As Time Goes By Read online

  On our village walkabout we talked about the last freeze-up of 2009, and the one in 1982, and further back to 1962. But there was no one to recall the big snow of 1947, only myself. Anyone who lived through that year forever afterwards referred to it as the ‘Year of the Big Snow’. And it certainly was that. Because that year, from January to March, it snowed and snowed and snowed. A freezing blizzard created huge snowdrifts everywhere.

  I was eight years old, becoming nine, in the middle of that big snow. Sometime after Christmas of 1947 and before my ninth birthday, I got my first pair of wellington boots. I was over the moon. These were a major step forward in a child’s life. In my innocence I thought that wellingtons would not let the snow in no matter how deep the drift. I got a big shock on jumping into a deep snow drift when both my wellingtons filled up with snow that quickly turned to cold slush.

  Our house and the surrounding countryside was smothered in deep snowdrifts that did not melt for weeks and weeks. We could walk around the fields and out over the gates and ditches that were turned into snow-mountains. If, during the day, the snow melted slightly, it froze again at night and snowed over again and again. There was no reprieve. To us children it was wonderful, and we built snowmen and pelted each other with snowballs. But for the adults it must have been quite another story, though, looking back now I realise that we were in many ways very self-sufficient. We were very far from a town but all we needed from the outside world was a packet of candles and a gallon of paraffin oil – and for my father, of course, who would have had withdrawal symptoms without it, batteries for the radio. At that time the radio ran on two heavy glass batteries, one of which was a wet battery that had to be charged occasionally in the local town. The dry battery was a long-distance runner, but the wet one was thirsty and had a melt-down into silence without its regular fix. That fix, strangely enough, in our town was provided in the local pub. So someone had to drag the bloody battery, which was very heavy, into town to keep my father in touch with the outside world, which he thought might grind to a halt if he was out of orbit. Other than these necessities, we were pretty self-sufficient. We had our own milk, as one or two cows were kept milking over winter to provide the household with the needful. The others were heavy with calf and happy to lie in their stalls where hay was drawn to them every morning, and they were let out later to the spout where water flowed down from the Glen further up the land. After the Christmas markets, animal numbers were much reduced on the farm, so it was just a case of keeping those who remained fed and watered. The hens alone had huge objections to the snow and cackled in alarm when their door was opened in the morning. They adamantly refused to venture out. To them, this white world outside their house was an alien country and they wanted nothing to do with it. But they kept us supplied with sufficient eggs, though not a large amount because the cold did affect their production. Ample food was available for all the animals as the grain was stored up in the loft and the barn was full of hay.

  In the kitchen my mother baked daily, which was the norm in all households, drawing flour from the two drums containing white and brown flour that had been brought from the mill where our own wheat was milled, and now stored by the fire to keep it dry. In a barrel in the room off the kitchen, salted bacon from the pig killed in the autumn kept hunger at bay. Potatoes and turnips were stored in a pit behind the house. At that time if you were living deep in the country, an essential pre-Christmas purchase was a chest of tea; the only coffee available was a brand called Irel, and that was an acquired taste and not favoured by us children. Milk was consumed in many ways: big tin ‘ponnies’ of warm milk, and ‘goody’, which was bread soaked in milk with a generous sprinkling of sugar and was a great comforter – and, of course, cocoa was a favourite nighttime beverage. The cold, which penetrated every corner of the house, was the main problem during the Big Snow and I remember wearing our outdoor coats in the house. Clothes at the time were mostly made of warm wool, jumpers were handknit, and covering us in the beds at night were heavy twill sheets, wool blankets and large, heavy, homemade quilts. The main source of heat in the house was the large open fire in the kitchen, for which turf was stored in a reek out in the yard and in the turf house, and was constantly being drawn in. Logs from fallen trees were stacked in huge heaps at the end of the house. An old neighbour who used to trudge across the fields to us would say, ‘This is no weather for sparing turf,’ and how right she was. Neighbours kept in touch and young ones were dispatched around to old neighbours to make sure that all was well – my mother always sent us out in pairs and now I realise that she was afraid of us getting buried in the snowdrifts.

