Throwback Thursday: Grandad built me my very own steerin’-ah

Throwback Thursday reader Patrick O’Donovan, who wrote to us recently about Oliver Plunkett Street, has come back to us with another memory.

“Recent mention of the Arch Bar in Winthrop Street brought back memories of Wren’s Hotel in the same place, over, if I remember correctly, Atkins garden shop,” said Patrick.

“I can recall Tony, the barman who had a fascination with the Second World War. He was known to play German military tunes on his gramophone on a regular basis and was also remarkable for his black leather overcoat.

“I also remember one of Cork’s earliest body builders Len Bernabo who unfortunately died suddenly at a relatively early age.”

Patrick recalls: “The upstairs bar was something unique, I spent many an enjoyable hour there with a collection of friends, most having passed on by now, but a few still survive. An important part of my growing up!”

Oh, the many bars of Oliver Plunkett Street! There were, in the 20th century, probably just as many as back in the 1870s.

How many readers remember the legendary Hi-B Bar and its presiding genius, Brian? Of course the bar itself is still there, but it was Brian who made it that legend. If he liked you, you were in. If he didn’t, it’s divil a drink you would get across that counter, no matter how often you tried, and how much you soft-soaped him. A great character.

Although those who were sent back down the stairs with a flea in their ear might think otherwise!

And the steerin-ahs! We got a great reaction to last week’s nostalgic memories of these early-years (and, let it be admitted, distinctly risky) modes of transport. One, which was a little bit different, came from Jim Williamson:

“Hi Jo. I read your article on Throwback Thursday and recalled a chapter on that very topic that I had written about my late grandfather, Bernard Fleming, from a wider memoir of him. Here it is:

The Engineer

“They were all the rage when I was growing up. We called them steering cars, or steerin’-ah’s. Others called them go carts. My grandfather decided I should have one, and that he should make it. The latter condition was to ensure his grandson would be safe, and it would be sturdy and secure and not fall apart while speeding down the footpath.

“By making it so solid, he ensured that it would not gather too much pace. It was going to be more of a Rolls Royce or a Bentley, rather than a Porsche.

“He sourced all the materials including the ball bearing wheels. These wheels were essential in controlling speed, unlike pram wheels.

“Just like a scene from the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, the garage door remained closed. I could hear him working away diligently. He would have the radio or tape recorder on, listening to his favourite music, preferably John McCormack, the great tenor from Athlone, who was his idol.

“My grandfather kept his latest project out of my sight, and he was not going to introduce me to his latest masterpiece until the work was complete.

“Finally the day came, when through the mechanism of pulleys he had designed, the garage door slowly opened to reveal his creation. I can still smell the fresh paint of mid grey and red. The result of all those hours of planning, design, cutting, painting, and assembly. It was akin to a new car rolling off the production line at Fords!

“Once again, he had worked his magic. Standing proudly next to my new mode of transport was not the man in the pinstriped suit but the other side of him, clad in overalls with splashes of paint and oil stains, evidence of his constant creativity and hard work.

“When I brought the steering car home, I became the envy of all my friends. Not just because I was now the proud owner of a Rolls Royce, but because I had this grandfather who lived in a magical place.

“A lovely man who was full of kindness and generosity, who had an inherent skill for bringing people happiness. They all wanted one. Not the steering car, but a grandfather just like him!”

Steering Me Right

Behind the garage door,

the sounds of deep intention.

Beneath the seasoned tools,

his latest great invention.

Created just for me,

so young, in expectation!

And when he does emerge,

I’m lost in admiration.

But there is no surprise,

for he is so intriguing.

I see it in his eyes,

confident, believing!

My steering car supreme,

smelling freshly painted,

with ball bearing wheels.

This man he should be sainted!

He affords a smile,

There’s pride in his achievement.

His favourite mid grey,

with red, roars down the pavement!

My friends, with envious looks,

admire this transportation.

But they marvel much much more,

at him, my fond relation.

Now isn’t that absolutely heartwarming? Jim, thank you so much for sharing such a memory.

Who else out there remembers a grandfather who delighted in creating such wonderful gifts in that workshop of his? Or indeed a grandmother who could be relied upon to sew, knit, mend, repair, bake, soothe, comfort? Tell us!

Remember we mentioned last week the experiences of two young people who emigrated from Ireland (one from Cork, one from Limerick), met up in post-war London, and married?

