Throwback Thursday: Cork memories of motorbike spins, Tayto treats, and a glass of ‘raza’

YOU might remember a picture we published some weeks ago showing a happy group of gentlemen outside Cash’s, heading off on the old bus to Ballycotton. Joan McCarthy was prompted to write that to her it looked like a photo from the first half of the 20th century, a time when there weren’t too many women in the workplace, and this could explain the reason for it being an ‘all male’ outing.

“Another thought that struck me,” continues Joan, “was that once women married, they had to give up work. This was certainly still the case in the 1950s,when my parents married and my mother had to leave her place in Woolworths, a job she loved dearly. Can you imagine that being the case today? Hard to believe how much has changed in such a relatively short time!”

Indeed, Joan, it went on well into the 60s. When the noted knitwear designer Cyril Cullen and his fiancée Margie decided to get married then, she duly asked her superiors in the Civil Service, where she held a very senior post, for honeymoon leave. Instead she got her notice! Much later on, coming into the 21st century, when the new Ireland was emerging, she applied for compensation and got it! But back then it was the norm.

Joan has sent us photos of annual outings from the Cork Iron & Hardware on North Main St back in the 50s and 60s, when her father worked there.

I remember him telling me that there were no partners allowed....sure, weren’t they tied to the kitchen sink and rearing babies? And not a washing machine or a disposable nappy in sight!

Interestingly, there are plenty of women in that photograph, so clearly it was all right to work until you changed your name. Then your whole lifestyle changed as well as your name. No matter if you were brilliant at your job, and could have gone on to invent something incredibly important, or contributed hugely to the success of the company with which you worked. Back in mid-20th century Ireland, married women were meant to stay home and produce the next generation. How many readers remember this harsh fact?

Joan comments that she loved Patrick O’Donovan’s story last week about his family’s day out to Blackrock Castle, mother on bus with baby, dad back and forth with the other three children.

“How wonderful, and what a precious memory for Patrick. And that bike that ended up bringing him to and from school each day in Turner’s Cross. It really is amazing how one story/photograph from way back when can evoke such long forgotten memories for others.

“I remember when my dad ‘upgraded’ to a motorbike (a motorbike being a little green Yamaha 50!),in the early 70’s. I have very vivid memories of my dad taking three of the younger ones (one on the front, two on the back) out to the river in Carrigrohane across from the Anglers Rest for the day.”

It’s something you still see in the streets of India or Thailand these days, Joan, mamma, papa, several children, and often a couple of plastic buckets or cardboard boxes, all whirring along on a small motorbike.

“I can feel so strongly the love and safety of my dad taking his younger offspring on a day out,” muses Joan. 

The wind on our (unhelmeted!) hair, glorious heat on our bones (we’d never heard of sun factor)....Why is it, when we think back on those days, the sun always seemed to be shining?

“My dad was always a very strong swimmer. I remember to this day, sitting on the pebbles by the water (let’s be honest, you could never call it a beach), watching my dad swimming, (me praying he’d get back to ‘shore’ safely, him so happy with the simple pleasure of being in the water.) After safely returning to us (he always did), we would lounge in the sun for a while, and then before returning home, there would be a little stop at the Anglers Rest. Us kids would get a packet of Tayto crisps (what a treat) and a glass of ‘raza’ each, and my dad would have one pint of Murphys.

“I remember asking my dad in later years why he drank Murphys when he began his working life in Guinness. His answer you can probably guess: ‘because Murphys was made in Cork.’”

Lovely vivid recollections Joan of the popular swimming place known throughout Cork as ‘Hellhole’. It was thus called, apparently, because the river had dangerously deep pits in the gravel here and there, into which an unwary or poor swimmer could sink, but for those who were well able to conquer the water, it was a favourite resort on summer days.

“As to the location of the photo of my mum and dad on their bikes in the 1950s [shown last week], says Joan, her nephew, sports journalist Ruairi O’Hagan, believes it may have been taken on Lavitt’s quay, off Patrick’s Bridge, which makes sense as my mum and dad, during their courting days spent many a happy hour in Thompson’s on McCurtain Street, where they would dine on a sweet cake and a glass of milk. But as to who took it, and where my parents got the photo from....there goes the ‘why didn’t I ask more questions?’ bell again!”

Janet Kelly read on previous Throwback Thursday pages about the old pubs of Cork, and rooted out a photograph to send us - see left, top photo.

“This is a photo of the darts team from the Stag’s Head pub. I think it was on Merchant St or maybe Maylor St. Mrs Foley was the landlady there. My late dad, Bernie Mc Greevy, is 3rd from the left in 2nd last row. I think a few of the men worked in Dunlops too. Maybe your readers might be able to put names to the faces? Keep up the great articles I love reading them every week - brings back some happy memories of our lovely city.”

