I envy people that say they had a happy childhood. I don’t mean to say that my childhood was particularly bad. It wasn’t. It’s just that I have to concentrate to remember the happy bits. I’ll try to share one happy memory now.
Every summer, when I was young, the family would pack the car to vital capacity and head for a little village in County Kerry. It was a ritual complete with necessary ceremony. The car was so full that it was impossible to see out the rear windscreen, multiple bags squashed our feet and the pillows, we would sleep on all summer, were under us.
We would take the coast road, eschewing the more direct route through Tralee, via Glin and Tarbert and on to Lisselton. Nothing much happened in Lisselton but there was a shop. Fondly known as the “Stop Shop” due to the necessity to halt and get ice cream. There was the mandatory warning not to spill any in the car but we cared less, repeat offenders. And on to Ballyheigue.
Every summer we spent two to three months in Kerry. We had a mobile home caravan that provided ample space and we entertained ourselves. What I remember most is the absolute freedom. Days spent wandering the sand dunes with friends, playing games and causing mischief. We knew the dunes intimately and never got lost. We were the masters of our own destiny.
In the evening, the imagination once more was lit. Card games and charades, story-telling and jokes and frequently, hours sunk in books. Each week my mother would do the groceries in Tralee. It was a family outing. And, an allowance was provided to buy books in the second hand store. Every week a new book, every week a new adventure. “The Three Musketeers”, “Robinson Crusoe” and many more including the jewel of discoveries, “The Lord of the Rings”.
We read because we didn’t have a television and we were better off. Eventually we got one but the reception was rubbish and we gave it little attention save my mother’s obsession with “Coronation Street”. Otherwise, it lay dormant.
My father stayed at home and worked the week so that we could afford our holiday. He came at weekends and once a summer for a fortnight for his annual leave. My Dad would play games on the beach with me and take me fishing. Prior to chasing fish, we would have to dig for bait. My Dad would dig lugworm on the beach with such strength and vigour that he could bend the spade he used. He simply reinforced the blade with metal bars and continued to catch the worms with skill and power. He was immensely strong.
Our holiday was simple but it lasted the entire duration of the school year, every year until I was in my mid-teens. It was a privilege but it came at a cost. My father spent the summer alone toiling to allow us afford our break and likewise my mother was mostly alone in Kerry. I shudder to think of that much time away from my wife. My parents sacrificed a great deal to send us to Kerry. They never holidayed abroad, never went skiing and were generally very frugal.
I’ve read that to be truly grateful is to encourage recovery. I hope it’s true. I am grateful for many things, my wife, my family and my good fortune. I have issue with many memories of my childhood but I am genuinely grateful for Ballyheigue and the part it played in shaping my life.
