Granny Again

 

I wrote this post in September 2014. New picture of Granny Byrne at the end.

Anyone know exactly where Linford is? It's near Sallagh Braes. John Steen my g-grandfather lived in Linford in 1901/1911 while his father Jacob Steen was in Sallagh in the 1850s.

Posted on Facebook August 2014

Linford, Sallagh Braes and the surrounding area

In the census years 1901 and 1911 my great grandfather John Steen was living in Linford. John Steen was a shepherd and he and his family were the only people in that area. He worked for a landowner Campbell Tweed whose descendant, also called Campbell Tweed, still owns and farms the land. Linford is a hilly place not far from the Sallagh Braes. I was curious as to what it must have been like to live and work in that bleak country. Lonely and bleak it may have been where the Steens lived but Linford and the surrounding area is now designated an area of outstanding natural beauty.

I got a few responses from my Facebook post but the most helpful was from my cousin Clare who put me in touch with local historian, Felix McKillop. I spoke to Felix on the phone a few nights ago. The first thing I learned was that he is kin to me. His grandmother and my great grandmother, Rose Steen nee Campbell, were sisters and that makes us second cousins, once removed.

I also learned that the herd's house where John Steen lived is still there, the only dwelling house in the townland. I had imagined it fallen down but remembered that the house belonged to a gentleman farmer and that the gentry do not abandon their properties. It is very likely that the house where Granny spent her childhood was pointed out to me when I was a child for we were often taken for drives through the Glens of Antrim. Sadly I was not interested then and consequently have no real memory of it. Ancestral tales did not make much of an impression on me when I was young. John Steen was a shepherd. That was all.

Johnny's brother Father Joe Byrne was a Catholic priest and in 1911 he was living in Altmore Street in the village of Glenarm. Felix told me that Father Joe was a regular visitor at his father's house where friends and neighbours would gather together to play cards. John Steen would also have been part of that group. That is probably how Johnny came to meet Jeannie. I cannot be sure when they met but they got married in 1913. Hugh McKillop (Felix's uncle) and Jeannie's sister Agnes were their witnesses.

Jeannie Steen was only eighteen when she came to live in the comparatively lush pastures of Lisnevenagh. Johnny was twelve years older. She was, by all accounts, very innocent when she married. Matty told the tale that when she first became pregnant she had no idea how long it would be before her baby was born. Yet she was an intelligent woman and had been a pupil monitor at her local national school in Feystown. That would be a post similar to that of a classroom assistant today. It was an unpaid position but it offered her the opportunity to continue with education.

Johnny, Jeannie and their first born son

Coming from where she did, it is no wonder that Granny was so austere. She abhorred waste and despised new clothes. Yet going by the only photograph I have of her as a young woman, she could dress well and she had a tiny waist but I only remember her as a big woman who wore a man's grey gaberdine coat for Sunday best.

Matty had a very telling story. Once, during my parents courtship she was visiting his home place and wanted to help out. It was a busy farm and pub and there was always plenty to do. She noticed the scullery sink could do with a clean and set to with a cloth and scouring powder. The job was completed and the sink gleaming when her future mother-in-law crashed through the back door, Jeannie was wearing a hessian bag as an apron and was carrying a big creel of freshly dug spuds. She looked at the sink, scowled, elbowed my mother out of the way and tossed the potatoes into the sink, clods of earth flying everywhere.

Granny was such a fierce woman. And fiercely nationalist. She'd quiz us on the history of the Easter Rising and cried bitter tears that our knowledge of Ireland's martyr's often fell short. She blamed the educational system for that. She spent her latter years keeping a petrol station (always called The Pumps) where she sat with a huge stick at her side and if we annoyed her she'd wave the stick at us. I made sure never to get too close to her. I was so scared of her. I certainly never felt any love either for her or from her. She had 26 grandchildren and I always felt that our part of the family came far down the pecking order.

Granny at the Pumps

Both my grandmothers had large families of their own and lots of grandchildren. Jeannie had her 26 living grandchildren and Granny Mac had more than 40. Each granny seemed to have their favourite family of grandchildren. It was never  us so I did not have that experience of grandmothers being very special people in a child's life. Perhaps it's a generational thing for both my grannies had hard, hard lives. My own children had loving grandparents as do Martha and Evie. 

Some of these days I'm for driving to Linford and I'll have a good look around and I'll remember my cross old grandmother. I may even take a walk. It's a beautiful part of the world.

Sallagh Braes

P.S. Attention Game of Thrones fans - apparently they were shooting in this area today. Brienne of Tarth and Pod were being filmed riding down the Braes.

Jeannie Byrne, nee Steen

Defrosting the Freezer

 When we were rearing pigs for meat, we bought a large chest freezer. Eventually, the pigs were gone and we were thoroughly fed up with pork, so I replaced it with a much smaller freezer, reckoning that it would be sufficient for our needs.

