Kilmokea

John Flynn

When I was in my early teens my friends and I would cycle miles to pick strawberries. In the evenings if we were passing an old graveyard on our way home we would go in and look for the oldest dated headstone or an unusual inscription. One evening one of the lads said that he had heard that there was a pirates grave in the graveyard in Great Island. Of course, we had to go to look for it.

After a short search we found it, an old headstone dated 1789 with a skull and crossbones on the back. That was my first visit to Kilmokea cemetery, little did I know that years later I would be passing it every day in my job as a postman. As it happens it is not a pirates grave but a frequently used depiction inscribed on headstones to remind us of our mortality.

The “pirates” grave. Photo courtesy of John Flynn

Between 2012 and 2016, as a member of the Sliabh Coillte Heritage Group, I took part in a series of geophysical surveys in the Kilmokea Enclosure which surrounds the cemetery. It is recorded as an Ecclesiastical Enclosure dating from the Early Medieval Period. If anybody called to see our progress while we were conducting the surveys I would enjoy bringing them into the cemetery to show them the various historical artefacts that can be seen there. In particular, it has the smallest high cross in Ireland at just 56cm high. Also there are Bullan stones/Holy water fonts, the base of a standard high cross, some cut and dressed stones from old buildings along with the base of a small medieval church. There is one grave marker that is very interesting. It is shaped like the lid of a coffin with the widest part turned down.  The edges are chamfered and apart from that, there is no inscription or carvings on it. I sometimes wonder where did it come from or who decided to place it there.

Irelands smallest High Cross. Photo courtesy of John Flynn
The unusual grave marker. Photo courtesy of John Flynn

During Heritage Week in 2019, I met geologist Dr. Bill Sheppard who has a particular interest in relating local rock to the building stone used in National Monuments.  Subsequently I showed him around the area of Great Island including a visit to the Kilmokea Graveyard.  While we were looking around the cemetery Bill noted the range of rock used in the gravestones and artefacts.  These included granite, various limestones some with trace fossil trails, local shale rock and, of particular interest, two eighteenth century-dated headstones of rock not found in southeast Ireland.  These two were of metamorphic schist rock with a characteristic shiny texture.  One of these contained a mineral thought likely to be kyanite.  The year of interment on this stone was 1784 in the family name of Foley and on the other stone were engraved the years 1794, 1841 and 1855 with the family name of Kent.  The source of such rock is very limited in Ireland and restricted to Co Mayo, the Ox Mountains or close to the main Donegal granite, for example near Cresslough.  Further afield, no such rock is known to occur in England or Wales, however, they do occur in Scotland.

The Kent and Foley headstones. Photo courtesy of John Flynn

 I think that it’s remarkable that around 250 years ago there was a such trade in headstones that they would be transported hundreds of miles and end up in a small country graveyard like Kilmokea. It is certainly possible, if not probable that they journeyed here via the Three Sisters. To me that fortunate meeting with Bill is a typical example of no matter how familiar you are with a place something really interesting and exciting can be in full view and you won’t see it until the right person comes along and points it out to you.

I would like to acknowledge the assistance of Dr Bill Sheppard in the writing of this piece.

Submitted by John as part of our Three Sister Placenames project for Heritage Week 2020

KEYSER’S STREET

Cian Manning

Edmund Spenser, the 16th century English poet penned the words ‘the gentle Shure that making way. By sweet Clonmel, adorns rich Waterford’. As we follow the river Suir we reach Ireland’s oldest city founded by the Vikings and are presented with a majestic Quayside. The British architectural historian Mark Girouard (grandson of Henry Beresford, 6th Marquess of Waterford) remarked that it was ‘the noblest quay in Europe.’ The Quay is a mile in length with the Dublin Penny Journal of December 1832 recording ‘and presents a continued line with scarcely any interruption throughout its entire extent’. Surrounded by natural beauty, the city which thrived along a river that afforded a depth of water from twenty to sixty-five feet at low water which could accommodate vessels of up to 800 tons mirroring mansion pieces on a Monopoly board.

the quays loooking from the Ardree Hotel. Courtesy of Brian Walsh

As one enters Waterford city by crossing Rice Bridge and turning left the half-way point of the Quay is marked by the Clock Tower. The renowned 19th century Gothic style landmark also illustrates the previous industriousness of the city’s docks with water troughs for horses. Continuing along the Quay you will pass four laneways on the right with the last of the quartet being Keyser’s Street. The city derives its name from the Norse Veðrafjǫrðr meaning ‘Winter Haven’.

