Throwback Thursday: Climbing trees, seaside adventures and altar boy memories

WE’VE been reminiscing recently about adventures and exploration in the golden summers of childhood in Cork, and Tim Cagney wonders if the children of today still climb trees.

Or have they become too absorbed in computer-related gadgetry, watching simulated forests burn or daring heroes escape by swinging from a branch, while all the while sitting in their darkened rooms?

“When I was a child, tree-climbing was all the rage,” Tim told Throwback Thursday. “I’m not quite sure where the attraction lay - something to do with our primeval past, perhaps?

To us, seeing a tree immediately generated a challenge to ‘conquer it’. Has this simple joy been consigned - presumably by the Health & Safety Brigade - to the pages of history, along with so many other things?

We think it is something instinctive in every child, Tim. To the present day, this writer cannot pass a really good tree without automatically measuring the distance of the first branch from the ground, the space between likely handholds, the overall height…

And it’s not so long ago, even in our adult days, that an abandoned and deserted orchard on a lonely country road was irresistible in the autumn as the glowing fruits shone through the evening light. A quick search in the car for a bag, a nip over the fence, and the treasure was there for the taking.

Visions of apple jelly, pies, and other toothsome delicacies kept us gathering long after we had more than enough to cope with when it came to peeling and chopping.

Our grandparents certainly would never have passed up such an opportunity, and that atavistic instinct still remains in us, although well buried most of the time.

Did any reader enjoy Enid Blyton’s Faraway Tree stories in childhood? These were magical tales, involving a huge tree in a secret wood, with all kinds of characters living among its broad branches.

Up at the very top was a white cloud and a ladder leading through it. The magic came through the fact that the world above was constantly moving past that ladder, and at any one time you couldn’t know what land was above there. It could be the Land of Take What You Want, a wonderful experience, or the Land of Birthdays. It could be the Land of Ice and Snow, peopled by gruff polar bears, or the Land of Topsy Turvy, where everyone walked upside down.

My sister and I were enthralled by these stories in younger days, and whenever we were out in the countryside would select a tree that looked like it might lead to one of these magical lands and climb it as far as we could. We never reached the mysterious cloud at the top, but had a lot of fun looking for it.

Tim has particular memories of his own of the joys of tree climbing.

“Not far from where I grew up stands St Joseph’s Church, Mayfield. Right beside it was a boreen, known as Hayes’s Lane, which climbed its way up to the hallowed environs of Montenotte. To the right was a field, where cows might be seen grazing. On the other side was a wooded area, known as Massey’s Wood. It was so named because it was home to the Massey family, and their house was situated within the orchard which comprised the woodlands.”

The Masseys owned a number of bookshops in the city, explains the well-read Mr Cagney. “The most well-known of these, perhaps, was at 84, Patrick Street, started by Nassau Massey, in 1872. The business would survive up to 1956, at which stage it was run by Ernest Massey, son of Nassau. Ernest died in 1958, at which stage I would have been aged 10.”

Massey’s bookshop in Patrick Street was a legend in its day, Tim, and was mentioned in the autobiography of the wonderful Cork-born children’s writer, Patricia Lynch.

After its closure, that original old red brick building became home to several different businesses and industries over the years, including Gloria Jean’s Coffee, but finally it returned to its true roots. It was a real pleasure to discover that it was being taken over by Dubray’s not long ago.

The old building must be delighted to find itself packed with books again, you would think. So thank-you, Tim, for your fascinating background on the family that set it up and ran it for so many years.

“Shortly after Ernest Massey’s death in 1958, the family home and surrounding woodlands were sold,” continues Tim. “The property itself was known as Upper Clifton House.

“While the family was still there, they had a housekeeper called Ann Hourigan, who became somewhat notorious for chasing children from the garden. Said children were scared stiff of her and referred to her as Annie Massey.

“I spied her once or twice, moving about the grounds in the shadowy gloom of the trees - in somewhat spectral fashion - and it was easy to understand how she might have portrayed such a forbidding image.

“Her over-zealous custodial efforts were, as it happened, quite justified. In previous times, vandals had invaded the grounds and caused material damage to property, as well as the destruction of some valuable books.

“Over time, of course, the said house was demolished, and many of the trees removed, leaving a row of just 12 standing. What an opportunity for me and all my pals from Gardiner’s Hill!

“It wasn’t long before a contest (of sorts) developed, into who might be the first to successfully climb to the top of all of them. It was obligatory, of course, to carve your initials in the bark of the highest bough you could reach, thereby confirming your conquest.

Some trees proved more challenging than others, which served to heighten the level of competition. I did, eventually, succeed in ‘conquering’ all 12, though I’m not sure whether I was the first to do so, or not (most likely not!).

