Almanac Life: Returning – Dips retraces the Irish footsteps of his great-grandmother

Returning

 

10^th January 1895.

A father sits his daughter down. She is nervous as she detects his apprehension. He is looking at his boots in a kitchen in a farmhouse near Midleton, County Cork, Ireland. Midleton is a farming town on the Dublin Road. Cork township is about ten miles down the way and Youghal is ten miles the other way.

 

The town is on edge as the effects of the floods are still evident, the water only passing through a few weeks back. The Owenacurra River swelled like a giant water-filled orb before bursting her banks and sweeping through the town at night, catching the townsfolk off guard. Mud and debris litter the roads, and the surrounding fields are treading water. All the shopkeepers on the Youghal Road were wiped out by the torrents.

 

The daughter is Mary, the seventh child of eight born to Jeremiah and Mary (Hennessy) Egan. She is twenty, educated at the Presentation Convent and trained as a dressmaker. She sees her life here in Midleton, with most of her siblings (some have moved away) and the town’s folk. Especially her sister Margaret with whom she is particularly close.

 

She knows that Lord Midleton has English title to this land, and he sublets it to lesser landed gentry, like Stephen Barry, family to Redmond Barry, the judge who sent a young Irishman by the name of Kelly to the gallows in 1880 in the faraway colony of Australia. Stephen Barry, in turn, sublets small lots to battling tenant farmers like the Egans who slave in persistent poverty and do their best to educate and feed their offspring. And whilst they believe that the meek shall inherit the earth, they deem the earth beneath their feet to be rightfully theirs. They hope the Land League’s push for land reform will succeed in freeing their peasant chains. But hope does not put food on the table and for many the future is too distant. The emigrant flood out of Ireland surges like the Owenacurra River and Mary will be in their number.

 

“Well Mary,” says her father, “D’ya know Uncle James and Uncle Eugene headed off to Australia twenty years ago? Well, they’ve sent us an invite, like. They’re askin’ us to go over, help ’em out on the land, y’know? They’re not young fellas anymore, and sure, you know Eugene lost his hand in the accident a while back, so it’s making things hard fer them. But the farm is well set up, like, and there’s plenty of room.”

 

Mary nods. Hands clasped in her lap. Her father has now lifted his head, confronting the difficult conversation.

 

“Well, things are tight here, getting the food on the table, and with yer brothers mostly settled, like. And sure, Margaret’s only a young wan. Yer Ma and I, we reckon the move to Australia’d be best fer yerself.”

 

Her father wasn’t inviting discussion. This was a directive delivered with gentleness. Mary was to leave. She was to leave her parents, older brothers James and John, sister Julie who had married Joseph Foley, four Foley nieces and nephews, and her beloved sister Margaret. She was to travel by boat to the other side of the world and build a new life on a farm that her uncles were cutting out of the scrub in the Warby Ranges northwest of Wangaratta in the colony of Victoria, Australia.

 

The photo of her, taken in the days before her departure, shows a determined eye and a straight back but softened with the full cheeks of youth. She is seated and clothed in her best dress, perhaps made by her, rounded at the neck and accentuated at the shoulders, and she clasps a small folding fan in her right hand which bends over the arm of the chair, and whilst the fan is hardly something that would be needed in the Irish climes, it is the right thing for a young lady to be holding and is perhaps a symbol of aspiration. For as a daughter of peasant farmers her days were doubtlessly spent elbow deep in the practical not the symbolic.

 

Monday, August 26^th, 1895.

Well, I must leave old Ireland, Mary wrote in her diary, I won’t say must, but I am going to leave. Oh, how shall I leave all those dear to me, it’s being very, very hard to leave all on earth that’s dearest, still, what am I to do? I know it will be terrible to tear myself away from home, from father, mother, sisters, brothers, still I am going. When I look around at each dear place where I have spent my childhood and dearer still those whom I’ve loved so much, well, the thought is almost unbearable, still I am facing it. I will pray for courage and strength. Yet I have the help of Our Father, and His Blessed Mother to guard me – what need I fear? If it is God’s Will I may return.

