Throwback Thursday: Days of intense religious instruction and school retreats in Cork

IN today’s world, it is sometimes difficult to remember just what a large and forceful part religion and religious instruction played in our lives back in the old days. Roman Catholic, that is, needless to say. In city, town and village, the parish priest reigned supreme, households were exhorted to say the Rosary together at evening, and in school – well, in school there was a compulsory religious class every day, sandwiched in between maths and English, history and geography. 

Clearly the next generation of adults, even if they couldn’t add or do long division, would be able to quote the Catechism backwards at the slightest encouragement. When Confirmation loomed, a priest, even in some cases the bishop himself, would come to the school and test the relevant class in all aspects of theology and general religious knowledge. And woe betide you if you couldn’t answer swiftly and correctly! There was a song going around this writer’s class at just such a time, way back when such events were of huge importance:

It’s almost the Bishop, and what shall I do?

The teacher keeps telling us that we won’t get through!

He’ll pass Mary Murphy, for she is a saint,

But about little me he will make a complaint!

However, not content with cramming our minds with doctrine every single schoolday, most educational establishments also organised special three-day events every year – the Retreats.

Who can remember their school retreats?

“Oh God, yes!” says Mary O’Leary. “I went to the Presentation nuns and they were big into that. They were really uncomfortable three day affairs. Priests came in to run these, and always seemed to be trying to get us to confess to impure thoughts and actions – at our age, we didn’t even know such things existed!

“We spent our time walking around the convent grounds silently, supposed to be ‘meditating’. On what I ask you, at 13 years of age?

 We didn’t even think getting a few days off schoolwork was a plus. Cringe, cringe, cringe, the whole thing.

When we spoke with Mary, her son-in-law was down for the weekend and she asked him about such events in his own schooldays.

“He is a 33-year-old Dub, Christian Brothers educated. They went to a retreat and meditation centre for a day. His only abiding memory is that the chicken curry for lunch didn’t have much chicken in it!

“My daughter, who is the same age, went to a Community College and didn’t even know such things as religious retreats existed!”

David Falvey is another Dublin man who was educated at the Jesuit Gonzaga College.

“We had those retreats in our last year. We stayed overnight and participated in intelligent debates about faith and life, and thing like that. I have to say the Jesuits really made you think for yourself which isn’t always the case.”

Among all the bad memories of school retreats, and the general opinion that they didn’t do much for your strength of faith, one exception stands out. Katie O’Brien admits to absolutely loving those days!

“I was shy enough anyway, and, having come from a very small and friendly primary school, absolutely hated the huge crowds of noisy hockey-playing girls and strict nuns at St Angela’s. I spent most of my time sitting as far back in the classroom as I could, drawing cartoons in the back of my exercise books. But there was this one wonderful break in the year, the three-day retreat. 

All classes stopped, and we were free to walk around the school grounds in silence, by ourselves! Bliss! 

"I was (still am) a fervently keen knitter, and such simple handcrafts were allowed during the retreat. Every day I brought the current project and happily wandered up and down the pathways, under trees and around flowerbeds, knitting away and experiencing perfect peace. I’m afraid religion just didn’t enter into it, just the relief of being out of that cacophony of noise and voices and bells!”

The one aspect of retreats that did distress her, though, she admits, actually echoes Mary O’Leary’s memories.

“It was these open public confessions. This supremely confident and ‘who but me?’ priest would come in for the event, and seat himself in a corner of the school hall where he was most visible. Girls had to go up and kneel in front of him and confess while he sat and smiled knowingly and everybody else looked on!

“I just wouldn’t take part in that charade. I kept to the back, and didn’t go, although it did mean that when it came to the Mass he celebrated, I couldn’t take Communion with all the virtuous little confessed girls!”

Tim Cagney too has vivid memories of school retreats and favoured us with detailed recollections.

“In the 40s, 50s and 60s, when Ireland was – largely – under the control of the Catholic Church, such things were common, if not exactly popular. As a student of CBC, Cork, in the mid-60s, I had experience of such events, when my class was dispatched to a Retreat Centre in Montenotte, called Ennismore, which was run by the Dominican Fathers. Prior to our enforced departure, there was a demand for a fee of £2.00, to cover the expenses of the day. The immediate reaction by one of my schoolmates was “I’m not paying £2.00 to save my ‘effing’ soul!”

