’t eat very many. A certain lad or lassie would add a few stones into their buckets to increase the weight. Not me!
This lad put more berries into his mouth than he did in his bucket!
For quite a few years in a row, we went to Bettystown (Co Meath) for two weeks on our summer holidays; the last week in August and the first week in September. We were always a week late going back to school. It was about an hour’s drive from our home but it felt like a hundred miles away.
There were five of us, and the dog, all packed into a small car—we owned minis too—four in the back and the youngest in the front on Mam’s knee. Completely acceptable in the 60’s & 70’s.
On the roof of our little car we had a roof rack, and tied to the roof rack was a big trunk packed to the brim with all our stuff. I swear, that big trunk was like Mary Poppins’ bag. It held all our clothes (seven people), buckets and spades, rubber rings, balls, shoes, food, tennis rackets, and wellies & raincoats — because we live in Ireland.
The McEntees Heading for Bettystown by Lucy McBreen
The little thatched holiday house we used to stay in didn’t supply bed linen. Mam had all our sheets and blankets folded neatly on the back seat. We had to sit on them; our heads touching the roof of the car.
We didn’t have seatbelts, or air conditioning. When we got thirsty, my dad didn’t stop at the next petrol station to buy us all a coke. No such thing! Mam would take out the big bottle of Mace red lemonade. And a straw.
Thinking back now…I think she was a contortionist. She was able to reach each of us in the back from the front seat, the child on her knee (or maybe he had slithered to the floor, I can’t remember) with the bottle of lemonade in her hand, a finger and thumb holding the straw. She’d put it into the first child’s mouth. We had to be really quick and suck fast on the straw to get as much in as possible because after about three seconds, Mam would squeeze it and move on to the next child.
There was no point in whinging for more because she’d say, ‘Swallow your spit if you’re still thirsty.’ But she was great!
For weeks before the holiday, Mam would’ve been saving up some non-perishable foods like; tins of Ambrosia rice, jelly, biscuits, soup, cereals, beans, diluting orange. She was a planner and always organised.
Our beach picnics are stamped in my memory and there to stay. We had sandwiches—usually egg and onion—creamed rice, melon, Kimberley biscuits, and wee bowls of jelly. And as much diluted orange as we needed. We never had to swallow our spit at the beach!
Dad spent hours in the sea with us, and building sandcastles. He was very competitive with the sandcastles. They had to be the biggest and the best. And they were!
Some days we’d drive as far as Laytown just to see the trains. That was exciting for us. Laytown also had a little playground, which we loved. A trip to Laytown was a very enjoyable day out. Sometimes we were lucky enough to get ice-cream too.
Laytown
Laytown was great for shells. This is where Mam gathered most of the shells she used for decorating her lamps and other things in the house. You can read about that HERE.
The first St Patrick’s Day parade didn’t take place in Ireland as you’d imagine. The first ever parade was held in a Spanish colony in Florida in 1601 organised by the colony’s Irish Vicar, Ricardo Artur.
In 1737 Irish soldiers serving in the English army, who yearned for home, marched in Boston on St Patrick’s day and again in New York City in 1762. And so it began.
Some parades are flamboyant and impressive, where people go to extremes to put on an entertaining show for their spectators, especially in big towns and cities.
That doesn’t mean the small towns don’t put on good parades. I have fond memories of the parades from years ago.
I remember the parade in Kingscourt (our neighbouring town) in 1978, and the memory is not a fond one. I was playing the tin whistle in the Bailieborough Marching Youth Band. It was snowing and freezing! Our skirts were just above the knee and we wore knee high socks. Coats were not part of our uniform, but on that particular day we did wear coats—otherwise we’d have frozen to death.
My fingers were numb against the cold steel of the tin whistle. The parade hadn’t even started. We were lining up and practicing at that stage. My piano accordion was in the car and my dad gave it to me thinking it might be easier to play with blue fingers than the whistle. It was a little easier, but not much. That was the worst skinning I ever got.
The parades were always great fun, even in our small little towns. Everyone made a huge effort to get out and enjoy themselves. What was different then?
The big thing that’s missing from our parades are the marching bands. They were the essence of the parades. There are very few marching bands left in Ireland. A terrible shame.
Another thing that was very popular in parades was the fancy dress. Not completely gone, but not as many people take part these days. My mother and a couple of her friends were experts at dressing up for the parades. Not just on St Patrick’s Day, but for the festivals too.
As a young teenager, I used to be sooooo embarrassed! But as I matured a bit, I saw the fun in it. I’ve been known to take part in fancy dress myself on occasion.
Laughter is the Best Medicine
Thanks to local photographer, Kevin Gorman, for this photo of my mam and her late friend, Shirley.
St Patrick’s Day 2004 – Veronica & Shirley
My mam sent me these photos. She said, “There’s no craic like that any more!”
In this next photo, they were dressed up for the pram race which used to happen every year at the festival!
Charlie ChaplinBig Maggie & Kate 88. Off to Bingo.
Yes, those were the days!
Lucy didn’t draw a picture today, instead she made this mask to represent fancy dress.
