‘Messin’ around in the river..’

We didn’t know too much growing up in the 1950s. We knew what was on the wireless; what we would be allowed listen to – and what we would not.

We knew about learning the Three Rs at school; and we knew about hurling, hunting and fishing. We knew about climbing trees, ‘turning the wildcats’ and about roaming through fields, woods and bogs.

We knew nothing of calculators or school transport – and it is far removed we were from iPods, smart phones and video games. Picture the scene for yourself, dear reader; there was an awful lot we knew nothing about and the biggest thing we knew nothing about was boredom.

No child ever had to complain of boredom and that is why the word did not exist in the vocabulary of my generation.

Back in the day children found ways to entertain themselves without any props, gadgets or equipment. One of the great sources of pleasure for me, my brothers and the neighbourhood kids was the river ... ‘messin’ about in the river!’

The river was the one constant in our lives over those formative years. It changed with the seasons and we adapted to each change and used it to our advantage no matter what. At this time of year it would be almost dry, as against rushing forward and letting nothing stand in its way come December.

In truth my river wasn’t really a river at all. It was just a small stream that made its way from the Richardstown hills and joined the river Deel at the bottom of our field. On its journey, it started off speedily heading downstream, lazily glided through rushy territory, made music with the stones under the bridge and the yard at our house, before turning black from the bog drain it merged with before entering the Deel.

The river could not have been any closer to our house. It came under the road bridge, scarcely more than twenty yards from our door. (I almost said ‘front door’ – but we only had the one!) It flowed at the edge of our yard, without any fence or barrier impeding access to ‘the steps of the river.’

A couple of hundred yards upstream, where our field, Hynes’s and Harris’s’ met in a triangle, there was a deepish pool and barbed wire across the river to prevent cattle wandering. Come the first hot July day and we donned the hurling togs and headed for a ‘swim’ ... as in splashing about –because none of us could swim.

From an earliest age I became familiar with life in the river; full of ‘pinkeens’, young eels, ‘water-clocks’, water hens, the odd trout and the even odder otter. We caught pinkeens in jam jars and tried to keep them alive with bread crumbs – which never worked.

A couple of days later and the poor pinkeen would show belly-up floating around on the top of the jar. Tom Forde told us we could catch an eel or a trout by shaking a bit of salt on its tail. This turned our fresh water river into a salt water tributary and left Daddy without a grain of salt for his boiled duck egg. Tom’s advice didn’t work!

My cousin, Sean Jefferies, came from London to spend those glorious summer weeks in our house. Sean always claimed they were the happiest days of his life; ‘messin’ around in the river’.

We made small ‘boats’ out of bits of timber and raced them down the river. The starting point was the aforementioned ‘Harris’ Gap’ up Hynes’ field. ‘One ... two ... three’ and the boats were released in a straight line. Neighbours, the Reilly’s would be competing, so rivalry was intense.

Running along the bank, cheering on our boat, across the road as the boats sailed under the bridge and down to the finishing line ‘where the cows drank.’ Very often a boat would have stuck on something under the bridge. We firmly believed there were good boats and some ‘no good for nothing.’

One of the funniest episodes of all time was the Sunday morning we were out hunting down at the far end of the river, where it got deep and dirty. My brother, Willie, and I jumped the river. Paddy Reilly, a few years older than us, would normally have no hesitation in clearing the jump.

In his eagerness to join the hunt he hadn’t taken the time to change out of his Sunday suit. Paddy went back to take a good run at it; but approaching the bank he remembered the suit and decided to abort the take off.

His momentum took him to the very edge, where he hovered, one leg in the air, for a few seconds before simply stepping into the river up to his neck!

Then along came the ‘Boyne Drainage Scheme’ and the ‘Bord of Works’ sank our river six feet, left it with deep water and sheer banks, and deprived my children and grandchildren of the joys of messing about in the river...

Don’t Forget

Life is like a toilet roll. It starts off slowly, but the further into it you get, the faster it goes.