The Ballybunion thread

The place seems (from a passing visit) to be a low lying wind swept provincial funeral home and alluminum windows type town whose golden era has passed.

snow scorpion wrote:

That's the intersection I was talking about. (Or writing about.)

But there's actually a village of Lisselton north of the Intersection of Lisselton. :eek:

Five or six houses, a ruined church and a graveyard!

reic: If you want to know where any are taken from just ask.

snow scorpion: The Webshots onsite SlideShow gives quite a large view of the pics. Francis Road? Never heard of it. If you can give me a few more clues I'll be able to tell you if it's in there. One of my 3rd great grandmothers was a Francis from Lahesrough.

By the time I got to the Nuns' Strand the tide was already on the turn. I rushed down to touch the Virgin Rock - just to say that I did it. How sad is that!

snow scorpion wrote:

You're related to the Francises? well, let me show you something of your past.

The Francis Road is 2 miles east of Ballybunion. SandhillRoad has undoubtedly walked, biked, and driven past it more times than he can count. reic is in cork so I wouldn't guess how much time he/she spends on the Listowel Road.

I'll have a good look today at your Knockanore pictures again to see if I can recognize the road or some of the houses.

That'll be this bit then!

SS

The empty field that you spoke of, where the new road is next to Kilcooley's, was owned by Dan Shanahan. He also owned the butcher shop near to Hillard's. Dan had two or three fields in that area where he kept horses that were rented out by the hour to tourists in the Summer. Behind that field was a yard with stables and a big corrugated-iron barn. Access to the yard was gained by walking down the road between Kilcooley's and Mikey Joe's.

I worked for Dan for a while one Summer as a guide, taking tourists in groups along the lanes then out on to the Sandhill Road, down passed Killehenny graveyard and on to the Cashen. The horses would have a bit of a canter up and down the strand and then we would head back.

The horses knew the way and were always more eager to return to the stables than they were to go to the Cashen. One time when it was quiet three or four of us guides went for a ride out on our own. On the way back, we had a bit of a race. I let the horse I was on have its head and let it gallop back alongside the fence by the golf course. Back then the path on that side was just a sandy grass verge with lots of dips and hollows. As the horse flew I sat hunkered down occasionally getting whipped by his mane.

It was somewhere during this blinking phase, and hitting one of the dips, that I noticed that the saddle was slipping slowly to the left. I hauled back on the reins with all my 14 year old strength, but it had no effect. The further left I went, the faster the saddle slipped. I was now riding with my left leg under the horse and my right clinging with all its might to the top. I couldn't throw myself off as the wire-grill fence was about two feet away. I was sure that if I wasn't killed by the horses hooves, I would have my skull split by the concrete fence posts. Still clinging with my right leg, I grabbed the left side of the reins with both hands and pulled so hard the horse's mouth was next to my head. He was snorting into my face, but still kept going.

After what seemed like an eternity he began to slow and, when almost at a stop, I fell off - with a face full of horse snot. The horse stood there chomping at the grass while all the images of my short life that had flashed before my eyes refiled themselves. The hoots and jeers from my fellow racers confirmed that, unlike me, they had found my near-death experience quite hilarious.

More empty field memories to follow....

snow scorpion wrote:

Aha!! I knew it! Well, I didn't know, but I suspected. I stared at alfa's photo for I don't know how long with no memory of that road. A90, where does that road go?

The road goes south for about two hundred yards and then east until it comes out in the Sandhill Road near to what was once the Church Of Ireland Church that is now the Library. The road at that end appears older than the rest and I can only assume that it was once an entrance to the old Ballybunion Greyhound Track or it's car park.

There are probably some fifty or sixty houses in the road now and more are being built every year. The road is used during the busy times as a sort of bypass. It started life as New Road, then some called it Lartigue Road. It was officially named Kitt Aherne Road after a local politician three or four years ago, but I think all three names are still used and understood by the postman.

Dan would, on occasion, break in horses for himself or others. So, that summer while I was working for him I became involved in the breaking in of one such horse.

The horse had been part-broken and it was now time to put some "live"-deadweight in the saddle. I was somehow volunteered for the task of being the dummy in the saddle with many assurances that the horse was quiet and no problem at all, at all.

I sat in the saddle, which had an extremely high back and pommel to support the rider as there were no stirrups, because they might frighten the horse, and the girth strap was made of some twenty-odd pieces of soft twine that would not rub or irritate the horse.