 

Tuesday, August 27^th, 1895

Left Midleton station at 9am (I won’t enter how I parted from home, it’s entirely too sad for anything) and started as one in a dream. I couldn’t believe I was leaving it as I sat with mother, with a heavy heart. Still, I felt calm and peaceful, though the trial before me was painful, for I had to part in Cork with a fond, dear, good mother. At six in the afternoon, I arrived in Dublin and left at a quarter past seven. Left fond hearts and my native land. As I stood on deck of the boat, I was waving adieu as we moved from Erin’s lovely shore. It was a beautiful evening, so calm and lovely the sea looked. I thought of the poetry I often recited at school:

 

Adieu, adieu, my native shore,

 

Fades o’er the water blue,

 

The night winds sigh,

 

The breakers roar,

 

And shrieks the wild sea mew.

 

Yon sun that sets upon the sea,

 

We follow in his flight.

 

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

 

My native land, goodnight.

 

I remained so until we reached Holly Head at half past twelve. The town was brightly lit by electricity, so bright looked everything. The train was waiting for us. Off we went to London.

 

Saturday, 31^st August 1895.

Fine morning, for all the passengers were rather lively. The crew showed us onto our Steamer at eleven o’clock. She was anchored quite close to our hotel. The Darmstadt looked like a large Steamer, and in good repair. An old man showed us to our berths speaking half English, half German. When I got secure in my cabin, I went on deck, it was a most beautiful sight as we were moving from Antwerp. I felt my heartbeat fast at such a sight in a foreign port and thought if I had some of my home companions with me how we would enjoy all this.

 

Sunday, 1^st September 1895.

Another beautiful morning. We were just drawing near Southampton. Some passengers were taken on board here. One of the passengers was going to Benalla with his wife and children. He told me he knew my brother who had bought a watch from him. Soon we were off again, and all the English kept shouting “Good-bye, old England” but that did not harmonize with us. No songs on ship tonight. The English people would not dance or sing on Sunday, they being Protestants.

 

Tuesday 14^th July 1987

A young man sits in the lush grass on the edge of the highway and leans back slightly to catch the dim Irish sun. Its summer but the day is young and so the sun is weak and masked by the faintest of mists that hovers just above the ground. He’s a traveller from Australia, a wanderer, part dreamer, part adventurer. He arrived in Dublin a few days prior, stepping off the ferry that had steamed the travellers across the water from Wales at night. He felt a calmness about the place.

 

He asked an employee of the ferry company where the youth hostel was, and the chap happily advised him to walk up this road until you see a building with a tower on it. Turn left there. The hostel is in that street. But after ten minutes walking, he saw no tower and so turned and headed back towards the water. Then he spied it. A building that had a peaked roof and on top of that a small turret, like it might belong in Austria not Dublin, and he assumed that was the tower, so he turned into that street and found the hostel. The Dublin skyline is flat so any turret might be called a tower.

 

He went walking through Trinity College and then headed north into the Temple Bar area on the River Liffey and found a noisy pub. Inside there was music and vibrant conversation. A young woman detected his accent at the bar as he ordered his first Guiness and asked him where he was from.

 

“I know ya from Australia, but what part?” she asked.

 

“Melbourne” he said.

 

“Ah, I was livin’ there for nearly ten years.” She said, “Studyin’ politics, like” and launched into a colourful precis of her Honours dissertation on Gough Whitlam and his ousting. They agreed on some things and disagreed on others, and he left with a good feeling about the country.

 

But it was time to leave Dublin. He headed out of the city centre to hitchhike southwest to Cork. He had a good reason for going there.

 

“Ah Jaysus, you’ll never make it in one day!” said the first chap who picked him up just on the outskirts of Dublin.

 

“I’m just goin’ down the road, like, but will take ya as far as I can.”

