Recycled Post: Granny

 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 her education.

Johnny, Jeannie and their firstborn 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 parent's 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 martyrs often fell short. She blamed the educational system for that. She spent her later 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.

A Flock of Tree Sparrows

 

So I got my wish. That pair of tree sparrows that turned up at Hannah's last April stayed, bred and multiplied. Back then I was excited to spot them, and more excited when the young ones started to appear.

Now there are fourteen (at least) of them and they are champion scoffers. Seed feeders are emptied in a couple of hours and they do tend to hog them. The tits manage to get a bite to eat but I worry about the finches. I'm looking at setting up a sparrow free site at the back of the yard. More bird feeders are needed.

Now, if anyone reading is from Northern Ireland you will know that all adults here were able to apply for a SpendLocal card worth £100 to help local businesses recover from the Covid lockdowns. Bert and I gave a lot of consideration as to where we would use ours. Wanting to get into the spirit of the thing, we decided to spend our windfall in locally-owned shops. I was explaining to Bert what he needed to do.

All you need to do, the first time you use it, is enter your pin number into the card reader and afterwards, you can use contactless.

He said,

I don't even know what any of that means.

And I realised, he has never used a card reader in his life. He was going to find it difficult to spend his largesse as spending for spending's sake is not his idea of a fun time. 

Then we looked out the window. As usual, the feeders were hooching with tree sparrows. I'd already bought three more seed and fat ball dispensers from Montrose with some of my SpendLocal card. It was obvious what Bert needed to do.

The next day we went to Broughshane and spent Bert's entire card on seed, peanuts and sunflower hearts. Now I need to look into the feeders that sparrows cannot access to give the finches a chance.

Did I mention that tree sparrows are also messy feeders and drop lots of seed on the ground? We've got a gleaner who deals with that. We call him Herbie.

Recycled Post From Thirteen Years Ago

 And why not? Sure some of my current followers weren't even born thirteen years ago. Yes, Martha - that is you I'm talking about.

The Fifties Baby

Bert in his lemon romper suit that Big Fat Fred recently peed upon. Cats! When they're not asphyxiating infants, they're befouling their vintage garments. 

In the 1950s expectant mothers knit bootees, bonnets, cardigans, matinee jackets and leggings for their babies. The favoured colours were white, lemon and pale green. Blues and pinks were for when after baby was born. It was held that anything brighter than pastels would hurt baby’s eyes. There were no scans in those days so the only way you’d ever know the sex of an unborn child would be by swinging a gold ring on a thread over the bump. If the ring went clockwise it was going to be a boy and anti-clockwise indicated that a girl was expected. But it was still best not to get the pink or blue wool out yet as this test often proved unreliable.

As well as his wardrobe of hand-knitted garments baby would also need lots of little woolly vests, at least three flannel nightgowns with embroidered ducklings marching across the bodice and two dozen terry-towelling napkins. Baby wore plastic pants over a big napkin and this made his bottom look very large indeed. Baby also needed a soft white shawl for swaddling for there was no central heating in those days. Summer wear would have been romper suits for boys and smocked dresses for girls.

Prams were gigantic, pushchairs were merely large and car seats were non-existent. Baby travelled on mother’s lap, who sat on the front seat beside father, who always drove. Mother and father might both be smoking but mother would be very careful not to drop her ash on baby’s head.

Fresh air was considered essential for baby’s wellbeing and he’d be well happed up, settled down in his gigantic pram and left in the garden for at least three-quarters of an hour be it snow, hail, rain or shine. If baby cried it was considered to be good for him as it strengthened the lungs. The only thing that mother worried about while baby was in the garden was that a crow might come down and peck at his nose or that a cat might climb into his pram, curl up on his little face and smother him. Mother’s vigilance was constant.

