From hill to hill - part 2
England to Ireland - January 1993 - an unforgettable journey.
“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.”
― Ursula K. Le Guin
We moved to Ireland on 4 January 1993, 12 years before moving to France. Then, everything we possessed in the world was packed onto the back of a flatbed truck towing a trailer loaded with our own vehicle, an iron bath (I absolutely refused to leave it behind),a huge diesel generator and two dogs.
Before I continue with the story of packing up Ireland and leaving for France, I must tell you first of our journey from yet another hill in Derbyshire, England to the hill in Co Westmeath, Ireland.
I was so fearful of a repetition.
The decision to move to Ireland was prompted - primarily, we’ve all been there - by romance followed swiftly by rocketing property prices in the UK forcing us out of the market. We had been living in a caravan in an old friends back yard woken by the dulcet tones of a fearsome and stinking billy goat and the wails of 30 Lurchers every morning for over a year, both of us working every hour possible before we came to the depressing realisation that our dreams were no more than futile misplaced delusions. We were never going to save what we needed to take even a small step onto the ever mounting property ladder. With little option either locally or further afield in England Wales or Scotland, we looked elsewhere. Ireland being the closest, most affordable option - Williams heart country - persuaded us to begin our search there.
I had never even set foot on the Emerald Isles - it sounded like the best adventure ever - a romantic adventure!
With the decision made, we talked of plans and ideas and wrote lengthy lists long into the night in our tiny damp caravan, often accompanied by the whining of lurchers, the rumble of quarry lorries on the road just above us, howling winds from the Derbyshire hills which rattled everything, including us, inside and the shouts of our gruff friend as he scared the life out of yet another poor unsuspecting individual as they took their late night stroll. All things considered, we couldn’t wait to begin the search.
We organised a visit, staying over one long weekend at the end of October 1992, hired a car, eventually found a cheap place to stay in Birr which was as central as we could find at that time of year (the whole of Ireland seemed to be closed) and spent every second possible of our stay scouring estate agent windows, hopping over locked gates every time we spotted another derelict property hidden at the end of a lane. Each time feeling the weight of disappointment becoming heavier and heavier. The product of all those long nights making plans resulted in a list of criteria impossible to locate in one place.
As a final resort we called on the son of an old acquaintance of Clarks. A somewhat unsavoury character, we weren’t to discover this until months after we moved. My little dog knew from the beginning though, she snarled every time he appeared at the door. But ,if it weren’t for this impromptu visit we would never have found the perfect house, the one that ticked everything on our on hindsight outrageously long list, the one that sat at the end of a lane, empty for thirty years in Bishopstown, Co Westmeath.
Thanks were given where thanks were due.
It was as we were hopping over the locked gate of yet another tiny, unsuitable property buried in brambles a 4x4 Toyota screeched to a halt on the road, parked behind our car and two men leaped out shouting at us. Both were clad in wellington boots and brandishing sticks. They demanded what we were doing on private property. Apologising profusely we shakily explained our dream, to which they brusquely replied, ‘wait there’. They hopped back into their vehicle. We waited for what seemed an eternity while they discussed something amongst themselves, convinced we would see the local Gardai, blue lights flashing, appearing at any moment. Eventually they wound down the window and said, just as brusquely ‘follow us’. They drove off. Hesitating briefly before complying with their order, we too jumped in our car and sped after them. After an impossible amount of turns we thought we would never remember for the return journey, we arrived in front of an old farmhouse, with outbuildings, enough land and no close neighbours.
From the moment we laid eyes on The Boreen, Bishopstown, Co Westmeath, we knew we had found what we were looking for, the house of our dreams and beyond.
They didn’t even really need to show us around, we already knew it was love at first sight but insisted on forcing open a rear window because they didn’t have the key to allow us to look around, the only viewing we had, before making a decision. We were assured that the key would be located for further visits if necessary. They weren’t!
A meeting was organised for the following day with the local auctioneer in Moate and a price was agreed between the men, apparently it was not my business, with just four hours left before our flight was due to leave Dublin airport. Two months later we paid that price in full - which will give you an idea of how cheap it was! We returned to Hayfield glowing with the warmth of excitement and relief. We had no idea how we would make up the shortfall in money needed to pay for the property but we didn’t care, it was an adventure, we were young, in love, intrepid and invincible!
The removal of our few possessions was organised by the friend whose land we were living on, the owner of the dogs and goat. His name was Clark Mellor aka Hans Streiger, wrestler, feared property owner. A man who feared nothing and nobody but had a heart the size of a planet and the strength of a team of oxen!
Clark made friends and enemies from every walk of life, fairground folk included. Revered and respected by these people they became life long friends, as such we were weren’t shocked to hear that the driver who would transport us with our belongings from Hayfield in Derbyshire to Bishopstown in Co Westmeath was one such person.