 

They had a great chat, and after twenty minutes the trip ceased where two major roads merge and the driver wished him well and said,

 

“Dis is the best place, like, for ya to be gettin’ a ride to Cork.”

 

And he waved his hand and took off into the traffic without so much as a glance at the oncoming vehicles.

 

The young man was hungry so reached into his daypack and broke open a block of chocolate and grabbed his pipe. He filled the pipe with tobacco and lit it, puffing on it to get the thing fired, then snapped off a piece of chocolate and felt the grass of Eire embrace him. He knew he should be getting on his way but opened the old diary he carried. The diary of Mary Egan. His great grandmother. Her story belonged here. When she left Ireland 92 years ago, she was twenty. When he left Australia two months ago, he was twenty-three. Kids they both were.

 

Tuesday 3^rd September 1895

Fine day, the water looked lovely as we walked on deck this morning. Felt dizzy. Most of the passengers were sick this morning due to rough seas. Only this day week we left home, and it seems a year. The thought of home never leaves me, not even for a minute. At 4pm the Cape Finisterre came into view, but we could only make out great big rocks. Great flashes of lightning and thunder, the sky looks like it’s on fire in some places.

 

Thursday 5^th September 1895

Got a look at the Rocks of Gibraltar. We saw houses, they looked very small. I could see Tangiers on our left, on the coast of Africa. Passing the south of Spain, we could see the Nevada Mountains with their peaks covered in snow. I often thought – if those at home could see all these sights.

 

Sunday 8^th September 1895.

Fine morning. Arrived in Genoa. As we moved slowly coming into harbour, I could hear the bells tolling for early mass. I shall never forget the sight that met us there. All around us were beautiful buildings ascending from the sea level to such tremendous heights. A number of men were unloading cargo, they looked so foreign with their tan-coloured faces, and they speak in a drawling kind of way and make such a terrible noise. At night it was dazzling to look towards Genoa and all the lights around us, and those paper balloons ascending the air and then bursting and blazing like fireworks.

 

Tuesday, 10^th September 1895.

We reached Naples. I thought Genoa was pretty, but this beats it. The town is on a level with the sea with Mt Vesuvius rising above the town besides several others, all of which spit fire. You could see a bright stream running down the side of Vesuvius. You would think if it burst forth much fire it would destroy the town. As we arrived several boats gathered around the ship, some having fruit others singing and playing banjos. The Italians are very dark. Some are very good looking. They are so fierce-looking and terrible for quarrelling amongst themselves.

 

Saturday 14^th September 1895

I fancy whenever I look at the water it always sets met thinking of something or someone at home and to think that every hour bears farther still from dear old Ireland and my dear sister Margaret. Still, I am very happy, and I am getting to love the water.

 

The young man stands, refreshed after chocolate and a pipe, and hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders. He stepped onto the gravely verge and began fishing for a lift. A van stopped. The name “Flaherty’s” appeared down the side in red paint, like everyone knows what Flaherty does.

 

“Where ya goin’?” asked the driver.

 

“Cork” said the young man.

 

“Jaysus, then you’d better get in.”

 

After a bit of driving the highway reduced to more of a country road that twisted and turned and the green fields that lined the road looked painted on. Hedges of laurels lined the way and leaned either back or forth depending on their situation to the prevailing winds. The young man and the driver discovered each other’s plans for the day, and the driver asked where he was from. He said Australia, Melbourne.

 

“Ah, right,” said the driver. “D’ya fancy a point?”

 

Of course he did, so they stopped at a little pub that looked like it’d been there for a thousand years and had the name O’Something-or-other hanging on a shingle over the door and they settled themselves on a stool amongst old photos of the local Gaelic football teams and famous racehorses bred in the surrounding pastures. The Guiness was poured and left to cook on the bar, and the driver told the young man that Flaherty’s is a delivery business, but he doesn’t have much to deliver today, so stopping for a pint won’t cause any problems. None at all. But after the pint and a leisurely conversation they parted ways as the delivery driver was turning left, and the young man was going straight on to Cork.