The name originates from the Norse era in Waterford. Courtesy of Cian Manning.

However, it is not the only name that Waterford bares of it’s Viking past. The aforementioned Keyser’s Street is a name of Norse origin while the street dates to the medieval period. ‘Keyser’ meaning way of the ship wharf or path to pier head. The former Publicity Officer of South East Tourism, Patrick Mackey noted that this is where the ship wharves were situated. The street runs southwards of Custom House Quay and reaches the junction of High Street and Olaf Street. As part of the Viking fortifications, there stood a Keyser’s Castle and by 1707 these walls from John Aikenhead’s Coffee House (the first coffee house in Waterford city and listed in the corporation minutes of 1695) to William Jones’s new house by Goose Gate (named after the 17th century Searcher of Customs Thomas Goose) were pulled down. It was ordered that the stones from the battlements would be used in the construction of a Corn Market where the old Custom House stood.

The iconic Clyde Shipping Office building now stands at the entrance from the Quay to Keyser’s St

Down through the centuries this street has been referred to by a couple of different names. A deed of lease between William Bolton and a clothier, Samuel Pearn records the name Kimpsha Lane. In the Civil Survey map of 1764 the street is referred to as Kempson’s Lane.
Now the street captures the hustle and bustle of modern life from the trade union movement to the workings of the General Post Office. It’s best to finish with the words of a 19th century poem evoking Waterford’s Viking connections with the story of Keyser Street in mind:


Like golden-belted bees about a hive
Which come forever and forever go
Going and coming with the ebb and flow,
From year to year, the strenuous Ostman strive.

Close in their billow-battling galleys prest,
Backhands and forwards with the trusty tide
They sweep and wheel around the ocean wide,
Like eagles swooping from their cliff-built nests.

And great their joy, returning where they left
Their tricorned stronghold by the Suirshore
‘Mid song and feast, to tell their exploits o’er –
Of all the helm-like glibs their swords had cleft,
The black-haired damsels seized, the towers attacked.
The still monastic cities they had sucked.

Submitted by Cian for our Placenames of the Three Sisters project for Heritage Week 2020

Johnny’s Lane, Crooke, Co Waterford

Breda Murphy.

Due to Covid 19 I’ve had a couple of new experiences recently, firstly I haven’t used an alarm clock since the middle of March! I thought I would have to wait until I retired to enjoy that treat, but not so, due to working from home.  Secondly, for the first time ever I began to realise that I live a privileged life, appreciating, that few things really matter in life, one being where you live when confined to staying within two kilometres of your home, and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere better.  I live in the house where I was born, in Crooke, directly opposite Duncannon Church on the Wexford side.  My daily 40-50 minute walk takes me past Geneva Barrack to the Barrack Strand, down the lane at Newtown and back towards Passage up onto the road again by Johnny’s Lane, between Burke’s shop and Crooke Chapel.  While the Lane has had more footfall in recent months due to the lockdown, it is still rare to meet anyone especially in the early mornings apart from a few locals, who like myself, walk it daily. 

Johnny Hearn, Crooke, Passage East. Breda Murphy collection

I know it as Johnny’s Lane, called after an old man who lived where Burke’s shop is now, called Johnny Hearn.  I have only the vaguest memory of Johnny and am not even sure if it is my memory or someone else’s but I remembered my mother showing me a photo of my cousin Dermot Heffernan with Johnny as she told me where the lane got its name.  With time on my hands, I recently sorted through my mother’s photos and memories.  I was delighted to come across this photo of Johnny and Dermot taken at the top of the lane, both deceased now RIP.  The Lane may have a new name now, as lanes are often called after those who live there, but to me it will always be Johnny’s Lane.     