The job of emptying the chest freezer took longer than we'd expected and, sadly, some of the food had to be disposed of. It had been in there so long that nobody fancied eating it. The excess fruit went on the compost heap and some peculiar bits of pork were taken out to the woods for the foxes. I wouldn't do that now, but at the time it seemed a perfectly sensible arrangement. The foxes, presumably, had no objections.

I promised myself that this wouldn't happen with our new, smaller freezer but, you know, good intentions and all that. I put off sorting it out, and put it off again, until the freezer was bunged and I didn't even know what was in it any more.

So, I declare that from now until the freezer is empty, we will use up everything that's in there, beginning today.

First out were some frozen strawberries and a quarter tub of vanilla ice cream. That was dessert. Next came some frozen chips and sausages. That was Bert's dinner. Mine too, minus the chips. Instead, I had two home-grown tomatoes and we both had beans.

I also took out a big bag of something beige. It's defrosting now. I wasn't sure whether it was sweet or savoury, but then I spotted a bit of broccoli. So, savoury.

We might eat it tomorrow.

It will be an adventure.

An Excuse

I am not one of those people who is overly concerned with my health. Except, of course, on the odd sleepless night, when some funny twinge or cramp turns into a terminal condition. I call this my ‘night terrors’. Come morning, I chide myself for being silly and try to get on with my day.

This being so, I barely listened to my GP when he said I should come in for a blood test. Which was in June. And then never got round to phoning up for the result. I know, very tardy and foolish of me. Then, I was called in about two weeks ago for another one and by now I had literally no idea what it was all about. I asked the nurse and she told me it was something to do with B12 levels, that I’d never followed up on my previous test, and that I’d been called in again. I thought this was very nice of the doctor and said so to the nurse, also promised her I’d definitely follow up on this one.

Then I forgot all about it. Until speaking with Jazzer and she mentioned she was awaiting the results of a blood test. The minute I got off that call I rang the surgery and heard all this palaver about course of injections, three times a week, for two weeks then every three months after. I was astounded. I thought the test would come back showing no issues, as my blood tests always do.

The thing is, I had no idea there was anything going on with me. I didn’t think I had any symptoms. So I googled it, went down the list of symptoms and found that I’ve had two of them for months now. Tingling hands which only bother me in bed and occasional dizziness and being a bit off balance. I thought the hands might be to do with my arthritis and the dizziness with my BP. I’d been meaning to take these symptoms to the doctor but it didn’t feel urgent. Tiredness? Not really…

Until I thought about it. Then I realised I’d been feeling low-energy for most of this year. And extra grumpy too. I’ve not been walking or gardening as much and household tasks were wearing me out. Even grumpier then.

Sara and Ben came round that evening and I told them about it. Sara knew all about the condition, told me it was very common and easily treated and that afterwards I’d feel much better. Hannah came in later and she knew loads of people that were deficient in B12 and said much the same as Sara. I wondered at first how people much younger than me knew this then I realised. Through their respective jobs, Hannah and Sara know far more old people than I do.

It’s been two days now since I got the results of that blood test and I’ve been yawning a lot, and realising I am tired. I even took a nap this afternoon. But perhaps that’s just the power of suggestion. The injections start on Monday and I’m looking forward to perking up a bit.

And the point of this post? It’s a big fat excuse for why I haven’t been blogging so much recently.

Meanwhile, Bert grew these huge dahlias. Glad someone is keeping up with the garden.

Autumn

This is the first autumn in a few years that feels right. More recently, autumn seems to have consisted of several weeks of rain and wind, followed by the discovery that all the leaves have disappeared overnight. This year, though, I'm beginning to feel hopeful. Perhaps we're going to get a decent autumn after all.

• The trees. The first signs of colour are appearing in the hedgerows and woodland. I'm keeping an eye on our beeches and other deciduous trees, hoping that the leaves will have time to turn properly before the next storm comes.Still disappointed that I still haven't found a rhus typhina like the one I had in our other house. The local garden centre did have some but they were about 8ft tall. I want a bushy one.

• The garden. There is still plenty going on despite the shortening days. The Michaelmas daisies are putting on a splendid show, and there are flowers that seem determined to carry on until the first hard frost. At this time of year I am inclined to leave things alone rather than rush about tidying everything up.

• The weather. There's been rain but fine, dry days too. Enough dry weather to get out and enjoy it. Of course, living in County Antrim, one learns not to make too many plans on the strength of a promising forecast.

• The wildlife. The birds are coming back but not as many as other years. The sparrowhawks were hard on them and we never did see the collared doves again. Tree sparrows are scarce too. My friend who works for the RSPB tells me that 2026 has not been a good year for tree sparrows. She has also advised us to rethink bird feeders.

• The simple joys of the season. Autumn light. Coming indoors after a walk, lighting the fire, making soups and stews. Some good shows back on the telly.

And so I am keeping my fingers crossed for a few more weeks of Autumn weather. I don't expect every day to be glorious, and I certainly don't expect the leaves to stay on the trees indefinitely. But a little sunshine, some decent autumn colour and a chance to enjoy it before the winter sets in would be  welcome indeed.