  For the adults it must have been tough and I remember my uncle, who lived further back the valley with my grandmother, coming on horseback to let my mother know that all was well with Nana and to make sure that all was well with us.

  But to us children it was simply great fun. And no school! The delight of being free all day every day to enjoy this glorious white wonderland was intoxicating. We were free to make wobbly sleighs and to slide down slippery slopes, and when the snowballing and snowman-building was done, our daily chore was feeding the birds. We scattered breadcrumbs over the snow outside the kitchen window and then stood inside and watched them swoop down to polish them off. My father, who knew the names of most birds, introduced us to the different types and, though he was not usually into drawing, he drew sketches of them in an old school copybook. With the farm buried in snow the work had shrunk, and there was time for him to do other things.

  That was 1947, which in later years became known as the Year of the Big Snow. One wonders by what term will the snow of 2018 be remembered?

  A Little Bit of Heaven

  My grandmother made bread-and-butter pudding to use up her stale bread leftovers and eating it was a test of endurance. But the bread-pudding in Kelly’s of Rosslare is a sumptuous temptation and a delight to the palate. I had almost convinced myself not to follow my healthy lunch of mouth-watering salmon salad with a dessert. But faced with a dish overflowing with gorgeous plump fruit thatched with fluffy layers of golden brown crust, my resolve melted. To further break down my resistance, beside the dish was a large bowl of freshly whipped cream, begging to be spooned. Irresistible! Having filled my bowl with feather-light pudding and layered it with an eiderdown of cream, I withdrew to a sunlit corner to sit back into a body-comforting Queen Anne armchair, savour my delight and observe my surroundings. Around me, but at a pleasant, non-intrusive distance, floated people of all ages, including toddlers with their parents. The amazing feat of Kelly’s is that they successfully combine catering for three generations, and none impinges on another. The seniors here were the well-heeled and comfortably retired, now enjoying the results of their labours, and then there were the high-earning young couples, both working fulltime and exhausted from rushing between the deadlines of crêches and high-pressure jobs; now they were having a much-needed break to recover their equilibrium. Their children were extraordinarily well behaved, I noticed, which made me recall a book that I had picked up for my daughter in a bookshop in Temple Bar in Dublin a few years previously: French Children Don’t Throw Food, by Pamela Druckerman. It was wittily written by an American mother who moved with her child to Paris and was very impressed by the behaviour of the French children, especially when dining out in restaurants. The parents in Kelly’s must all have read that book! In the case of some of the families, three generations were here together. Then there were some mothers and daughters having a relationship reunion, and members of bridge and other clubs having time away together, and women in small groups enjoying the good life. And around all these, Kelly’s have created a luxury home-from-home experience, with gourmet food and wraparound comfort that is maintained at an immaculate level of perfection by a well-coordinated, pleasant staff, who constantly and unobtrusively pick up and remove. As soon as you no longer need it, it is gone, and as soon as you need a replacement it is there.

  This year I came to Kelly’s for the first time for a spring treat at the invitation of my daughter and son-in-law, who have two small children. They were taking a well-earned break from that breakneck routine that seems to be the norm for all young couples trying to balance the demands of jobs and children.

  On the way there, five-year-old Ellie exuded anticipation. She had been there the previous year and was a Kelly enthusiast. To her, Kelly’s was as near to heaven as she could get. She forecast, with a beaming smile, ‘Nana, you will love Kelly’s.’ I was full of curiosity. Over the years, of course, I had heard of Kelly’s. Who hasn’t! But I had no idea what made it so special. All I knew was that there seemed to be a general consensus abroad that once you had been to Kelly’s you became a patron for life. For this very reason I had occasionally wondered what it was all about. And now I was about to find out.