Their daughter, Pauline, grew up in that capital city, but spent every summer back in this country with her relatives, and chose to come to UCC for her university degree because she loved Cork so much.

But what about the excitement of being a teenager in 1960s London, we demanded? Weren’t you the lucky one to have all that on your doorstep? The beat clubs, the groups, the fashions, the excitement?

After all, as many readers will confirm, we used to look to London in those days as the ultimate trendy experience. Anyone who was lucky enough to go over there for a visit, or even to work for the summer, would come back with a pasted-on London accent and a raft of new clothes to show off. Which we all duly envied.

These days, young people hardly know that London is even there. They head for Singapore or Sydney, Kathmandu or Karachi, Bangkok or Borneo, without turning a hair.

For us, though, back then, it was the be-all and end-all. Didn’t Pauline realise that? What was the experience of living in such a big city, compared to our lives here in Cork? We thought it would be fascinating to compare her early years with our own.

“I had a very happy time growing up there,” agrees Pauline. “We lived in Camberwell and life in the flats was great for an only child - lots of other children to play with at all times.

“Of course, there were bomb sites everywhere and we had great adventures playing on those. In those days all adults kept an eye on the children and would give us a telling off if we were being naughty. We just accepted it and always obeyed. That way our parents didn’t have to worry about us.

“A few years into secondary education, local teen clubs started opening,” recalls Pauline. “Not discos yet, but boy bands. We had the Teen and Twenty in Camberwell every Thursday night.

“One of the groups called themselves the Beatroots and seriously modelled themselves on the Beatles. So it was Thursday night there and Saturday night at the Co-Op in Peckham Rye (where I saw The Stones, The Who, Georgie Fame and Eric Burdon and the Animals among others).

“No alcohol was sold at any of the venues. I often say, if I missed the last bus, I felt perfectly safe walking back to Camberwell late at night in my mini skirt!”

But, instinctively, her heart and whole being yearned for the land of her parents.

“From babyhood they would take me over for the whole summer on the Innisfallen and split the visit between Cork and Limerick. In the early years most of the holiday would be spent in Monkstown with a short visit to the families in Askeaton and Abbeyfeale.

“As I grew older, into my teens, Askeaton was the big draw for me because I had cousins the same age and they would take me to dances, etc, and generally introduce me to their friends. (I had one particular boy that I liked in Askeaton but he was not approved by my Uncle Jack. Uncle Jack couldn’t bring himself to warn me off so that job fell to my cousin Mary. Because of that, this boy would wait for me outside and walk me home. Very romantic!)”

Pauline adds: “I did have one good friend in Monkstown who used to take me to meet her friends and we’d ‘hang out’ with them. Her name was Dymphna - Walsh, I think.

“I loved it all and much preferred it to the London discos, etc. There was such a feeling of freedom in Ireland, you could really be yourself.”

Now that is marvellous, Pauline. Thank you for giving us your memories. Readers, how does her life growing up in London compare with what you remember of early days here? We would really like to know, to compare the two experiences.

We mentioned last week the Cycling Cities Photo Exhibition which runs at Bishopstown Library in Wilton to November 27.

The exhibition, which shows the rich history and culture of cycling in Cork, reminded John Ryan of his own biking escapades long ago. Not on a posh model from Jack Healy’s, though.

“In those days we used to build our own bikes from bits we scavenged from The Dump or from our buddies,” said John.

“On the way home from school when we arrived at the Coliseum corner, we would wait for a slow truck – generally it would be an Ellis’s sand and gravel truck, as they were the slowest.

“We would wait till they were changing down to first gear to go up Summerhill, and then make a spurt to catch up on them. We would catch on to the bar at the back end of the truck body which was used to open the tailgate. There could be four of us hanging onto the same truck.

“The driver would sometimes give a deliberate shudder to try and shake us off, but we would re-engage.

“We would have to keep in to the middle of the back of the truck passing the Guards Barracks above St Lukes Cross. As each of us came to his own house on the Old Youghal Road, we would de-couple and freewheel into our own place.”

John added: “Those of us who went all the way to Dillons Cross would be asphyxiated from the diesel fumes that we had inhaled on the journey up. It was probably the equivalent of smoking a hundred fags in 10 minutes. Not to mention our black faces from the exhaust fumes.

“Our bikes and shoes would be covered in sandy water as the lorries would be ‘weeping’ all the way up Summerhill. But we were happy that we got a free ride up those Northside hills!”

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