Clogherhead being so close to Drogheda, and the
location of the Battle of the Boyne, allowed me to indulge in one of my
favourite past times which was wandering around graveyards taking notes. I also loved diving into local libraries and
learning more about the history of my lovely little country. I can remember flicking through a book in a local
church, with James getting rather bored, when I came across a period of Irish
history that I did not know about. In
fact I was hugely embarrassed that I did not know about it and I was also angry
that I had not been taught about it. In Ireland
it is known as An Gorta Mor, the Great Hunger, but it is more widely and incorrectly
known as The Potato Famine.
I promise you I was deeply shocked to learn that
enough food was produced in Ireland during this period that could feed every
person on the island three times over, there never was a famine. At the time the British were in control,
Irish Catholics were not allowed to own or lease land, they were not allowed to
vote, to hold political office, to live in a town, to be educated or to enter a
profession, sure they weren’t even allowed to speak their own language. The food was produced and taken, under
protection of the British Army, and delivered to British colony’s abroad. The potato blight which was affecting most of
Europe, devastated Ireland as the poor Irish Catholic depended on the potato, it
was the one crop that produced the most food, given the small amounts of land
they could cultivate. But it was only in
Ireland where millions starved to death.
The potato blight, which had decimated the potato crop in America for
two years, now spread throughout the greater part of northern and central Europe. It was only in Ireland where three million
people were totally dependent on potatoes for food that so many died because of
the British Empire’s boot on their throat.
A fellow called Charles Trevelyan was the civil
servant responsible for administrating the colony of Ireland. In his opinion the potato blight was an act
of God and he claimed that if they stepped in to feed and save the Irish, they
would be going against God’s will. So
his advice to the British government was to stand back and allow the Irish to
die, and not just to die, but to starve to death. He also considered, what he and the British
called, the famine as an effective mechanism for reducing surplus population. Trevelyan has to have been one of the most
evil men in history and perhaps one of the most hated men in Irish history. The most hated man in Irish history would
have to be Cromwell, who sacked Drogheda and it excited me being there, the
place is dripping with history. I had
also thought that Cromwell was so hated for his barbaric acts of mass slaughter,
which like his evil mates he considered to be the work of God, but as I worked
my way through the local history books, I began to learn of another practise that
sickened me to the core.
Cromwell was heavily involved in, and a great
supporter of, slavery and a little known fact is that, food was not the only
product that the British drained from Ireland, they also took the people. The British like to refer to them as ‘indentured
servants,’ but they were slaves, nothing more than human cattle, sold to the
highest bidder in places like the West Indies, Virginia, New England, Barbados
and Jamaica. I couldn’t believe the huge
scar in Irish history that I had uncovered and I was angry that these facts had
not been taught to me in school. I couldn’t
stop reading about these periods. An
Irish slave could be bought and sold for five pounds but an African slave was
worth fifty pounds so you can imagine the savage treatment the Irish received. People like the Duke of York would send his
troops over to Ireland to gather one or two thousand children around the age of
ten. They would then be taken and
shipped abroad where they were sold.
That is bad enough but what really turned my stomach was the fact that
he would have the letters ‘DOY’ branded on their necks to show that they were his
property.
I can remember confronting, my mother, Seamus and
Margaret and asking why I had never been taught about these crimes. They knew all about them but thought it best
that they were forgotten about, that they should be left in the past, for if
you spoke about it you would only cause trouble. I can tell you that I was very angry, not
just with the British for their barbaric treatment of the Irish, but for an
education system that had not taught me about these episodes. It really was Orwellian, history being
re-written, polished and covered up. But
real Irishmen, and women, will never let these periods be forgotten about and
my hat goes off to the Taoiseach, our name for Prime Minister, Bertie Ahern. Bertie refused to talk to the British Prime
Minister, Tony Blair, until the portrait of Oliver Cromwell, who Bertie
referred to as “That murdering bastard,” was taken down and away from the room
they were in, in Westminster.
