It was a lovely sunny August day, I stood in the field outside my uncles. Looking across the fields towards the tower.
I was home again. Visiting after a few years absence. Home was Dublin. I say was, as I lived there once many years ago, but I’d moved away much to the angst of certain people. Now I was home from home. Not really a holiday though.
I walked down to the seafront. To get a bus to Howth. I had a tremendous urge to go there. It was a Sunday, so Sunday service meant I could be waiting for a while, which was normal of course. The view was nice though. The tide was in and the water flat. Howth Head reflected well in the water and the sun lit up the hills diversity of greenness, from dark trees to the beautiful fairways of the golf courses, also making out the bright yellow of the gorse. I loved this view. It was magical to me and never boring even when it was pissin down.
Across to the right rose the Dublin Mountains, the Sugar-loaf most prominent. Further right was the city I had grown to dislike and Dublin Port, with its noticeable multitude of cranes. The city had become so commercialised and built up, for me, losing its traditional uniqueness. It even had some sex shops. Sex shops in Dublin shocked me.
Immediately in front was Dollymount, Bull Island as it was called. This place was full of great memories. Racing along the long sands in my Dads gold Ford Escort with its black vinyl roof. It broke down not long after I took a shot in it. I don’t remember getting to drive it after that. Think me mother put her little feet down or something, but my dad never said. There are a couple of golf courses on the island. I played my last game of golf with me dad on one of them, the one on the right I seem to remember. Myself, the two brothers and the oulfella. They were emotional memories because he didn’t live too long after that. I had noticed he was slower in his walking but his wit was just as quick and sharp. My brothers were talking at that time too.
I could see a bus coming. I hoped it was the right one as I forgot to go to the toilet before I left me wife and two children with my mother. It was, it was the 31. I asked how much, I hadn’t been on a bus in Dublin in many years. Its amazing when I take the Dart the strange look I get when I ask how much. Think the accent throws them. But I haven’t lived there in over 20 years. 20 years and so much had changed. I had changed. I paid the driver and sat tucked up against the window on the right side.
I was heading for where my uncle and granddad lived when they were alive. On the journey I passed the hotel where I spent many a night of my drinking apprenticeship. I was a lightweight but it provided the necessary effect to build a little confidence for chatting to the ladies. Opposite and across the main road was my old place of work. Some great great times I’d had in there. Great friends, colleagues and social life. Wow it had changed.
I managed to get off the bus a few stops before my uncle’s house. I wanted to walk towards the tower. I can remember being in awe of the tower when I was very young. It was a major adventure climbing over the many fences to reach its wonder. So many fences and through fields with different stuff growing in them. And cow-pats, plenty of cow-pats swarming with flies to be avoided. I remember the different smells which I can only really appreciate now. It was our great escape. Fields and hedges as far as we could see and the reward was to stand beside that tower. It was our Disneyland for boys.
It was and still is a very affluent area, Howth. Massive houses with long back gardens. My uncle used to say, “full of Protestants with money”. Who was I to argue or question, I was young, ignorant and naïve at the time. My uncle was a bit of a superhero, so he had that believability factor. My dads best pal.
After the bus moved off, I tried to get my bearings. There was a new building site which threw me, new flats and a small housing estate. Land Rovers, Audi’s BM’s and Mercs galore. Yep Howth. I suppose it was to be expected, it was Dublin after all and the transformations the Celtic Tiger, stupid metaphor, had contributed to the re-created landscape throughout the city and its suburbs.
I looked down a couple of tree-lined driveways just to check if I could see where to make a start. Each driveway had at its entrance two large whitewashed pillars, some gated and some not. There used to be a lane opening somewhere around where I was however I couldn’t see it.
I took a chance and walked down a driveway. There was no cars and no dogs, which was a blessing. I don’t take to dogs too kindly. And it seems to me annoyingly, that dog lovers and walkers seem to think that everyone loves the creatures. I fear their unpredictability and teeth. I’ll say no more.
As I made my way slowly down the drive I noticed a well trodden area veering off to the right, so I followed it. I moved into the darkness of some tree’s and took a leak. I reached the end of the thin path and moved through some overgrown bushes. I had arrived at the back of the house where a really long field seemed to run at the back of all the houses, parallel to the main road where I had got off the bus.
I saw children playing over in a corner. They were playing football. Four of them there was with two little black dogs and an adult guarding the small goal. In the other direction were what appeared to be a couple of farmers, standing chatting beside the old red Massey Ferguson. One had a pipe and they were gesticulating while seemingly communicating in a lively manner. Then they saw me. My cover was exposed.