The following, almost, thirty six hours we will remember for the rest of our lives.
Let me set the scene. Richard, ex fairground jack of all trades since childhood, tattooed chain smoker turned truck driver (he alone, an experience we were never to forget) arrived in an old flat bed truck towing a car trailer at midday on January 3rd. The temperature was below freezing, had been for the four days prior. Clarks drive was covered in sheet ice 3” thick from the house to the also very icy lane 500 meters away. Snow was forecast from evening onwards and the traffic advice was to stay at home, leave only if necessary. Richard was unperturbed and the truck was loaded with our meagre belongings in just three hours despite the bitter cold and Richards countless nicotine fixes.
At that time of year in Derbyshire night falls quickly, especially in bleak weather. By 16h00 it was pitch black, the truck and trailer were checked and the three of us climbed into the cab having said a sad and tearful farewell to Clark. Had I have known that I was to see him only twice more in the ten years before he died, I may never have left that evening. He marked us both indelibly, as he did everyone, though not all were marked with such love and kindnesses.
It took us almost an hour just to reach the lane just 500 m away and a relatively safe road. Richard had already smoked four cigarettes. The fully loaded truck and trailer jackknifed three times on the ice; the second time the entire rig departed the drive gliding gracefully on to the field running along one side. Our belongings were dislodged including my precious iron bath and all had to be reloaded and tied down. On hindsight this unscheduled stop probably avoided us losing more than we did elsewhere on the journey, the grassy field and ice hardened land also, giving traction where we’d had none on sheet ice. At that precise moment, in arctic temperatures with night falling and a ferry to catch from Stranraer to Larne (not Holyhead to Dún Laoghairea as we had expected which would have been a far less distance to travel on arrival) scheduled to leave at 23h30, I was beginning to lose hope of arriving at the port at all, let alone on time! We eventually had all tires straight and rolling on a gritted road almost two hours later, we’d covered a distance of less than 5 km into an almost five hour journey. It began to snow. Richard lit another fag, he smoked Benson & Hedges, I remember seeing four more unopened gold packets lined up behind the sun visor. He put a cassette tape in the player, Mike Oldfields Tubular bells filled the smoky cab with music.
We were on our way.
We made good progress as far as Preston but within minutes manageable snow flurries turned into a full blown blizzard which raged and swirled and slowed us almost to a standstill at times until we passed Kirkby, returning once again we reached Penrith. By the time we passed Carlisle and the end of the M6 there was still over 100 miles to travel on snow covered national roads. Until this point our chain smoking, undeniably expert chauffeur had succeeded, beyond all odds to keep a steady and acceptable pace but between necessary dog stops, recovering lost items in a field and blizzards causing zero visibility for seemingly endless miles we were left with just two hours to arrive in time for the ferry. 100 miles in the two hours left, in blizzard conditions were an impossible feat. We knew and so did Richard.
Breathing a nicotine filled sigh of relief, we saw the lights at the port of Stranraer came blearily into view at around 00h45. The ferry, delayed by unfavourable sailing conditions had only just left the port, another was scheduled for 04h30. It gave us a short respite. William and I staggered from the cab in search of fresh air and a couple of hours sleep. It had taken almost nine hours to travel a distance that should have taken under five. Richard had smoked two of the four packets of Bensons, we had listened to Mike Oldfield on repeat because it was the only cassette he had too many times to count, we were boggle eyed with fatigue and raw nerves after what had been the most horrendous journey either of us could ever remember, albeit a safe one. We didn’t sleep a wink.
Sailing into Belfast, the port at Larne, should have been a relief the following morning. Undoubtedly would have been had Richard not removed his hat and scarf for the first time whilst we sat together on the ferry; to our horror this revealed a blatant Union Jack tattooed across his forehead and a dotted line across his throat with the words CUT HERE written above. My imagination went into overdrive. William asked if we would be safe travelling onward. He assured us we would but The Good Friday agreement was not signed until 1998, the troubles were still very much present and clearly represented by political graffiti and barricades visible on every road we drove through the city suburbs. William and I braced ourselves, held each others hand for reassurance and our breathe (less nicotine at least) until we were well outside of the area that looked and felt dangerous. Predictably Richard chose a route that wasn’t necessarily the most straight forward, neither was it the fastest. We arrived, once again against all odds, at the border to the South without further incident despite the border check points being closed three days prior with implementation of the EU single market taking force, obliging Richard to make several U-turns on tiny country lanes - not an easy manoeuvre with the rig he was driving and I think it was at this point we may well have lost a few of our personal effects, certainly they never arrived at the house.
Our aim had been to arrive in Moate, the closest town to the house, by lunchtime. Have lunch in the bar, organise payment in the form of a bank draft from the Bank of Ireland to hand over in exchange for the keys to our new home, unload the truck and trailer before nightfall, light a fire feed the dogs and sleep.