  

Looking up towards Crooke, the Church on the right

The Lane has an abundance of wild life, with several ancient crab apple trees, ready for making Jelly in the autumn, elders with flowers in the spring and berries in the autumn both good for making wine, meadowsweet with its pungent smell on a damp summer morning, sloes still green but ready soon for Christmas sloe gin, the nettles and docks grow in abundant companionship, one ready to undo the deeds of the other.  A large branch from one of the crab apple trees fell last winter and the path has had to re-route around it while the broken branch is still growing apples. Left there, it provides cover for birds, wild animals, insects and plants.  Us humans giving way to the natural world for a change.    Without human upkeep the lane grows in abundance and reproduces and self-fertilises as it has done for ever.  Its deadwood is providing cover for years before rotting back into the ground.   In the spring the top of the lane is full of wild garlic releasing its strong smell underfoot on a crisp morning.

Nearing the shoreline

The Lane holds an untold history and many secrets. It has been the site of children’s camps and games and other devilment and still is no doubt.  The strand still holds the memory of the cockle women, my grandmother Ellie Murphy and Aunt Molly among them, who picked on a low tide, bent over, heads low, among the rocks on the strand below. They carried and carted sacks of cockle and winkles up this lane. Its stone ditches at either side, still visible in parts, are wide enough for an ass and cart for those lucky enough to have one.  Paddy Ryan recently told me that his mother Statia, daughter of cockle women Janey Organ, as a young girl helping her mother collapsed walking up the lane under the weight of the bag of cockles that she was carrying, damaging her hip.  She spent nine months in bed but her hip never healed and was unable to pick cockles again.  The injury impacted on her for the rest of her life.  Statia was a kind and lovely woman and a regular visitor to our house when I was a child.  I remember her playing ‘this little piggy’ with my toes, I was probably around the age of two.   

The magic of the scene when the tide is in

Some mornings as I head up the lane from the strand, I stop and look back and on a full tide with the sun rising and dancing on the water I feel thankful to the cockle women and others who lived in Crooke and Passage before us who saved this lane for us by walking it.  And though we can travel more freely again I continue to feel privileged to live in such a stunning place with this wonderful river that has provided for many of us who live here, in more ways than one.    

Submitted by Breda for Heritage Week 2020

The Devils Bit

Astrid Hurley

There was always a conflicting tale growing up as to where the source of the River Suir actually starts. The Devil’s Bit mountain is the most favoured but Borrisnoe is also mentioned.

Thanks to Tipperary Tourism for the image

I grew up in the shadow and fabulous view of the Devil’s Bit.(Barnàn Èile.) From ancient days legend has it that the devil was been chased from Ireland by St Patrick. The flaw here is the Mountain was there before St Patrick. The story goes that the devil came across a mountain near where Templemore is now located, the devil is reputed to have taken a chunk of the mountain and hurled it in the air and it landed in Cashel and here stands the famous Rock of Cashel. The Devil’s Bit mountain is seen with a very large chunk missing out of it which looks like a Giants bite.

The Suir as a trickling stream in the area. Photo credit Brian Walsh

Another legend involves Fionn MacCumhaill, which is described by this Rock of Cashel site . Fionn MacCumhaill “…was having a serious quarrel with Satan. As Fionn had realized that the devil was losing his temper, he headed off to the mountains, and the devil went after him. While he was chasing Fionn, the Devil stuck his foot against something. Not able to bear the pain and filled with fury, he took a bite of the mountain breaking his teeth. He spat out whatever was in his mouth (including his teeth) forming the Rock of Cashel.”

As a child it was a fabulous day out to climb and reach the cross at the top from where on a clear day you can see the river Shannon.

Submitted by Astrid Hurley for Heritage Week 2020

Ringville School, overlooking the R Barrow at Ballinlaw

Paul Grant

The Poet Patrick Kavanagh once said “The man that knows his own half acre knows the world”. The older we become the more nostalgic we become. The summers were warmer, the grass was greener, life was simpler. We need to be careful not to look back with rose tinted glasses; it wasn’t always as wonderful and romantic as is often portrayed in novels like “To School through the Fields” and others. I can remember walking to school through wet fields on freezing cold mornings, with the promise of 3 slaps with án Bhata if I was five minutes late.

