Winter snow in Ireland appeared and disappeared just as quickly.
As I reflect on my snowy past, the winter of 1963, one of the coldest and snowiest in history, remains a blank in my memory. The frost, however, was a frequent visitor, freezing net curtains to the glass and transforming the world outside into a glittering spectacle. A frequent visitor was Millar, the coal man, hefting the bag of coal onto his leather shoulder cape as a plume of black dust rose above his head and speckled the snow underneath.
Ice-cold mornings were marked by frozen landscapes, with net curtains stuck to the windows and the magic of frost decorating the scenery. Looking down upon our street from my parent’s bedroom, I would observe the neighbourhood’s transformation under a gleaming white-out. The Big House, once the domain of the local landowner, stood hoary white in the distance. Fresh footprints were often left behind, perhaps, it was a mate from across the street. All the windows in the houses opposite were curtained within and little moved without. The knee-high concrete walls that bordered the footpath and their gardens, some with overgrown privet hedges, all a mantle of white.
As Donovan, the singer puts it: “When I look out my window / Many sights to see / And when I look in my window / So many different people to be / That it’s strange, so strange.”
Getting dressed on those cold mornings was a hurried affair, getting dressed under covers in the unheated bedroom, the chilly bathroom, and scarpering to the warm, fire-lit back room, the only source of heat.
The bathroom window overlooked the backyard. To look out I had to close the bathroom door, so the heat did not escape. The paraffin heater in the hall below attempting to lift the temperature somewhat. The shed occupied half of the yard and on its roof lay a broken bicycle and I saw pieces of discarded frost-encrusted timber. A gate led into a narrow vegetable garden, empty of produce, clay turned in the drills, allowing the frost to do its work. Down the centre ran a cinder path, a snow-thickened washing line hung above, that was attached by two poles at either end of the garden. Anything on it would be suspended, fixed in space, benumbed. Edging the garden and path was a wire fence, I remember a hawthorn hedge, barely newborn.
Breakfast consisted of steaming porridge, tea, and toast, a comforting start to freezing winter days. My father’s thickly cut, on a toasting fork in front of the fire remains a pleasant memory from those wintry suppers. I would sprinkle sugar across the porridge’s stagnant topping and pour the doorstep-icy cream topping from the milk that formed a white circle around the edge of the bowl. My eating plan started there. Working inwards, until milk and porridge are mixed into a smooth paste before spooning it up. I prefer, still do, smooth lump-less porridge. Nothing added, just milk and sugar. My father made the best, always a treat when we stayed with him as adults.
Mother-knitted jumpers were the usual attire, perfect for the Irish weather. A passionate knitter, she kept her current knitting project in a round cane basket with a narrow waist adorned with red and blue beads. The basket, topped by a cane-saucer lid, had a corded loop handle. Inside were balls of wool in various sizes and colours from past projects. Next to it stood a much-dented brass vase filled with grey knitting needles of different lengths and thicknesses, each crowned with a numbered disc or knob.
After savouring a warm meal, I would rush to the cupboard under the stairs amidst the musky, heavy coats to retrieve my duffle coat. Hidden deep inside were my welly boots too, requiring me to crawl on hands and knees into the dank air to find them. As I reached for the back door knob, my mother’s familiar warning echoed in my ears, “Don’t get dirty or wet."
Following the Plot path, a winding route used by locals to reach the town, I explored the icy wells scattered across the lumpy ground. I would poke with my finger the fragile ice-covered hollows and sometimes hurt myself in the process. Most of the time, armed with a stick, I shattered the icy holes, creating floating shards. Named for being communal vegetable plots, I returned home up the Plot path. On my way, I would run my fingers along snow-laden window sills, relishing the melting ice on my tongue. Standing on the back doorstep, stamping my feet, exhaling visible breath into the sharp air, I eagerly anticipated returning to the warmth and my favourite TV shows.
Beyond the back garden lay an open tract of ground, edged by the Plot path. Most of the year, it was muddy and pallid, sometimes freezing solid in winter. A substantial hump, located against a thick hawthorn hedge shielding a primary school where my sisters attended. This humpy hill witnessed various games, from Cowboys and Indians to reenactments of the latest film or TV series, like Robin Hood. Just like the films, us cowboys always emerged victorious. Some Dads re-enacted their childhoods by making rifles, smoothing handles, sandpapering barrels and curving triggers. We had toy Winchester rifles and Colt 6-shooters, that fired caps, all delivered by Santa.
At the top of Knockavoe Crescent lived Uncle Jacky where his house faced the main road, Melmount Road. His row of houses seemed grander than most in the crescent. I once asked my mother for a new brush staff to play with, and after much protest, she relented. Unfortunately, during a mock street fight with a friend, I broke it, leading to tears and a humorous encounter with my uncle, holding from laughing, he could only tape it up. I thought it was as funny as a dog limping on one leg. Eventually, I faced the consequences of the usual shouting and being sent to bed.
Every 12th of July, loyalist bands, known as Orange bands, marched on Melmount Road, and as a five-year-old, I found it exciting to watch, oblivious to the political undertones of the time.
The rear gardens of many houses in our streets were vibrant with greenery, producing edible fare for most seasons. Windowed sheds housed meticulously maintained tools for construction and repair projects, serving as a refuge for men seeking respite from work and family responsibilities. While these sheds were generally off-limits for play, during long damp school holidays, frustrated mothers permitted their use as a space for children to pass the time away from the rainy elements and out of their sight. Some sheds, where we played, were “man caves” in today’s terms. An escape from worldly responsibilities, away from the house and family. I recall an enthusiastic father, much to the annoyance of mothers, installing a stove that released smoke over neighbouring backyards. Its chimney was too low to prevent sooty debris from settling on freshly laundered items and personal belongings. In those days Ireland did have a summer!
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