When life was rough and tough for a generation of Irish navvies

Country Living with Francis Farragher

I remember as a small boy of the ’60s, some of the visits that would cause a bit of a stir in the household, or on occasion, even in the village. The times of the year were either midsummer, often coinciding with the Galway Races, or in the run-up to Christmas.

The setting would be ‘the return of the emigrant’ for a holiday from places like London, Birmingham or Manchester, and most times there would be quite a fuss before ‘the arrival’, with bits of touch-up being completed around kitchens and bedrooms.

An uncle of mine, long since gone to his eternal reward, always captured the mood and atmosphere of the occasion. Not a man to hide his light under a bushel, he would arrive in a flashy suit and shirts so bright that they almost had a dazzle effect.

The scenario seemed to be replicated in other houses across the village, not always with the same ostentation, but the message being delivered was that these people had done well . . . had found the pot of gold in Britannia. . . and were now back home to show off the trappings of their good fortune.

Sometimes though, the departure back to England tended to be a tad more inglorious. A week or two at the Races and in the local hostelries would often mean that the cash supply had run dry by the closing days of the visit and a little ‘sub’ might be required to get him back in one piece. In fairness though, this uncle was meticulous in paying back such temporary loans.

In later years, I found out that this relative – probably like a lot of other such visitors – would then spend months in his London flat without ever moving outside the door or even spending one ten shilling note on the demon drink. It was one extreme to the other.

Many decades ago, I remember a brother of mine (alas departed too for many, many years) who spent one summer holiday period working ‘across the water’ and his return was also marked by an element of flamboyance by way of a light pair of bellbottom trousers, white shoes, a bright corduroy jacket and even a small hint of an English accent. All a bit too much to absorb in one go – in a couple of days though, my mother had him deprogrammed with the help of a day or two on the farm.

For more, read this week’s Connacht Tribune.

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