  You arrive at Kelly’s almost unaware that you are there. It is located on the side of the street with an across-the-road carpark, so there is no long-distance view to size up your surroundings, no long, winding avenue with an imposing mansion in the distance. There is no big impressive entrance. You simply slip into a long hallway, the top of which serves as the reception area, where friendly, smiling staff give you the impression that they are absolutely delighted to see you. Down along one side of this glass-fronted, long entrance hall are narrow tables with comfortable benches overflowing with plump cushions, and everywhere flowers and plants. Upright, elegant orchids interlink along the table-tops.

  As we entered I noticed an elderly man relaxing in an ample armchair, his glasses precariously balanced on the end of his nose, snoring gently with an abandoned book on his knees. My daughter smiled knowingly in his direction and said, ‘We’ve arrived.’ You somehow get the feeling that you have come into
a comfortable family home rather than into a grand hotel. The immediate impression is of brightness, relaxation and welcome.

  My extended family was directed to a large room on the ground floor containing a double bed, two single beds and a cot, with double doors opening on to an inviting lawn. Everything was white, bright and immaculate. Ellie picked her bed and settled in like a swallow returning to its nest. She was looking forward to the pool, the kiddies’ disco, the play area and the sandcastles.

  I was located on the floor above, with every conceivable comfort to keep me happy, and once settled in I picked up a little brochure of hotel activities. To my absolute amazement and delight I discovered that the well-known TV gardener Dermot O’Neill would be giving a two-hour talk the following morning, and for the further two mornings. What a bonus! Talk about having jam and jam up on it! I am no gardening expert, but I am an avid learner, and there is no end to learning on the garden trail. Because I was a latecomer to the joys of gardening, I am forever trying to catch up. So the prospect of listening to an expert like Dermot O’Neill for three mornings was like manna from heaven. I was tickled pink! My three days were off to a flying start.

  Later, the children had a disco where they danced, pranced and chased each other around the little sectioned-off area of the dance floor in the Ivy Room, and then were served dinner, after which they went to an adjacent play area where they were looked after by smiling, cheerful staff while parents could have a relaxed dinner in comfort. Children are not allowed into the main dining room, called The Beaches, for dinner, which gives adults a chance to enjoy a child-free zone. Guests dress up for dinner and the atmosphere in the dining room is formal and elegant, which is fitting for the gourmet food served. Leaving the dining room you feel as if you have been out for dinner in a posh restaurant. If the children got restless, the staff had no problem serving parents their dessert in another room where they could join their children. After dinner a band played music in the Ivy Room, which was then also out of bounds to children so that adults could enjoy dancing and the use of the nearby bar.

  On retiring, I discovered that my bed was a ‘please do not leave me’ bed, and the bedroom chairs were ideal for reading or writing. Breakfast was served in The Beaches or you could help yourself in the Ivy Room where the self-service choice was unbelievable. Ellie had a great time making her own pancakes on a little magic machine that knew exactly what to do once she pressed the right buttons.

  Afterwards, on sauntering around the hotel, I discovered comfortable armchairs in every corner and an arresting array of paintings on the walls. A collection of photos along one corridor brought a smile to my face. Amongst them was a photo of two sunny-faced nuns whose faces portrayed the joys of life. They made you feel uplifted. Later I met a woman who told me that one of the nuns was her aunt and had spent all her life in the Benedictine Kylemore Abbey in Connemara. That nun’s face told the story of a happy, deeply spiritual life.

  Opening off another corridor was a large, comfortable room where a glowing fire was surrounded by armchairs inviting you to come in and read. Next a TV room, temporarily converted into a lecture hall, where a large contingent had gathered to listen to Dermot O’Neill. I was delighted to join them and for two hours Dermot poured forth pearls of gardening wisdom. It was extremely enjoyable and informative, and the questions afterwards revealed a high level of gardening expertise in the room.