I felt ok. There was a time where I’d have ran like the clappers. A healthy fear of being chased by farmers with guns, stemming from some childhood experiences. But I was older, more confident , optimistic that they wouldn’t go to the tractor for a shot-gun. I wandered over to them and explained who I was and what I was doing. They seemed interested in my quest and knew of my grandparents. They pointed me towards a property and suggested I go in and chat to the couple. I turned towards the house after thanking them.
I walked to the house and I knocked gently on the back door. An old lady answered. She was tiny, had a lilt of a Scottish accent. A healthy head of grey hair and well looked after skin. I explained who I was and what I was doing. She beckoned me in. The smell of burning wood hit me as I entered. The room was small and little smoky, but nice. It reminded me of times I used to go to my uncles and the smoke would be like a mist in the room where a gas mask would have been useful. Your eyes would adjust through and the stinging would fade. The smell on my clothes would linger though but I loved pulling my home-made jumper to my face and getting a whiff.
The kettle went on and the lady’s husband came in from his walk on the nearby strand. He shook my hand, introducing himself as Tom. The tea was strong in taste and smell, 4 teabags well squeezed maybe. A big tame grey Irish Wolfhound lay peacefully in the corner of the room. Peacefully in corners is where dogs belong and on leashes. They told me how they met. That Tom had been working as a mine rescuer around Britain. He spent some time in Ayrshire and met Sadie at a dance one Saturday night in a little place called Catrine. It was love at second sight, Tom explained as he was too drunk the first night they met to remember. But things started to come back to him when he, by chance, met Sadie on the Sunday afternoon walking her family dog.
She had known both my grandparents and showed me some crumpled black and white pictures with them together at some local GAA events along with some press cuttings of Tom with my granddad and his sons, my dad and my uncle. Sadie remembered my aunt wheeling me in my pram in next door, where my aunt used to do some cleaning. They were both lovely people and had some nice things to say about my family. I was so lucky to have discovered Tom and Sadie on this afternoon, so so fortunate.
It was time for me to leave. Time to make my way to the tower. They provided me with directions, I said my thanks and was on my way. I’d had a lovely time. I made my way across the field where the two farmers were still chatting. They were listened to the match on the radio and nodded. I got over the wooden fence and walked through the woods. Then I came to the tower.
It was not as tall as I’d remembered but was still in awe of its presence. The front door was bolted shut. I couldn’t go up. I remembered the last time I got up to check out the views towards the coast and the city. There were seagulls at the top. Nesting maybe and they went berserk when the noticed me. Well, I sprinted down those concrete steps like Bolt.
The area towards my uncles had changed. The fences and fields had made way for fairways and greens. It wasn’t the same and I was a little disappointed however the green fairways looked well. The well manicured grass, the baby tree’s, a few bunkers have their purpose, picturesque even but not filled with warm and adventure laden childhood memories. Looking back, I am glad I was there, glad I experienced and savoured the simplicity and specialness of the place.
I walked down the fairway towards my uncles. He’s died a few years before my dad. The golf course wasn’t busy. I pretended to jump the fences, where I’d imagined them to be. The back gardens to my left hadn’t changed a bit. Eventually I got to the place where I’d stand and stare down towards the Tower. I cried.
My uncle’s home, was torn down. Two mansions now stand in its place, selling for over a million each. Who’d have known. We used to come up to his house and walk onto the golf course of an evening and play for free. It was great practice. Good competition at times also. My dad and my uncles were deadly with a five iron much to my annoyance.
I looked at the houses and remembered when my uncle fired a pitch fork over the hedge in my direction, what a shock. I didn’t have time for the shock until after I leapt out-of-the-way. And I laughed when I recalled the time we were all playing football in the field outside of his garden. I was youngish, I was just after making my Confirmation, I think and I’d bought a new football strip. Putting it on made me professional you know. I’ll never forget my uncle tripping me and falling right into a moist cow-pat. The new gear was ruined, I stormed off in tears and bloody angry while they all laughed.
Looking back I can laugh now. But I miss those times. I miss the people, the togetherness, the adventure and pure fun. I miss the laughter and the family competitiveness. I miss a family which created a sense of belonging. I turned in the silence and looked towards the Tower. I think of its solid structure, its presence on the landscape and its place in my life. And I make my way towards the bus stop and relish the thought of hugging my mother, two children and my wife. While the tower remains…I move on with my dads face and aliveness prominent in my thoughts. Smiling.
Being & Becoming Digest 