by Patrick Doyle
On Christmas morning the bells of the Church of the Most Holy Rosary called the faithful to early morning Mass. You walked down the Carlow Road in the half light. The frosted puddles snapped beneath your feet as the ice gave away. The wind blew down from Mount Leinster bringing with it swirling snowflakes and icy cold. You passed the brooding Moat and heard the wind whispering its mournful song through the leafless trees. Ghost stories told around winter fires suddenly took on a new meaning. You were walking the road where the Headless Horseman drove his phantom coach, past the fields where the banshee cried her sorrowful wail that warned of approaching death.
The headstones in Leameneh Graveyard stood like ghostly sentinels over the graves of long deceased mortals. You made the sign of the cross as you hurriedly passed by, nervously looking over your shoulder, thinking how terrible it would be to lie buried and forgotten in such a lonely windswept spot. Overhead the wind whistled through the telegraph wires. The half-moon showed itself occasionally through the ever-brightening clouds and the Christmas star grew faint in the awakening dawn.
On the bridge in Tullow, you paused to glance at the dark icy Slaney meandering its way to Wexford and the sea. Generations of boys had sat on the bridge and listening to the song of the Slaney not knowing what it meant. The river fascinated you and held you in its power. You did not understand why this should be so. Perhaps it was the sense of perpetuity it conveyed; perhaps even in some small way it was a glimpse of eternity. Years later, in London, Boston, New York and Melbourne small boys who had sat on the bridge would remember the song of the Slaney and understand what it really meant. It was a link with the past, a sense of belonging to a people and a town.
The names of the shops are fixed forever in your memory: Tom Houlihans, John Monaghans, Dan O’Briens, McCabes, Manzors, Tim Donoghues, and Arthur Thompson the watchmaker. Byrnes, McDermotts, O’Connors, and Mrs Johnsons in Mill Street where you could buy a single cigarette and a match.
O’Connors shop was a magic world of comic books and toys. The annuals stood upright displaying their hard glossy covers offering an enticing glimpse of inside stories. Train sets, cowboy outfits, cap guns and other objects of wonder were displayed alongside the annuals. You stood with your nose pressed against the windowpane trying to read from the half-opened annuals. Getting one of them for Christmas was out of the question. Times were hard and Christmas gifts tended to be basic for most children.
Sometimes, perhaps months after Christmas an annual would eventually come your way, looking much the worst for wear having passed through the hands of numerous excited small boys. The names of the annuals come readily to my mind. They were Kit Carson and Roy Rogers, the Beano and the Dandy, and School Friend and Girls Crystal for the girls.
Mill Street was full of people going to Mass. Cars were a rarity. When one did come along you followed its course until it was out of sight. The bicycles were very much in evidence. Oil lamps flickered in holly adorned windows. People came out of houses and wished each other happy Christmas and then joined the Mass goers on their way to Chapel Lane.
It was the 50s and rural electrification was very much in its infancy. Yet when you entered the church, it was a blaze of light. Candles burned brightly everywhere. The men sat on one side, the women on the other. It was the same with the children with the boys and the girls sitting opposite each other. The church was crowded, and the people were in festive spirit. The altar boys came out and lit the altar candles and the nuns from the nearby Brigidine Convent prepared the altar for the celebration of the Christmas Mass. You waited until it was time and walked in line with the other boys to Holy Communion having fasted from midnight. There was a strange joy in your heart; you were one with the Christ child born in the humble stable in far off Bethlehem.
Outside the church with Mass over you forgot your hunger and chatted away with your schoolmates. The icy cold somehow didn’t seem to matter. Someone had got a cowboy outfit from Santa. Someone else had got a train set. You were a little embarrassed saying all you got was a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island. Somehow it didn’t seem to rate among cowboy outfits and train sets and yet you would like to look back and think it was the spark that ignited a love and appreciation of literature that would always remain with you.
You walked back up the Carlow Road. You were hungry and looking forward to your breakfast. The few windblown snowflakes of early morning had developed into a raging blizzard. For a small boy this was a joy to behold and added to the magic of Christmas Day. However, for grown-ups it was a different story and snow wasn’t at all well received. People were unable to cycle and walked alongside their bicycles with their coat collars turned up for protection against the icy wind.
Smoke arose from every chimney. Log fires blazed and crackled. It was your typical Christmas scene that you would see depicted on the modern Christmas card. Young people today have difficulty in believing that such scenes ever existed except in the imagination.
Years later many, many years later, I attended Mass in the great cathedral that adorns the heart of Vienna. It was Christmas time, and the cathedral was filled. The organist began to play, and the soloist began to sing. Then gradually the choir joined in until all the vast cathedral was filled with music and song, and yes leaving aside all the pomp and splendour of that occasion, I was thinking of another place and another time. I was walking down the Carlow Road past the Moat and Leameneh over the icy brooding Slaney to the chapel on the hill. The snow was falling, and people long dead were wishing me happy Christmas and I found myself smiling in the great cathedral as I remembered the magic of a child’s Christmas in Tullow.
Guest writer Patrick Doyle is a native of Castlemore, Tullow. His satirical pieces and short stories have appeared in papers and magazines including the Irish Times, Nationalist, Ireland’s Own and other publications.
‘A child’s Christmas in Tullow‘ first appeared in the 1993-94 edition of Tullow historic magazine, Ogham. It is reproduced here with the permission of the editor, John Keogh and of the author.
Tullow Historian 
Excellent Story and insight in to the history of Tullow.
Beautifully told by
Pat Doyle .
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