  Then lunch, which you could have served up to you in The Beaches restaurant or enjoy a trawl along the self-service tables of delights in the Ivy Room. Either way, an exquisite experience. Afterwards, a stroll around the imaginative garden of humps and hollows, incorporating a sunken tennis court and a series of hidden bridges, and sheltered, sea-facing rest areas. Sculptures along the way provided pleasant dawdling moments. Then down on to the beach where the variety of sea shells has to be seen to be believed. After an invigorating walk along the beach you could retire to the spa and spoil yourself with a choice of massages to soothe yourself into a state of total relaxation. If you were so inclined, afternoon tea was served at 4pm in the Ivy Room. The only problem with Kelly’s is that were you to partake of all the meals available you would certainly go home with what is humorously referred to as a ‘Kelly Belly’.

  This hotel has been run by the Kelly family for over a century and in that time they have fine-tuned their establishment to the highest level of effortless expertise. The strong team of well-coordinated, efficient staff keep the wheels turning with what appears to be seamless ease.

  I left with the conviction that I too would be back. As Ellie had predicted, I had fallen in love with Kelly’s.

  Why Be Bothered?

  Many years ago I walked the road from Bandon to Innishannon. When I reached the old bridge at Innishannon I stepped up into the little stone recess to avoid the rare vehicle that passed by and leaned in over the warm stones of the bridge to admire the scene below. It was a lovely sunny afternoon and the breathtaking view of the river flowing through the wooded Bandon valley on its way to Kinsale was wonderful. On one side of the river the hillside trees in Dromkeen Wood were just beginning to don their spring coats and on the other side the large green field along the bank of the river sloped gently up to the village where two elegant church spires towered above the trees. Further down along the river an old, grey ruined tower elbowed out above the water where two swans glided along. It was the most enchanting place that I had ever seen. I was just twenty years old – and three years later I came to live in Innishannon when I married the love of my life, who thought that Innishannon was the Promised Land.

  Living next door to us were his Aunty Peg and Uncle Jacky. Jacky ran around the village every morning delivering papers and he did jobs for any elderly people living on their own. And every morning he brushed the street outside his shop, as did all the householders along the street. There was not much litter as there were no plastic bags, no cartons, and all milk and soft drinks were sold in returnable glass bottles. At that time, Aunty Peg was probably in her mid-fifties, and I thought that she was ancient!

  Over the years I got absorbed into village life, though at the beginning I often resented my husband’s dedication to his community. But he carried on regardless, and gradually I became a convert. He was on every committee in the village and gave unstintingly of his time. To him it was all about the community and the common good. As a teenager he had delivered telegrams on his bike all around the parish, so he knew every nook and cranny and back road of the place. From behind the post office counter, he gave out the Children’s Allowance and Old Age Pension, so he knew everybody and everybody knew him. When I arrived on the scene I was the subject of much scrutiny to see if I was up to scratch, and one friend of Aunty Peg’s told her, ‘That wan won’t do at all, sure there isn’t a bit of her there!’

  Eventually I almost became one of them, but because my family had not been here for several generations I could still be perceived as a blow-in. But I had no problem with that. Blow-ins can be very good for a community and over the years I have seen many newcomers give a sense of vibrancy and energy to this place: people who are happy to do things for the satisfaction it offers and for the improvement of their surroundings.

  As Innishannon changed from a quiet rural village where we all knew each other to a village throbbing with passing traffic, and as new housing estates were built we became conscious that an effort was needed to preserve the village ethos. It would be so easy to evolve into a soulless collection of people who all lived behind their own doors and did nothing to enhance their community. People who come to live in a community and decide to remain inside their own doors and be non-productive members lose out in the long run.

  Even though organisations and voluntary efforts can at times annoy the living daylights out of you and meetings can be drawn-out exercises of mental torture, there eventually comes a time when a breakthrough is made, and with it comes a thrill of great satisfaction and a sense of euphoria that something that has taken years of effort to achieve finally gets conquered, and the entire community breathes a sigh of satisfaction. There is great therapy in that doing and achieving. Intellectual knowledge is not the same thing as truly understanding things from the centre of your being, which results from experiencing and doing.