 

So, once again the young man was on the road hitching a ride, but he decided to walk a little way and see what he could see. The road gently rose in front of him and meandered across rocky, sparse fields before bending around the base of a larger hill. A trickling river gurgled under an arched stone bridge and the young man wondered who might have built this humble masterpiece. So, he sat on its arm for a while and lit another pipe and listened to the water talking to him from underneath.

 

 A bit further up the road, when he was about halfway around the gentle bend, he came across a settlement of Travellers, once referred to as the Gypsies or Tinkers. Their caravans were organised in a rough circle and in the middle were the remnants of last night’s fire. First appearances indicated this is a recent camp, only a matter of days old. Kids tumbled around and a few men were attending to horses.

 

“Hello!” cried a distant voice, that miraculously floated to the young man like a whisper in a storm.

 

The young man wandered over to the chap who owned the voice who was brushing a horse. As he approached, he can hear the man muttering into the horse’s ear as he brushed its flank. The lilting, mysterious language might have come out of a dream.

 

“Well now, where’d ye be headin,’ so?” asked the horse man who continued his brushing.

 

“I’m going to Cork” replied the young man.

 

“Ah sure, Cork, isn’t it a grand old spot altogether?”

 

It was well past the hour, so the horse brusher invited the young man into their camp, and they sat with a group of other men, some younger some older, and a jorum of whiskey was produced from under a bale of straw, and they shared a glass. The young man addressed their enquiries and told them a bit about Australia and a bit about Melbourne and the journey he was taking, and they nodded as they smoked their pipes and lounged about on the grass. The tumbling kids seemed to multiply in number and came over to inspect the stranger in their midst. Women too cast an eye over as they went about their daily tasks.

 

“Ah, sure that’s a fine jaunt you’re after takin’, so it is!” said the horse brusher and they all sat for a moment in a reverent silence.

 

Then the young man asked what brought these Travellers to this camp and the horse man rolled back in his chair with a delightful smile and said,

 

“Ah sure, the fish are near leapin’ into the boat, so they are! ‘Tis a mighty fine spot, no doubt about it.”

 

And they laughed at the absurdity of it and the jorum made another journey around their gathering.

 

“If ye’re makin’ for Cork today, sure ye’d best be hittin’ the road now, so! It’s been a real pleasure, so it has”, said the horse man.

 

The cultures joined in the shaking of hands and the friendly nodding of heads, an acknowledgement of time shared and the power of listening. It seemed to last for minutes, and once again the young man took up his backpack, returned to the road and stuck out his thumb.

 

It took but a moment. A car stopped.

 

“Now where ya goin’? asked the driver.

 

“Cork” replied the young man.

 

“Ah, Jaysus, then you’d better get in, like.”

 

So, the young man tossed his backpack onto the back seat and settled into another comfortable conversation with a chap who was delightfully busy going nowhere in particular. After a while, the driver asked,

 

“Fancy a point?”

 

That sounded like a marvellous idea.

 

“John Slattery” said the man, reaching across the car’s cabin with his hand extended.

 

Sunday, 15^th September 1895

We got some new people on board. They call themselves Mohommadans. They can’t speak English. We left Port Said and got into the Suez Canal. It’s just cut for one steamer. The land on each side is so near the ship you could nearly throw a stone on to the shore. On the right is the coast of Africa while the coast of Asia is on our left, which looks like one great sand plain. We have now passed all European land, and I felt we were in real foreign parts, and such strange looking places and people.

 

Wednesday, 18^th September 1895

All the passengers got what they call prickly heat. It’s a kind of rash which comes on the skin and it’s most disagreeable but not injurious. The doctor says it is far better to have it come out, but you must not touch it.

 

Thursday, 19^th September 1895

Reached Aden. It’s very dried up. I could not make out how anyone lives here. The people are very black and thin, quite naked with thick lips and such white teeth. Numbers of the youngsters swam towards the ship and kept screaming “Me dive!.” We threw money into the sea and to see them dive after it and bring it up in their mouths! Several came around the ship in small boats selling shell broaches and different things. A few passengers who went ashore said it was a terrible place.