Tim adds: “One day, whilst in the upper reaches of one of the trees, a strong wind sprang-up, causing the tree to sway - somewhat alarmingly - from side to side. I felt myself being carried along with the motion, quite unable to do anything about it. I did wonder if the branches, supporting my weight, might break, but - thankfully - they didn’t. I found the experience both un-nerving and exhilarating, all at the same time - far, far superior to any feelings which might have been generated by a PlayStation!

“Just beside the 12 trees was a field, which sloped down to Old Youghal Road. Today, this tract of land is totally occupied by houses, and the area has become known as Murmont.

“The development was constructed by builder Tony Murphy, the name being derived from the first three letters of his surname and the first four of ‘Montenotte’. Today, the former Hayes’s Lane is now known as Murmont Lawn. Nothing whatever remains of those celebrated trees, or - indeed - of the surrounding former grounds of Upper Clifton House, where myself and friends once had so much fun.

“As for Ann Hourigan - the much-maligned ‘Annie Massey’ - a friend of mine, and long-time local resident, tells me that he, and some of his friends, met her once, whilst undertaking an uninvited tour of the garden. She was, in fact, far removed from the vexatious harridan they imagined her to be. She seemed impressed at their interest in the Masseys, and entertained them, at some length, with stories about the family. They all found the encounter both friendly and pleasant.”

It just goes to show, doesn’t it - the apparent ogres of childhood often turn out to be quite nice people when we gain a little age and sense!

Do you remember last year we were talking about the famous (or infamous) knitted swimming togs that many of us wore in childhood back in the 1950s? Patrick O’Donovan was one such, and after much searching, managed to turn up a picture of himself with his two brothers and his father at Graball Bay in Crosshaven around 1952 or 1953.

“You know, when I look at that photo, I can still feel the grains of sand scraping off my legs and other bits, even after all these years!” recalls Patrick.

But there was another, more serious side to life back then, he adds.

“I was an altar boy in the Holy Trinity through much of the ’50s. In those days the Mass was still in Latin, so we had to learn all the responses in that ancient language. I remember we sometimes substituted our own versions of the prayers which we would include, especially if we knew the priest was a little hard of hearing.

“The Confiteor’s ‘mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa’ became ‘me a cowboy, me a cowboy, me a Mexican cowboy.’ Another one was ‘ad Deum qui laetificat juventutum meum,’ which became ‘Adam he killed a cat he shoot ’em, shoot ’em aim.”

We were also known to be partial to the altar wine, which, if any remained in the cruets after the mass, we polished off, as we truly believed it was by then ‘the blood of Christ’.

“It’s funny, but I can’t remember any of my fellow altar boys except for Sean Wren, who lived on the South Mall in one of the prestigious bank buildings where his father was the caretaker,” adds Patrick. “He was regarded as being very posh and he went on to be a very well known hairdresser in Cross Street in later life. We’re still friends to this day. even though we’re both retired now.

“My other memory of my time as an altar boy was having to make my way from Jewtown to the Holy Trinity for 7 o’clock Mass every single day during Lent. I usually cycled the short distance, and many a time my bike would get its front wheel stuck in the railway tracks on Brian Boru Bridge, resulting in my ending up on the ground with another bloody knee!

“By the way, to this day I can never be quite sure which is Brian Boru Bridge and which is Clontarf Bridge, or whatever they’re called nowadays.

“And, of course, there was the added drama of the bridge being raised, to let boats through, meaning you were late for Mass, or school if on the way home, and more chastisement by the priests or the brothers.

“Didn’t do me any harm I reckon, and was just a part of growing up.”

Oh Patrick, you bring back images of an older Cork, when trains still crossed those bridges from Glanmire Station to Albert Quay, clanging a warning bell as they puffed and clanked along those steel rails.

Who knew, as they stopped to watch them pass, that we were seeing history disappearing? How many of those who come up from Kent Station every day now, and go through the old cutting to Brian Boru Street, know they are treading in the old iron way?

Now, you will remember that last week we asked for any old Coláiste Chríost Rí boys from the classes of 1971 and 1973 to come forward if they could identify themselves in the pictures we showed, and were interested in going to a reunion.

Patrick O’Mahony has written delightedly to say: “I was in class 4a in Coláiste Chríost Rí in 1971. I am in the front row on the right in that photograph you printed!”

Patrick was later to join the staff of the school, so he must have liked his alma mater a lot. And he is very interested in meeting up for a reunion.

We also heard from Eddie O’Halloran, who was in the class of 1973, and whose head teacher was Kevin Cummins. He too is all on for a grand reunion in October. So we have passed those details on to the organisers and will do so with any others who reply to us here.

Send us your memories. Email jokerrigan1@gmail.com. Or leave a comment on our Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/echolivecork.