I didn’t want to leave the Drogheda area as I
needed to learn much more about what I had discovered, but my little vacation
was coming to an end and we went back to Warrenpoint. I was surprised to discover that many people
knew about what I had discovered but simply accepted it as something that happened
years ago and moved on. People were not
really that interested although I have to admit that I was ‘all fired up,’
about it. Everyone else was ‘all fired
up,‘ about Ireland winning the World
Cup. I had never seen anything like it
in my life, every pub, club and hotel was heaving with people supporting the
Irish soccer team, and most of them wouldn’t normally even watch football. This time we had an Englishman as a hero,
Jack Charlton, a very famous English footballer who had played for Manchester United,
and who now managed the Republic’s football team and was considered to be an honorary
Irishman.
The player most talked about would have been
the goalkeeper, Paki Bonner, who they say had a kick as long as a ten day week. Suddenly everybody was an expert on
football. I can remember sitting at a
bar with the head good ol boy himself, Phelim, who wouldn’t even give a
football match a second glance, like myself, and the pair of us whooping and
cheering along with every other person in the pub. As they say, the craic was mighty, I think
the whole of the Island was drunk with joy, and a fair bit of the back stuff
too. I couldn’t remember who we played,
who we beat, or who eventually beat us, but they did and the party dissolved and
Ireland returned to normal, well; as near normal as possible, just think laid
back and then relax that a little bit more.
For example one morning James and I went down
the street to get James a new pair of shoes; he had ruined one pair on the beach
the previous day. It was just before
nine o clock in the morning and most shops were flinging open their shutters
and doors. We were heading for O Hares, gentleman’s
outfitters, not because it was a fancy shop but because I used to live with the
O Hare’s, a beautiful family, and I would normally be given a bit of discount. Pat, the second oldest of four boys was opening
the shop. “Ah Hello Peter,” he says,
adding “And who’s this?” I introduced James;
I probably wouldn’t have seen Pat for maybe four or five years. Which is why some people might think that
what happened next might be a little strange.
Pat seemed to be somewhat agitated, he couldn’t stand still. With the small chit chat out of the way he
turns to me and says. ”Here Peter, would
you look after the shop for us for twenty minutes.” With which he runs off down the street leaving
James and myself in charge of the shop.
The last thing we needed would be a customer, I’m
not taking the inside leg measurement of some beast of a farmer, in town for
the market, for anyone. I’m pleased to
say that we did get a customer, well; customer would be the wrong way to
describe this fellow. In Ireland we have
a habit of just popping in to shops for a bit of craic, a bit of a chat, and
that’s what this fellow as doing. I was
a wee bit gobsmacked as he came in and asked if, “The Boys were around?” This was not referring to the IRA, but the three
O Hare boys who worked in the shop. “No,”
says I, reaching out my hand to him. “Pat’s
just away down the street for something.” We stood in silence as I tried to work out
which question I should ask him first, for this was none other than John Hume,
the politician. The man who was to
become a Nobel Peace Prize recipient and who was named as ‘Ireland’s Greatest,’
in a poll organised by RTE to find the greatest person in Ireland’s history.
From the worst to the best I was meeting them
all during this trip and it was a golden opportunity to square the circle as I turned
to John and asked his opinion on the Irish slave trade. As they say in Ireland, “I’ll tell you what,
I’ll tell you this and I’ll tell you no more,” the most famous person in Ireland
stood there and gave me an impassioned speech about our history that I have
never forgotten and that made a lasting impression on me. Pat
returned to the shop soon after that and we all reverted to good natured banter. I am sure Pat and the other boys are very proud
that the greatest man in Ireland’s history often popped in to their shop for a
bit of craic, but I wonder how he will measure up when they discover that the
King of Ireland, didn’t just pop in for a bit of craic, but actually lived with
them for a while?
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