We eventually rolled into the small, usually sleepy town at around 16H00, lunch but a vague grumbling memory in all of our bellies, to find the town swarming with police and military vehicles. A bank robbery had taken place not minutes before we drove in, broken glass and people were everywhere, an abandoned vehicle was left in the middle of the road as thieves apparently made their escape on bikes across the fields and bogs. The bank manager, looking pale and shaken, when he was finally free to speak to us, apologised continuously while ushering William alone into his office to finalise paperwork we had organised before leaving. Eventually, with payment in hand, we crossed the now much quieter street to the office of Henry Arigho our nominated solicitor. Somehow, through misunderstanding or naivety, the latter being more likely, we thought we could pay there and then, hand over the money and be on our way with the keys to our new life and home. Of course, this wasn’t the case…
Legally, without the deeds, we didn’t even have the right to move one stick of furniture in, never mind live there.
Perhaps it was the look of utter exhaustion and defeat on both of our faces, the tears that began to fall down my own as disappointment settled heavily on already drooping shoulders, perhaps it was normal procedure, we didn’t know but without further questions Mr Arigho made a quick call to the owner. He printed out some paperwork and handed it over to us explaining that it was the documentation necessary to take temporary possession of the house. Whether he had ever encountered such a request before or two such bedraggled and nicotine stinking people we will never know but Jim McKormick arrived within minutes, dressed in wellington boots covered in muck also stinking but of more natural odours and the papers were duly signed by all concerned.
Greeted by a bitter wind, tightly clutching the precious brown envelope we had just been handed, we hurried as fast as our weary, now starving bodies would carry us to find Richard. He had fallen asleep in the cab. It was the only time since we had left Clarks yard that we saw him without a fag in his mouth. I was surprised, though I noticed four new cellophane wrapped packets had been replaced behind the sun visor! Clambering in, apologising for the eternal wait, he started the engine to the tune of Mike Oldfield and we left in the direction of Jim’s farm to collect the keys to the house which we realised, too late, he had forgotten to give us.
Five minutes later we pulled to a stop for the penultimate time outside the gates of Jim’s brightly lit farmyard. He was feeding his calves, seemed surprised to see us again. But not as surprised as he was to see Richard in the seat of a truck, Tubular Bells blaring from the speakers, loaded with all our possessions as we crawled out. Evidently he had not understood that we planned to move in that night, lock, stock, barrels and dogs! He laughed, called over to his father, then his wife Mary. Three children ran out to meet us, then his mother and father too, all with warm welcomes, hugs, offers of food and tea (nobody gets to leave an Irish kitchen without first drinking at least one huge, steaming mug of strong tea) and chuckles of incredulity.
Not until the tale of our long and, not uneventful journey, had been listened too, discussed at length, more tea poured, cake and sandwiches offered and reluctantly declined, did we manage to extricate ourselves from their curiosity. We left enveloped in the warm glow of hot tea and new friendships but minus the keys because the keys had never been found.
At 19h00 we eventually turned down the lane, breathing what we hoped would be the last smoke ever of a B&H cigarette, our ears ringing with bells of the Mike Oldfield variety, to pull up outside our new home, albeit as caretakers only. All that remained was the unloading. Richard wanted to make his return journey, he had a car to collect from the North first thing in the morning. Three frozen hours later, with Richard paid, thanked and departed we threw a mattress on the floor, crawled fully clothed into two sleeping bags, the dogs cuddled up with us and slept as we’d never slept before.
Despite Jim assuring us the night before that it never snowed in Ireland, when we woke the following morning, huge white flakes were falling from the sky, onto the house, the barn, the land - beautifully and quietly onto the first day of our new life. We didn’t care that the electric wires were original dating back to the 1950’s, fabric coated, eaten through in places by mice (or worse), nor that there were no taps or even running water, no loo, nor that anybody could recall where the, now capped, well was situated either. That the front door had a hole in it and the two chimneys had rooks nests in them. It was home.
We were home!
Note:
We lost seven items of furniture en route though we didn’t notice until months later.
It was two years before we held the deeds to the house in our hands and could legally relinquish the title of caretakers only.
Before Richard left, he gifted us Mike Oldfields Tubular Bells 2, we still have the cassette but never listened to it again. When I played it for the first time since that journey on Sunday, I cried.
It took us four months of pumping water from a cattle feeder in the field before Jim arrived one day, waving an old photograph of the original well. And, another year before we had running water inside the house, from a hand pump!
If you would like to read part one of this story click below.
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Thank you so much for reading A hill and I, part 3 will be out very soon. Susie x
Wow, what an amazing journey full of “trials and tribulations” as the the old saying goes. Absolutely remarkable story Sweet Susie 🥰
What an incredible tale, brilliantly told! My nose is wrinkling at the smell of B&H!