The horse was bridled, but instead of reins there was a long length of rope attached to each side, which were held by a couple of the other lads. This would enable them to hold the horse down should he start to buck and would also allow them to slow the horse should he start to run, and would allow me time to jump clear.

We walked around the field two or three times before Dan came to the gate and called one of the lads on the rope over to him. Again I was given assurances that the horse was docile and one lad at the front would be plenty to keep the beast in check should he start to act up.

As you've probably guessed, the assurances were false. The horse suddenly reared up and the guy at the front might as well have been a knot in the rope he was holding for all the use he was. I, on the other hand, became quite exhilerated and quite fancied the prospect of sitting in this extremely secure saddle and taming this bucking bronco. I gripped the pommel with one hand ant threw the other arm behind my head as I'd seen them doing in the movies.

This feeling of euphoria lasted all of three seconds. The horse rose up to full height at the front and then started to descend. I was expecting the rear end to rise up, but thought that the front hooves would hit the ground first.

This didn't happen.

While he was still only halfway down at the front, the back shot into the air. I shot several feet further into the air and had a marvellous view of Ballyb before crashing to the ground on my right side.

I landed hard, but felt no pain. My right arm was behind me, so I found it odd that my face was resting on my right hand. I tried to get up and that's when the pain came. I blacked out.

I came to, to find Dan and the lads getting me to my feet. Dan was doing his best to encourage me to get back up on the horse. I vomitted on his wellies, and he then decided that perhaps I should go home and come back tomorrow. I preferred the second option and walked off back to Ahafona cradling my right arm.

Needless to say I didn't go back the following day. I didn't go out of the house for a couple of days, and when I eventually did venture out, I had to spend five minutes getting my right hand into my jacket pocket to keep it supprted.

I remember walking around town without a problem unless someone knocked into me. On my second day out I got into the Bumper Cars at Duggan's. After the first "bump", I had to pull over to the side and get out as it nearly killed me.

My mother arrived in Ireland five days after my flying lesson and took me straight to Tralee Hospital. I had broken my humerus and spent the next eight weeks in plaster.

At the time, the words "compensation" and "lawsuit" were not in the Irish lexicon. Neither was the contracted form of "sick" and "pay". So I spent a pretty miserable time bumming around town for the rest of the summer.

My mother helped to console me by continually telling everyone she met that she couldn't work out who was the bigger ass, me or the donkey that threw me into the air. My insistence that it was a horse and not a donkey just made her audience laugh more. "Sympathy" was another word absent from the Irish dictionary at that time.

More empty field memories to follow...

SR

The drinking haunts you mention mean nothing to me other than Sean JD's. I worked there as well for a short while one summer - collecting glasses. As far as bars go, the furthest west I travelled was The Shortis Bar (The Bunker), coming back The Railway Bar, JD's, (more recently) Blake's - which was Tony's 19th, The Badger Kelly's, which was Stevie's and what is was before that I can't remember, Liston's, The one on the next corner that I can't remember the name of, Harty-Enright's, Harty-Costelloe's, Mikey Joe's, Kilcooley's and the other new addition, Holly's.

I know Bubbles Hillard to see, but I don't think she knows me although she does know my family. I can't remember her brother's name, but he used to paint the posters for the upcoming films at the Ballybunion Cinema. I remember when they had the little shop near Dan Shanahan's.

I'm sorry, but I have no interest in the possible whereabouts of Clinton's wayward balls. I did smile though when I learned that just before his visit the town's officials removed the sign from above "Monica's", the hairdressers, in case it embarrassed him.

Back in the seventies, and possibly before that, Ballybunion was host to all the big names in the Irish music circuit. Even with ballrooms such as Horan's, The Central and Kiely's, there was still a need for more venues, and so, occasionally they would set up a huge marquis in the empty field - where the Circus would also set up if it ever came to town. I remember bands playing Ballyb such as "Big Tom & The Mainliners", "Red Hurley", "Philomena Begley", "The Horslips" and even "Thin Lizzy". I saw "Thin Lizzy" play at the Central and "The Horslips" play in the big marquis in the empty field.

It was not long after the release of their anthemic single, "Dearg Doom". It was one of the best concerts I have ever seen. Raunchy, stomping rock tunes played with electric violins, flutes, mandolins and concertinas. Who'd have thought suck old, played out instruments could sound so good.