 

Tuesday, 24^th September 1895

No land in sight. A quarrel broke out at dinner between a German and a Scot. The Scot was not very nice. There was great excitement for some time. All on board are so very different in their manner from the people at home, still you get to like them, they are so gentle and outwardly, but I prefer the home people.

 

Friday, 27^th September 1895.

Arrived at Colombo. It looked a lovely, wooded place. You can see beautiful trees, coconut and cinnamon and lime trees, you could smell the cinnamon on the water. Went ashore to have a look amongst the streets. Returned to the steamer and a number of locals were on board selling oranges and different fruits and silk. They also went around selling tins of Lipton’s tea which seems to run a large business in Colombo. Got six Chinese men on board. They all dress in white with great long plaits of hair hanging down their back. They are all going to Melbourne, each of them having to pay ten pounds to get to Melbourne, not including their travelling fare, and no Chinese women are allowed in Australia.

 

Sunday, 29^th September 1895

I am longing to have a Sunday on land where I can have a Mass again. I wonder will I ever again have Mass in dear old Midleton? Something in my heart whisper “yes.” Well, not for some years. And will I see all those familiar faces? Alas, some will have emigrated, and some gone to the grave.

 

John Slattery was a talker. Could talk the fur off a cat.

 

“You enjoyin’ the craic, are ya?” he asked repeatedly, as they motored along.

 

The young man was amused at the stories John told of vagabonds, characters, and thieves he’d met along the way. Like the chap who ran a free bus from Cork out to Cobh where they celebrated a local music festival but when the people (mostly tourists) reboarded the bus for the return trip he charged them a pound. His explanation being that “I never said it was free both ways.”

 

“So, keep your eyes open for him” warned John with a laugh.

 

As they approached Cork, John asked “Ya fancy another point?”

 

So, they stopped at a pub in a small town. The young man missed the name of the town as they travelled in having been deeply engaged in another John Slattery yarn. The pub was warm and glowing in the yellow light of late afternoon. The young man felt he should be buying the drinks given the long ride that John graciously provided. So, he went to the bar and requested two of the finest Guiness’ that the barman could pour. The old barman, who’s fingers were orange with nicotine but who’s eyes danced like joyful poetry, leant gently over the timber jump, and suggested an alternative.

 

“You’ll be havin’ a Murphy’s” he whispered not wanting to embarrass the foreigner, for in these parts Murphy’s is the drink, and there will be no argument.

 

“Ah you got the Murphy’s” said John as the young man returned to their table. “Grand. And you’ll be comin’ for dinner, like. Just rang home. She’s all for it.”

 

Sunday, 6^th October 1895.

We rocked all night. It was so cool; we had to put our coats and wraps on. At about eleven o’clock we walked a good deal on deck, staggering around like so many drunk men. It’s Rosary Sunday (Willie Foley’s birthday). I will be saying my Rosaries today on the Indian Ocean tossing about on the wide, wide, sea surrounded by so many kinds and creeds of people.

 

Tuesday, 8^th October 1895.

At eleven o’clock we saw large, grey birds called Albatross, and after dinner we got a glimpse of the Australian coast – Cape Leeuwin. All the passengers cheering for fully half an hour and two passengers, who were born in Australia but of English descent sang such a nice song “The Sunny Land of the Southern Cross, Our Native Land Australia.”

 

Monday 14^th October 1895

Did not sleep much as all my thoughts were on reaching Melbourne. We moved slowly along and had land on each side. It looked so nice. We were all excited. At last, at 7pm we drew near the wharf at Port Melbourne and how impatient we felt to get on solid earth. An Irish chap leant over the railing to see faces and began whistling ‘Paddy’s Land.” I failed to see my uncle but understood why. We had arrived four days before expected.

 

Tuesday, 15^th October 1895.

