My evening with Ned Kelliher, the jarvey of Tralee

On June 15th, 1979, my donkey Missie and I were passing through the picturesque town of Tralee in County Kerry, where we happened upon the jarvey, Ned Kelliher, who was boarding a pair of honeymooners into his mule-drawn trap.

“Stay with us for a night or two,” called the beaming horseman, having heard of my travels. “’Tis only myself and my mother, and our house is easily spotted with its scattering of cartwheels in the front garden, just two miles beyond the bridge in Blennerville. Go on, now, and I’ll meet you at O’Dwyer’s Pub later this evening.”

He turned to the happy couple, “Imagine, that young man is circling the whole country with a donkey, and here I’ll be traipsing around this old seaport town till my jaunting cart crumbles beneath me.”

Delighted to have found such welcoming accommodations, Missie and I shortly crossed the aforementioned stone-arched bridge and came to the door of Nora Hanlon Kelliher, a kind soul of 88 years, who wasn’t the least bit surprised that her son had lassoed the donkeyman in for the night.

After I had settled Missie in a small paddock, I entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Kelliher preparing a meal of eggs and rasher for me. While she eagerly worked over a sizzling skillet, I looked at the photos that graced their kitchen walls. There was Ned pictured with such notables as Ronnie Drew of the Dubliners, the popular TV host and radio personality, Gay Byrne, and past winners of the annual Rose of Tralee festival.

“My, your son’s quite the celebrity,” I commented.

“He is, that, and more,” she said proudly, politely sniffing a pinch of snuff. “Hasn’t he met famous people the world over, coming to spend their holidays in Dingle, and asking my Nedeen for one more spin on his mule and trap.”

Ned Kelliher and friend, Annagh, County Kerry. (Courtesy Kevin O'Hara)

After I devoured a delicious meal, I thanked Mrs. Kelliher and walked back to Blennerville and into O’Dwyer’s Pub. It was early evening, and "The Quiet Man" was being aired on RTE TV, a tribute to John Wayne, who had died just days earlier. A fellow beside me commented that “the Duke” was at his best in cowboy westerns, “where he wasn’t afraid to pull back the reins of any man.”

Soon, the iron-shod wheels of Ned’s conveyance were heard, and upon entering the pub, he introduced me to all and sundry as “the Yankee lad with the brown ass.”

Once situated, Ned pulled out an old sock from his pocket and spilled a heap of coins and crumpled pound notes onto the table--his day’s earnings.

“This should help slake our thirst,” he grinned, calling to the publican, Michael O’Dwyer, for two pints of Guinness.

When our pints arrived, Ned murdered his own with the ease of an open drain. He seemed to neither taste nor swallow the contents, but simply let it run down his gullet without troubling his gag reflex. A mind-boggling feat to witness!

While we watched Ireland’s most famous redhead, Maureen O’Hara, on the TV screen, I asked Ned why redheads were maligned and mistrusted in Ireland years ago.

“Twas an old pishogue, a superstition,” he explained. “Why, if a farmer set off to market to sell a few cattle and came upon a redhead, he’d turn straight for home, believing he’d have no luck that day.” 

“Like a black cat crossing one’s path,” I offered. 

“Aye, but it goes deeper than that. You see, the true Celts are black-headed, but many of the Vikings, who raided our shores in the 8th century, sported red hair. As you may know, they pillaged our monasteries, took slaves, and murdered our most learned monks. Queen Bess was another brutal redhead, who committed mass killings, burned our crops causing famine, and forbade us to practice our religion. But Oliver Cromwell was the bloodiest ginger-top of all, slaughtering thousands in both Wexford and Drogheda, and banishing our people to the barren wasteland west of the River Shannon.”

He paused and added, “And anyone with a kernel of learning knows that Judas Iscariot was a redhead.” 

He glanced back at the TV. “But, sure, doesn’t your beautiful namesake, Maureen O’Hara, help erase much of those old country beliefs.”

Though it was an hour before midnight, a glimmer of light still mirrored across Tralee Bay as Ned and I left O’Dywer’s and boarded his jaunting car for the two-mile gallop to his home. Ned’s mule, Cecil, cantered smoothly down the dark, country road toward the Slieve Mish Range - Mountains of the Phantoms- as the tipsy jobber crooned the lovely ballad, "The Rose of Tralee."

She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer

Yet 'twas not her beauty alone that won me

Oh no, 'twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning

That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.

Suddenly, Ned’s mule broke wind that cracked the heavens like a trumpet blast.

“Pay that no heed,” laughed the engaging horseman. “Sure, isn’t that just my Cecil changing gears.”

*Kevin O’Hara is the author of “Last of the Donkey Pilgrims,” which chronicles his eight-month, 1,720-mile journey around the coast of Ireland with a donkey and cart in 1979. You can visit his website at TheDonkeyman.com.