Anyway, it was a year or so later that I was relating the story of the Horslips gig to my younger cousin and three lads we had palled up with over the last few days. My cousin was down from Dublin and the boys were holidaying from Andersonstown in the North. It was just getting dark and we were sitting on the wall of the empty field at the east end.

We were smoking and joking, not paying much attention to what was going on around, when a Garda car pulled up from the Listowel direction. The two Gardai got out and began to ask us what we were up to. What happened next changed my view of the police for a very long tme.

Prior to this I had always seen them as courteous to the elders of my family, and respected them and their authority, after all, they were the good guys. Before we could even answer, one of the cops began to push us back of the wall on which we sat. the wall was only about four feet high at the road side, but dropped an extra foot or so inside the field.

One of the NI Boys shouted, "Run", but the rest of us were already hot-footing it away towards the East End. My cousin, one of the lads and I (the three that had been pushed off the wall) scrambled through the hedge at the end of the field and ran around the two or three derelict, ruined houses that were next to the field.

We came back out on the road somewhere by the Blacksmith's to see the other two lads just ahead of us. They turned right into a little alleyway between the houses opposite "Deenihan's" where they were renting a caravan. We all managed to get inside before the cop car screeched to a halt outside.

I climbed on a water barrell and managed to get on to the roof of one of the caravans. I had no idea where the others were hiding, but was sure we would all be caught. I was lying as still as I could with my heart beating as loud as a drum. I looked up at the Milky Way and tried my best to stop breathing as I was sure the police would hear it.

I heard them coming through the gate and could see the beams from there flashlamps swinging around the air. I wondered how much of a beating I would get when they caught me, and how long I would go to prison for. Worst of all I wondered what my grandmother would say. Although I had done no wrong, I was sure she would side with law & order, everyone knew the police would never lie!.

Back in the days when I still had a niggling belief in God, I thanked Him when I heard one cop say to the other, "Come on, they must have gone through the back." I stayed on the roof for a while just in case they were trying to trick me. After a few minutes I went to the edge and looked over. There was no sign of them. I called out to the other lads in a shouted whisper. Silence! I climbed down and began to look for other hiding places where they may have hidden. I couldn't find them anywhere.

My heart leaped into the back of my throat when a hand slammed down on to my shoulder. It was Brian, one of the Andersonstown lads. he and the others who were now peering from the door of the caravan they had rented were nearly wetting themselves laughing. they had all got into the caravan while I climbed on the roof of another. They thought I had been captured until they saw me through the window creeping around outside.

We sat in the caravan, playing cards, drinking beer and smoking fags for another couple of hours, retelling the story of the chase over and over until both it and we were exhausted. My cousin and I walked back to Ahafona, hiding in gardens or ditches whenever we saw headlights coming. It all ended well as no one was hurt or harmed, but it made me distrust anyone in authority for a long, long time after.


Any more stories will have to be from somewhere else as my empty field anecdotes have now run dry.

SANDHILL ROAD: Most of the pubs I mentioned were the previous owners of the pub names you mention.I was a generation before you.
Chris is Bubbles brother, we got our newspapers there at Bubbles store.
1979 was the last time I spent any length of time in Ballybunion.
We moved to Ballybunion in 1966 and I came to America in 1972 .I no longer have family there.
Thanks for the photos and the names of the new roads.It helps to keep in touch.

I feel a bit better now. I was thinking maybe I was the generation before you! The photos I took are all picture-postcardy - aestheticly pleasing, but not too informative. I'll take some general town shots on my next visit - probably some time next Spring.

You should start a website - "The Hunt for Bill's ball." Visitors could add notes on places searched and possible clues as to the whereabouts. You could link to the site http://www.AdolphsAbsentPlum.com. With a bit of advertising - pay-per-click, it could be a little money earner.

SNOW SCORPION: The swaying continues to get worse and then I feel it. The load sways to the left, but instead of coming back to the right, it hesitates. My heart goes into my mouth, and I lean back, spread-eagle. I dig my heels into the bails at my feet and grab the bails behind me with my hands, trying to hold the load together.

This made me laugh. I pictured you trying your best to keep it all together - like trying to stop a landslide with a staple.


Don't worry, I still have plenty of stories - just none involving the empty field.