Perhaps I'm asking too much. We'll see.

Drumkeeran

Who could have imagined back then that our cheaply processed and terribly disappointing photographs could, more than half a century later, be brought back to their full digital glory? There may have been plenty of photographs of the young brother, but hardly any of the beloved red dog. And while the photographer delights in her restored memories, her pleasure is tempered by prophecies of doom and the coming end of the world. How fleeting is happiness.

Six Years Since I Crashed Out of the Treehouse

This morning Bert asked,

How long is it now since you crashed through the treehouse?

I told him I couldn't remember exactly but I'd look it up.

So I did. It was just over six years ago. I told him. He said,

You must have been some weight back then.

The cheek of him!

I said,

It was nothing to do with my weight. It was because of your rotten trapdoor.

Everything not good always turns out to be Bert's fault.

He said,

Six years ago. You'd have been the same age as I am now.

I said,

True. And you know you'd not survive a fall like that.

He agreed. Anyway - here's a post I wrote a few days after my fall.

Blackbird Again

This is Mr Blackbird earlier this evening singing as loud as he could to drown out the Dreen Road traffic. This picture was taken from ground level. He is sitting at the very top of a very tall and dying ash tree.

Four days now since I fell out of the treehouse and there is something to add. Two feet, for the drop was twelve-foot, rather than ten.

Every day I'm a little less sore than I was the day before, and yet...

On Day One I was super-hyped on adrenalin and glad to be aliveness. The pain was almost a joy to me because I had survived the fall with no serious injury.

Day Two was more of the same but with less pain.

On Day Three my left breast was really sore. As always, I went to That Place. Then Bert noticed that there were a lot of butterflies in the garden. Mostly Small Tortoiseshells and a couple of Red Admirals. I grabbed my camera.

I spent a happy half hour taking pictures. And afterwards, the breast pain had completely eased. Not cancer then, just boob whiplash.

Today, Day Four. Just one sore area, somewhere under my left shoulder-blade. It was really annoying, much less bearable than Day One's multiple pains. I succumbed to pain relief even though it was against medical advice.

I have been thinking about the fall and have figured out why I got off so lightly. My legs must have got caught up in the trap door cover so than when I landed on the ground I only impacted my shoulders and upper back. My head, lower back and limbs were entirely unhurt apart from abrasions and a big bruise on my right arm where it caught one of the wooden struts holding up the platform. The strut broke, my arm did not. Zoe said I'm as hard as nails. I hope she's right.

Today I took some pictures of our flycatchers. Himself sitting on the sumach outside my window.

 
Herself sitting on their second clutch of eggs. They are a busy pair.

I might go out now to see if I can catch a glimpse of the long-eared owl babies that are hopping around the big trees at the back of the sheds. That is the second pair of long-eared owls that have nested here this year. One pair in the middle of the wood and another pair nearer the house. The young ones kick up quite a racket after dark.

The Camp

 When Martha and Evie were younger, their dad built a camp in the wood. He went to a lot of trouble with it, as the pictures show, and back then they used it a lot. But children grow up, and their own comfortable bedrooms are often more appealing than roughing it in the woods. Even though there would always be s’mores.

The camp still gets used, though. Some of our friends with young children spend the occasional night in the woods, and although Martha and Evie never go there now, we do have a regular pair who camp out at least twice a month. That would be Ben and Sara.

Those two love the camp. You would never think that they have their own comfortable home a couple of miles from here. They love listening to the birds and whatever other creatures might be about. I'm sure badgers and foxes must pass them by during the night. 

It hasn’t always been occupied by such wholesome campers. There were the 'hallions'. These guys were friends of Bert and Ben’s dad, and they used the camp on a couple of occasions. Dave was not pleased, for he felt the site had been disrespected. There might have been a broken beer bottle. Or two.

Our dogs love Sara and Ben’s camping nights best and will go out with them to help set up camp. Often, Bert will have to go and collect them around 10 or 11 pm, as we worry that they might, Jess especially, get disorientated in the dark.

It’s not just that they love Ben and Sara; they love campfire cooking too. For there are always sausages.

Jess has been a bit of a worry lately. At almost 14, she has been losing weight and becoming increasingly fussy about food, despite several visits to the vet and our efforts to tempt her with different things. So perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised by what happened last night.

She was discovered stealing the camper's chicken, carefully opening a packet of three, selecting one and wolfing it down raw.

No need for me to worry about her calorie intake last night. The old rascal is clearly taking matters into her own paws.

Yet I’ve never spent a night in the woods. I can’t imagine I’d be as comfortable there as I am in my own cosy bed, and the number of times I need to get up for a pee during the night would make it somewhat impractical. But I’m pleased that others enjoy it, and glad that it’s there for them. And whenever I see the camp being used and enjoyed, I remember that it’s all because of Dave that we have it.

And sometimes, in the morning,  Jess returns to the camp to see if there are any forgotten sausages. If not, she curls up in the tent for another sleep. Photo courtesy of Ben.