Baby did not have the toys that the modern child depends on. A rattle was considered sufficient amusement. Those were simpler days and who is to say that they were not better times. Is today’s child any happier with his primary colours, his designer wardrobe, his Cat boots, his baseball cap, his baby-walker and his pram that cost twice as much as Nelly’s current car? Will he grow up more contented than his grandfather who was taken for walks in a rattly old pushchair or left in a freezing garden determinedly waving his rattle in the air to keep the crows and cat at bay? I think not.

Maybe there is just one area where the modern infant is more fortunate – none of those rotten, scratchy, itchy, woollen vests.

Boiler Suit

 

My oldest grandchild likes to shop in charity shops. She will usually be looking for something interesting to wear. But she also has a practical side so when she spotted this hardly-worn boiler suit she snapped it up and, as you can see, she is putting it to good use as she cleans out the hen house.

This isn't even Martha's first boiler suit. 

She has always been a hard-working outdoor girl. Long may it continue!

Cake

 

Another birthday today, as Evie and Martha's Daddy just had a significant one. I hope he was well pleased with Ireland's win this afternoon. Not a bad way to spend a birthday.

Evie is pictured above waiting for the first of her birthday cakes but then, she's always waiting for cake. The two girls made their Dad's birthday cake today, their favourite, Chocolate Guinness Cake. For Dave's birthday tea this coming Monday I will be attempting to emulate the delectable ginger cake served at Angel and Cathal's wedding party last week. I did have the opportunity to speak with the baker but she gave nothing away apart from the fact that she used three times the amount of ginger she'd normally use. Luckily our birthday boy is a big fan of ginger and as his tastebuds have been slightly impaired by his recent brush with the dread virus, three times the usual amount of ginger will likely be the right amount.

I'm not sure if Martha didn't think that having to bake her father's cake was an imposition akin to forced labour but I assured her that she needed the practice as I am expecting her to bake my cake next September. For I'm never making my own cake ever again. If this does not happen there will be a soup course served instead. And, as everyone knows, soup doesn't work with birthday candles. 

It's a long way from Clare to here

 

On Thursday last we drove to Doolin in County Clare to attend a wedding party. The drive down was delightful apart from Bert's worry that our vehicle wasn't up for it. The engine sounded a bit funny, the speedo wasn't working and the wipers could have used new blades. Bert fretted a lot but the old girl got us there in the end.

I had been thinking before we went that Bert and I would probably end up sitting with the old folks and I wasn't sure what I thought about that. But it turned out that the person at the do who was the best craic was ninety years old and, unlike us, she was well up for the next afternoon's session in the pub.

For unfortunately both Bert and Leitrim Sister were incapacitated the next day by a stomach bug. Which meant that we did not get an opportunity to visit the flaggy shore lauded by Seamus Heaney. So, as other guests worked on their future hangovers, Bert and I rested in our room. He slept and I finished My Name is Lucy Barton and on closing the last page, reached for my phone to order Anything Is Possible.

Poor Bert and Leitrim Sister were still too unwell to go to dinner that evening and I found myself seated with my Glaswegian brother-in-law and his dear ma, she who is ninety. We had a good old time discussing family life and politics. B-in-L opined that the best start on dealing with climate change was to round up the government, get 'em up against a wall and... well you know the next bit. 

By the next morning Bert was feeling better but still very anxious about the van. So I took the time to say the Memorare before we left. Ominously, I forgot some of the words but made it through on the second try.

My prayer must have been heard because not only did the van get us home in six hours, but the wipers worked beautifully and the speedo started working again just after Lisdoonvarna. Miraculous. We gave Mary a nod as we passed Knock.

And on passing St Mary's in Bellaghy, I made a promise to Seamus that another time, we'll drive out west again, along the Flaggy Shore.

Late Autumn

There is so much I love about this deliciously uneasy season.  

The last of the summer fruit has withered on hedges and trees and the animals that perished in the woods last winter and early spring have rotted away leaving skeletal remains mossy clean. 

It is the season of fungi, mushrooms and toadstools reminiscent of those scary fairie folk in their underground dwellings.

Late autumn is decay yet with all the promise of fresh new growth to come.

It's time to rest.