Resistance was, of course, futile, and our parents coughed up the requisite fee.

“On the day we arrived, we were told to spend the time in contemplative silence, whatever we were doing. I, in the company of my school desk-mate, strolled the wooded pathways, earnestly discussing the matter of physical intimacy with members of the opposite sex, and how far you could go before an ‘occasion of sin’ might be declared. 

The discussion, of course, was mainly academic, as neither of us had ever even as much as kissed a girl, but the conversation was interesting, nonetheless. By the time we both became married men – in the late 70s – we had, somehow, figured out the practicalities!

“Elsewhere, in the main building, others were engaged in different pursuits. I cannot imagine what they were doing, as – strangely - neither my pal nor I seemed to encounter any of them throughout our stroll. I know that one fell-asleep in an armchair (very shortly after arrival). When woken by one of the Brothers, he emitted a roar, loud enough to wake the dead. When the Brother asked what he was doing, his immediate response was ‘meditating, Sir!’ Later, he and another two of our more daring brethren sneaked out the main gates, and headed for that famous local hostelry, known as The Cotton Ball. I cannot recall when – if ever – they returned, or whether or not they were even missed.

“At around one o’clock, it was decided that nourishment for the body – as well as the soul – was necessary, so we were all herded into a dining-room, with a long wooden table – what might be deemed a ‘refectory,’ I suppose. A cloaked Brother sat at the head of the table, reading from a substantial tome on Scripture. I couldn’t help but wonder if he might be doing this for purgatorial reasons – had he, perhaps, committed some transgression in the past, to be consequently condemned (forever) to read to generations of disinterested youths?

“Whatever the case, we were obliged to listen – in silence, of course – to his interminable droning. I can’t quite remember what our main food-course was (most likely penitential – and cheap – fish) but it was followed by some sort of dessert, topped with custard. The custard had developed a skin with the consistency of a Dunlop tyre, presenting all of us with the challenge of how to penetrate it, to reveal whatever lay beneath.

“Liquid refreshment, in the form of glasses of water, accompanied the repast. Suddenly, someone discovered that, by moistening a finger and running it around the rim of a glass, a ringing sound could be produced. This notion was quickly adopted by everyone else, and – before long the previously silent air was filled with a piercing, loud whistle. 

Amazingly, the Brother didn’t seem to notice – I can only imagine that, such was his concentration on his reading efforts, that he had created a form of trance within himself, rendering him impervious to external sounds. 

"On realising that our strategy was having no effect on the man, the siren-like howl of the whistling ceased, and we resumed our collective attacks on the custard.”

The day, says Tim, ended with collective singing.

“Again, some smart-Alec hit upon the idea of swaying to and fro whilst doing so, and, soon, everybody was at it. Once more, the Brother, who was conducting the recital, appeared completely oblivious to our irreverent, giddy gyrations. By the time our efforts ceased, it was getting dark, and we gathered at the front of the main house, awaiting transportation home. I remember that someone had purloined small candles from the chapel, and had positioned them – lighting – in the muzzles of a pair of decorative cannons, which stood guard at the front steps.”

A long-term friend (two years Tim’s junior) also shared his reminisces of such events.

“He tells me that his sojourn at Ennismore ‘was marked by a mass breakout, followed by a session at The Cotton Ball. The ringleaders were rounded-up and punished.’ He concludes by saying that, as far as he can remember, the whole concept of mandatory, soul-salving excursions to Ennismore was forever abandoned, shortly thereafter.”

And what of Ennismore, today, asks Mr Cagney? Well, the Dominican brothers, now much reduced in number, moved out last year, ending an era of seven decades, and the huge old place went on the market at the hefty asking price of €3.25m. It’s a prime site, admittedly, built for one of the old merchant families of Cork back in the Georgian era and possessing today no fewer than 39 bedrooms, the whole thing set in about 25 acres. Think what a developer could do with that site!

Tim has the last word, though. “What I DO know, however, is that the Cotton Ball is still going strong! You do wonder how much business they got from Ennismore over the years? It’s like those health resorts where you are supposed to exist on a leaf of kale and a stick of celery – outside the gates and down the road, there is always a burger joint, waiting happily for the stream of furtive customers!”

Tell us your memories. Email jokerrigan1@gmail.com.

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