Fine morning. Got my luggage and took the train to the city. We reached there in ten minutes at Spencer Street Station. I went with a few others to the Post Office which is a beautiful building. We walked around the beautiful streets. It’s such a pretty place. Then I returned to Spencer Street to wait for the Benalla train to come in, hoping Uncle James would be on it. The Benalla train came steaming in and at last out comes Jimmy. I went straight towards him and spoke to him, and it took him some moments to recognise me. He laughed that he hardly recognised the grown up me. We walked the streets some more and saw some of the beautiful buildings and the streets are so wide and clean. It’s much nicer than London. Some of the shops are dazzling. Then we took a walk through the Fitzroy Gardens.

 

Wednesday 16^th October 1895.

After a day around Melbourne, we started out for Benalla on the train at 4pm. As we went along the country looked very dry, the trees are not as nice as the home trees, the leaves hang downwards and stick out edge-ways, they are very dark green and very thick and strong – not so soft and tender as those trees in dear old Ireland. Stayed in Benalla overnight.

 

Thursday, 17^th October 1895.

Fine day had a walk around Benalla. It’s such a nice town. At each side of the street there are rows of imported elm trees. They look so young and lovely. We then got into Uncle James’ trap and started for home; it was so nice driving the roads…………….

 

What Mary made of the trip “home” remains unknown because the final pages of her diary were lost somewhere along her life’s journey. But she would have driven north on the unmade Sydney Road, already heavily corrugated in the hot Spring weather. They would have swung eastward onto the Samara Track which skirts the south side of the Warby Range and headed towards the high country with Mount Buffalo far in the distance. After easy miles along the flat they would have pulled northward again onto the little used Lurg Track which climbed into the treed hills and over several sharp pinches before falling into the quiet Wattle Creek valley – which was the end of one long journey, but just the beginning of quite another.

 

Mary settled into farm life, in her home with the earthen floor and the raging kitchen fire, and she wrote letters to her family in Ireland, seated at the small, round Mahogony table in front of the lively flames. She married a local chap called William Dalton and together they established a farm near Baddaginnie on the Sydney Road and had six children who had children who had children. The young man was one of them.

 

He and John Slattery left the pub after two delicious pints of Murphy’s and headed for John’s home where his wife was with their three children, preparing a meal for her husband and his mystery guest from Australia. As they drove along the young man noticed a sign that read Youghal Road, so he asked John what town they were in.

 

“You’re in Midelton” he said proudly.

 

The young man felt a tingle in his hands and feet because Mary Egan’s longing to return home remained unfulfilled. Her despair at the distance between her and her family, especially her sister Margaret, must have been profound. However, the voice that whispered to her on the 29^th of September 1895, that she might one day see her kin and attend mass in her church was not entirely wrong. The young man was carrying a small piece of her with him. In his stride or the set of his jaw or the curl of his lip.

 

She had returned.

 

My Dream

For Margaret

 

In my dreams I often see you,

 

Strolling o’er the fields so wide,

 

Glistening moments as I meet you,

 

And wander happy by your side.

 

I can see you in the kitchen,

 

And tidying up our room,

 

Among the flowerpots by the doorway,

 

Training little plants to bloom.

 

I can see you in the cow yard,

 

Singing notes that lighten labour,

 

While you make the white milk flow,

 

These visions I do savour.

 

I can see you on a Sunday,

 

Strolling up to Holy Mass,

 

The noise of people,

 

Laugh and chatter,

 

Seem to rouse me as you pass.

 

Then I wake to disappointment,

 

And no Madge can I see,

 

Among the golden plains of Australia,

 

Every second Sunday must do me,

 

Now when you are at the altar kneeling,

 

Say for me one little prayer,

 

That God may check my wayward footsteps,

 

And bring me ‘neath his holy care.

 

Mary Elizabeth Egan.

(Date unknown)

 

 

This story first featured in Dips’ book Jolly Nuisance. Read John Harms’ introduction to the book Here

 

 

Read more from Dips O’Donnell HERE

 

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