In our childhood days we had not the advantage of a Public School Library with a children’s story-hour but we did have in our own home and around our own hearthstone story telling periods and I cannot recall the time when our own mother was too tired or too busy to tell us a story.
The ones we loved best and I think the ones she enjoyed most to relate were those about the old home in Ireland. Sometimes it was about the family, their home life, their church and school activities, another time it was about the old fort on the farm (supposed to be the ruins of an old Danish fort) or again it was about the little creek at the rear of the farm where the boys were catching eels, etc., etc. until there was implanted in our minds a lasting, longing desire to visit and to see all these fairy like places for ourselves.
How many castles we built! But it was not till the summer of 1920, that the broad Atlantic was spanned and during the early September of the year found us at Euston Station, London, England on a train bound for Hollyhead, Wales there to take a steamer across the Irish sea to Kingston, thence by train to Dublin.
The sensation we experienced at having at last reached our objective can never be described. As our feet touched the soil of Old Erin it almost seemed as if we were treading on Holy ground. At Broadstone station we boarded a train for the final lap of the journey which was to culminate in the realization of our life long dreams. We were soon at Ballymote. It was here that grandfather and the boys took their stock to the Fair to sell, and fortunately for us, it was “Fair Day” at Ballymote the day we arrived.
From the station, over a cobblestone pavement we wended our way along the one and only street to a hotel. The proprietor was a Mr. Flannery, a tall handsomely built Irishman, with all the charming mannerisms of the Irish folk. We asked for a room and breakfast. Our American accent was a dead giveaway, and all were curious as to our mission there.
When Tubbercurry was mentioned as our destination it was next “Whom were we to visit there”? At the name of Golden a startled look of pleasant surprise spread over his countenance. “Why mother and I were over there last Sunday and spent the day with Mr and Mrs R.J. Golden”, said he and of course we must have that gentleman in view too. When we informed him we did not know of a Mr. R.J. Golden but that we had correspondence with a Mrs. N.L. Golden and it was they we had in view. The Irish spirit and hospitality was again in evidence. The former person was, in his judgement, the acme of all that would contribute most to our comfort and enjoyment.
At this point breakfast was served and we were led to their private dining room and living rooms, made cozy and comfortable while Mr. Flannery returned to his business office. Shortly he came back with the information that he had just wired Mr. R.J. Golden that friends from America were coming. Our fate was sealed. There we must go. We ordered a taxi or attempted to do so, but no. Mr. Flannery had a brand new car and he himself would drive us over there. The car was out of town just then but was sure it would be back soon. At 4:30 p.m. word came that there had been a raid on at Balley so dare (for those were troublesome days in Ireland) and perhaps it got in the mixup. A half hour later a disappointed man ordered a taxi for the trip. I relate this incident to illustrate the generous hospitality extended to us and as it was so spontaneous am confident that every new arrival would receive the same cordial considerations. It was certainly a wholesome introduction to the land of our fathers. The twelve Irish miles over to Tubbercurry seemed like an exceedingly long ride, but were well repaid by the hearty welcome awaiting us. We drew up at Mr. Golden’s gate. It was opened wide and at one side stood the stately gentleman himself, with outstretched hand saying “I don’t know who you are but you are welcome. You will find Mrs. Golden at the door to receive you.” We strangers! And such a welcome we never could have visioned. While the finishing touches were being added to the evening meal Mr. Golden led us out and up the steps of the granary pointing in a certain direction said “Do you see yon clump of trees, well, hidden among them stands the stone cottage you have traveled so far to see. As it was now quite late and the condition of unrest so great, there was no alternative left to play the “Good Game” and Pollyanna and rejoice that at least we were within reach of our goal and must rest contentedly for the night.
Early next forenoon a son of Mrs. R.L. Golden escorted us to survey the old homestead. As we approached the broad gateway we were fortunate in meeting Mr. Roddy, a son of the gentlemen who purchased the lease from Grandfather in 1852. When he realized who we were and our mission, he very graciously, with a wave of the hand, said, “The place is yours to go whither ye will”. What an opportunity! Naturally the house was our first concern. He opened the door and entered.
Home There was the old fireplace around which the family had so frequently met for worship, and with the aid of our diagram, were able to locate the rooms one by one. There to the old fort, surrounded by the same black hawthorn bushes – the playhouse of all the children: thence to the stream with its abundance of watercresses where the eels were caught by the boys: to the “Maiden Spring” at the three corners, which provided a constant supply of refreshingly cool water for the creek, to the bog and witnessed the harvesting of the peat and saw the donkeys and carts carrying the supply of winter’s fule to their respective homes. Here we turned on Mr. Roddy and said, “There’s still another spot we must see: It’s a spring near some hedge were the washings were done.” Pointing directly ahead he replied, “Do you see that hedge? Well follow that until ye come to the stile and ye’ll find it there”. Hurriedly we welded our way thither. There it was, oud in fancy, we could see the two eldest daughters on a Monday morning carrying a basket of clothes to this little spring. It was hollowed out, walled inside with stone and at the top lay a large stone slab on which each article was laboriously scrubbed, rinsed in the pool and hung on the line”? O, no. to bleach them properly they must be hung on a hedge where the sun could best do its work.
With a real heartache, but urged on by the shortness of our stay, we reluctantly retraced our steps along the sutrauce drive, walled in by stone fences and arched about the meeting of the tall hedge trees which grew there and had been planted by grandfather. It was all to us so beautiful and sacred.
The gate was again closed and down the street leading through the village we passed the barracks (which housed the Irish Constabulary), Quinns harness shop, Burns shoe store and the town well – all so familiar in story form: on to the Church where their spiritual needs had been ministered to by the saintly cannon Hamilton*. We entered the edifice, counted the seats until we found the two pews so regularly occupied by the family. We sat here, moved over, then over and over until each was sure she had sat in the exact place our mother had frequently occupied. It was all just as it had been when the family set sail for Canada in 1850 and 1852.
To illustrate how little the places had changed during the intervening 70 years, pictures were taken from different angles of the church and home** and sent to the two then remaining members of the original famiy, viz, Mrs Isaac Wigle and Dr. John Golden. The Dr. in acknowledging the receipt of same, wrote “I expected great things of you girls, but I never expected to see my old home in the same perfect condition as I had left it seventy years ago.
Skirting along the banks of the northern part of the River Shannon, a train whisked us back to Dublin. Here we were met by Mr. Alex Golden and placed in an Irish jaunting car to traverse the famous Sackville Street to Trinity College where Uncle Jasper Golden had received his final training to qualify him for the teaching profession. We had planned to spend a day here, but when informed them that our boat sailed on Tuesday and we must be back in London Monday evening, our friends said, “if that is the case, you know Mr. Sweeney (or McSweeney?) is barely alive this evening and should he die tonight every one will go on strike tomorrow and no boats will leave the docks for an indefinite period. If you must make that boat by Tuesday we advise you to get out while getting out is possible.” Needless to say we got out. About three weeks later Tubbercurry was raided and most buildings on one side of the street were burned. It seemed almost providential that our visit had been made just at the time it was, else we could not have seen it practically as it was in 1850.