My earliest memories of Ballinlaw are cycling my Raleigh bike down the hill to The Ferry Pub with two shillings in my pocket to get 10 Carrols for the Master. Mrs Malone (Aggie) came out from the kitchen to the bar, she knew who I was of course, she also seemed to know what my mission was, “You’re here for fags for Mr Power” she said. She took the money and gave me the change but held on to the cigarettes until she was finished getting all the local news. Eventually she gave me the cigarettes and I set out on my journey up the steep hill back to the school. Outside the pub, the river Barrow carrying her sister the Nore flowed down to meet their third sister the Suir and continue to flow southward through Waterford Harbour to finally meet the great Atlantic Ocean. This area was known as “Comar Trí na Uisce” (meeting of three waters). This is also where for hundreds of years a ferry boat crossed to Loughtown on Great Island Co Wexford. In ancient times this was referred to as The old Camnoc Ferry, in modern times it was known as Ballinlaw Ferry. The area also offers a breadth taking view of Sliabh Coillte to the West and the Black Stairs to the North West with Mount Leinster protruding like the Jewel in the crown.

The local fishermen had tied their Prong’s which lay there sleeping in the mud waiting for the incoming tide to wake them. I started to cycle back up the road only to get off and walk after 80 or 90 Yards in defeat. Little did I know than I would one day be living at that exact spot. I eventually got back to school with the Cigarettes, I was probably aged 10 or 11 at the time, we had just moved to the new school in Ringville. The new school was the fourth to be built in Ballinlaw. The first school was a hedge school said to be situated down the Castle lane at the river, this dated back to penal times. This was followed in 1832 by a school built from lime and stone with a thatched roof situated half ways between the river and the house at the top of the Castle lane known then and now as The Rookery. This school was built by Thomas Devereaux of Ringville House. There was no free education then, pupils paid from one shilling and a penny to three shilling depending on one’s means. Children from the local area as well as children from across the river attended the school. The next school was built and funded by Thomas Devereaux’s niece Lady Letitia Esmond. In its day it was a very modern structure which featured two huge classrooms and living quarters for two teachers and their families. There was a fireplace in each classroom used to ensure the teacher was warm and to boil water in a big black cast iron kettle to make the Cocoa at lunchtime. The fuel for the fire was mostly sticks gathered by the pupils from the knock at the back of the school.

A view upriver from Bolton Cottage – Paul Grant

When I started school there in 1959 very little had changed. There was no running water which meant students from 6th class had to go to the well, over Danny Whelan’s lane which is quiet a distance. The Co Council provided a hand pump at the top of the hill above the school sometime in the 40s or 50s but unfortunately it never worked. After pumping for 5 minutes a rust coloured liquid sometimes came gurgling out in spurts and then stopped, making some obscene noises in the process. The sanitation in the school was absolutely appalling. There were 4 dry toilets available with no hand washing facilities. The smell of Jeyes Fluid wafted throughout the school. The toilet paper provided however was never more than a week old, you knew by the story or the date printed on newspaper. Sometimes when you ran out of newspaper magazines were used, The Irelands Own was a favourite, we all loved reading about “Kitty the Hare” written by local man Vincent O Donovan Power.
It wasn’t all doom and gloom. One of the more positive sides to being educated in the 60s was the freedom we enjoyed. Once you were finished eating your lunch you played football across the road in Knoxe’s field, or you played in the old quarry or up the Knock. If you fell hurt yourself there was you were bandaged up and told to be more careful next time. There was never and mention of suing or litigation in those days.

Ringville National School (1966) Paul Grant

This all changed in June 1966 when we said goodbye to the old school and moved to our new centrally heated school 200 meters away at the top of Ballinlaw hill. Not only did it have central heating but it had Flush Toilets. We were even made slippers at all times inside classrooms. For me best of all was the big windows showing the most incredible view of the River, Sliabh Coillte and across into Campile and Great Island. I can still remember daydreaming while watching the fishermen rowing over and back the river casting their nets for Salmon.

I had no regrets leaving Ringville School but as fate would have it in 1981 I ended up living 50 mts from the new school on the top of Ballinlaw hill. My children followed the tradition of school through the fields, they were very fortunate though as they had only one field to cross to jump the school wall. In 2003 we moved again to the place where I got off my bike on my journey back to the Master with his Cigarettes all those years ago.

Ship heading fown the R Barrow from New Ross. Paul Grant

Submitted by Paul Grant for Heritage Week 2020