Tim Cagney has been thinking back to his first childhood pet: “As a youngster, I had a fear of dogs. In those days, they seemed to like chasing people, as well as trying to attack moving cars. One of our neighbours had a bad-tempered Jack Russell, who spent most of his time in their front garden. When my friends and I were playing street-football – something else which was popular, back in the day – and I happened to accidentally knock the ball over said neighbours’ hedge, I’d be terrified to enter their garden, in order to retrieve it. Then, one day, my father decided that the best way to rid me of such fear was to buy a dog for the family.

“A doctor living at nearby Richmond Terrace, had a female cocker spaniel, which had recently given birth to a litter of pups, and we acquired one. He was a delightful little creature, black and white in, colour, and we called him Prince. 

Dad’s plan worked, to the extent that I gradually lost my canine fears, and Prince and myself became best buddies. 

"He was quite clever in many ways. He could, for instance, distinguish weekdays from weekends. Dad didn’t work on Saturdays, so every Saturday morning Prince presented himself at the door of the parental bedroom, knowing it was ‘walkie-day.’ He never did it on any other day of the week.

“He was also quite adept at understanding language. Right behind our house (on Gardiner’s Hill) lay the grounds of St. Patrick’s Boys School, a favourite romping-ground for Prince. You only had to say ‘out the back’ and he would come tearing to the back door, pawing frantically to get out.

“He also understood ‘there’s a cat in the garden.’ This would bring him scurrying into our back-kitchen, where he would observe said cat from the window, emitting loud whining noises. The cat, being well aware that Prince had no way of getting out, would just stare, disdainfully, at the window, until it decided to casually take its leave.

“Prince’s favourite expression to hear, however, was ‘down the Glen.’ This related to that celebrated amenity, known as Goulding’s Glen, not far from where we lived, where he had the time of his life, running through the meadow and playing in the stream. As soon as we entered the Glen, we would release Prince from his lead, and he would race madly ahead of us, and dive into the water. He would then pop his head above the bank of the stream, to make sure we were still there.

“Although Cocker-Spaniels were usually regarded as gun-dogs, this particular genetic marker had somehow, missed Prince. He was very much averse to loud noises, particularly to the sound of exploding percussion-caps from toy guns. Three local children were especially problematic to him in this regard – ironically, they were all girls! 

It need hardly be said, I suppose, that he dreaded Christmas most of all, when a certain ‘arms-dealer,’ clad in a red suit, would deliver large quantities of these terrible weapons to every household.

“I had always been interested in arts & crafts, and in my early teenage years took-up the skill of fretwork. A fretsaw was a saw with a very thin blade, which could cut intricate shapes in wood. Nowadays, they are electrically driven, and are known as “scroll-saws”. I decided to craft a plaque, featuring an effigy of Prince. It hung on the kitchen wall of my parents’ house until the dwelling was sold, in 2019. It now adorns a wall in my ‘den,’ looking down on me, as I write. It’s showing its age, just a bit – the letter R is missing, for instance – but still looks reasonably presentable, for something over 60 years old. (See pictured on page 20)

“In 1973, a career-move took me to Dublin, leaving friends, family, and Prince behind. He always remembered me, however, whenever I made visits home, and – after an understandable brief few moments of doubt – would bury his head in my chest. At that stage, he had assumed an additional colour – red. This came about because dad decided to paint the kitchen with a substance known as ‘distemper,’ a sort of water-based, indoor whitewash. Unlike whitewash, however, it was available in many colours. Why dad chose red shall always remain a mystery to me. Anyway, a side-effect of this concoction was that, when it dried, it was prone to rub-off on the clothing on anyone brushing-up against it. Prince, of course – clever as he was – could not be expected to know about such things, and soon he had acquired the additional colour!

“In 1976, at the age of 15, Prince – sadly – developed cancer. His quality of life gradually diminished, until – inevitably – the terrible day came, when dad and my brother – Con - had to bring Prince on his final journey to the vet. Dad was asked if he wished to retain the lead, but he declined – he just couldn’t bear the thought of being reminded of his beloved pal, day after day. He and Con stood in the doorway of the surgery and collapsed into tears. With leaden hearts, they trudged up Summerhill North. When they reached St. Luke’s Cross, they visited Henchy’s Bar, where they drowned their sorrows. I’m glad I wasn’t there.”

Don’t we all have heartbreaking memories of pets who crossed that rainbow bridge ahead of us? Any animal lover will feel a sympathetic pang reading Tim’s touching story.

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