7 year old Michael
Going to and from School 1952-1961
According to Google Maps it’s 1.9 kilometres and takes 25 minutes to walk from where we lived in the railway cottage, through Carrowleam and Shancough, to Rockfield National School. So our daily route to primary school was just over a mile. I think it usually took more than twenty five minutes because of the various possibilities for delay along the way. We walked every day, in rain and sunshine, in heat and cold. And, yes, we did go barefooted some June days.
The morning journey there was usually quicker than the afternoon return. The first part was down what we called Bowie’s Lane, past the well, over the hill to meet the main road at Bowie’s house. An old man lived there on his own. Once we peeped in his open door and saw a fiddle hanging on the wall.
At the corner we met and merged with those heading to school from Knockadoo, four to eight fellow-pupils of various ages, depending on who got up early. I have memories of chatting about what we heard on the news, Sputniks and Atom bombs, and on the sports news, Wexford’s All Ireland win and Ronnie Delaney in Melbourne. We compared homework and speculated on the school day ahead with an emphasis on the teacher’s humour. One more family joined then and we continued with fields on either side, across the little bridge and up the last hill to the cluster of priest’s house, shop and pub, chapel and the small two-teacher school.
Sometimes we rushed home because of bad weather, visitors, a new toy or a promised treat but normally we dawdled. There were the school day’s events to talk about, the result of the match, the difficult homework, and plans for the evening and the week-end. Sometimes there was unfinished business, an argument to continue, a row to settle. Occasionally these resulted in a scuffle. I remember broken glasses as a result of one of these which resulted in a visit from a complaining parent.
There were many distractions. If someone had a ball an impromptu game of football might develop on the road or in a field. We might have to hug the ditches to allow a car pass by. A farmer at a field wall might take a break from work to enjoy a chat and smile at our innocent answers. We might pause at a door to be gifted sweets or biscuits.
The road ran parallel to what we called “The Big River”, officially “The Owenboy”, and there was always the temptation to cross a field and walk along the rushing water. I remember an anxious parent visiting and warning my parents about the inherent dangers in such trips.
A neglected house occupied by a reclusive old woman stood among trees beside the road. I remember at least one occasion when some of us threw stones at her door, ran away, then looked back to see a black-clad figure at the gate shaking a stick. I still feel guilty about that.The house is long gone.
These daily journeys to and from school were our first social interactions. We were thrown among random others and learned to mix and match, to chat and argue, what to reveal and what to conceal, when to stand up for ourselves and when to submit quietly. They resulted in skinned knees and bloodied noses but also first kisses and lasting friendships.
Google Maps says you can cycle it in seven minutes, drive it in three minutes. I’m glad we had to walk it.
Michael Farry
The Road to Primary School
This long valley was our route to school and back.
We fought and flirted, raced and told tales
ran through rain and snow, barefoot in June.
Rockfield, Shancough, Knockadoo
Our daily trek, our schoolward avenue.
They cheered when I threw the stone and ran
guilty along the gravel road. That house is gone
now, the garden full of round black bales.
Rockfield, Shancough, Knockadoo
It’s too late for lying, the story’s true.
My school bag’s light: On Wings of Words
The Story of Ireland, M’Asal Beag Dubh
neat compositions in my good copy.
Rockfield, Shancough, Knockadoo
The school library book is overdue.
The road is tarmacadamed now, quiet,
the children grown up, houses updated
or ruined. I can hear the river in spate.
Rockfield, Shancough, Knockadoo
No voices, laughter, wistful residue.
A son of theirs died in Africa, a missionary.
They emigrated when the children grew up.
He stayed, inherited the farm, is thriving.
Rockfield, Shancough, Knockadoo
Where hope and failure rendezvous.
I left, did well, my mother would have said.
The graves are well kept, the lettering renewed.
If I could come back again, I’d come back.
Rockfield, Shancough, Knockadoo
and give my younger self a talking-to.
Michael Farry
Michael Farry is a native of Coolaney, Co Sligo and is a retired primary teacher. He has researched and published extensively on the history of the War of Independence and Civil War in Sligo. He has had four poetry collection published. The most recent An Apology for Our Survival, was published by Revival Press, Limerick. His previous collections were Troubles (2020), The Age of Glass, (2017) and Asking for Directions (2012). He spent most of his teaching life in County Meath
On behalf of the Museum of Childhood Ireland and Robert Burns, we would like to extend our heartfelt gratitude to all of our wonderful participants for their time and their stories. You can see more on our When We Were Kings and Queens of the Road project at the links below: