Stories of Fr. Kilbride running the lads from the toss pit and cart an ass being tackled to a land through a gate and gate hanging on chimney tops, prompted local composer Berney Kivlehan to write the song “The Crossroads Brigade”. There were characters in my childhood, Jack and Berney, to name but two, who were Kingsland’s equivalent of Hollywood’s Laurel and Hardy. In some ways the even outdid them for their acts were so natural off the cuff (so original). We took them for granted and never realised how good they were until their passing. 

It was in the 50s that the bona fide system was introduced. Pubs closed at 10.30 p.m. in summer and 10 p.m. in winter and all-day Sunday. The system allowed anyone who lived over three miles from the pub to be served until midnight during the week and from 12 noon to 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. on Sundays.

This resulted in people from Kingsland drinking in Boyle, while people from Boyle, Ballinameen and Frenchpark drank in Kingsland. When a knock came to the door at night, or on a Sunday the publican would ask “who’s there?” The reply was always travellers, whether they were or not or sometimes “Guard on duty”. But when you opened the door, it was usually the locals who rushed in. This reminds me of one night the Garda called. Upon hearing a knock at the door my father asked the usual question and the reply was “Garda on duty “. My father replied “I’ve heard that one before. But they persisted and on opening the door it was the guards for real. In those days the Garda would go to extreme lengths to secure a prosecution against a “found on”. On one occasion the pub was raided, and a man called Gos Forde was found on. His excuse was he was a traveller, but they did not believe him. About a week later two Garda came to measure the distance from the pub to his home. This was done on a hot summer’s day, using chains. By the time they had measured to the beginning of his land they gave up as he had already exceeded the three miles. So Gos Forde’s claim to fame was that he was a traveller in any pub in Ireland.

My father was also raided in 1953 with a man called Joe Murray found on. His excuse to the court was “I wasn’t able to run as fast as the others. He was fined 5/shillings. This system proved to be tot ally inoperable.

Soon after this I was able to help with the filling and weighing of sugar and tea. I also filled my first pint at 1 shilling and 1 penny, standing on a cider crate to reach the counter. By the age of ten I was able to let my father go and have his tea in the evening. I would serve the customers who were mostly pensioners, ten-twelve of them would have come in by this time: Pat McDermott, William Knott, Martin King, Joe McGarry, Jack Kivlehan, Berney Kevlehan, Martin McGarry, Sonny McGarry, Tom Shannon, Michael Harrington, Owen Murray, Mick Kelly (Fluter), Hubert Connaughton. On a winters night round an open turf fire I listened to them telling ghost stories and folklore and giving the weather forecast, made from keen observations and a knowledge handed down. Other popular topics were the cattle prices. Then the card game would start at 8 or 9 p.m. It was usually ‘25’ for a penny stake. If you made a mistake, you got a good telling off. It was in this cosy setting I learned the history of the area and the game of ‘25’. You could say the pub was my university of life.

It was not unusual during this period to see a man having his hair cut by Mick Harrington or Mick Shannon in one corner, while Ray Devine was selling calves on the bar floor as the experts judged each calf and found fault. Ray was sure he could satisfy even the hardest to please, by bringing in yet another with all the qualities they looked for and complete the sale. If this was on a Saturday evening a dentist on his way from surgery dropping in for quick one, could be seen performing extractions amid the rest. Soon the word of his service got around and all emergencies for a time gathered on Saturday evenings to have their pain relieved. This all happened as if normal, without an eyelid being batted. The grocery always seemed to be busy and with the drawing of the pension of Friday it was like a market day. First would be the arrival of Johnny Beirne with the hot bread from Egans. The batch loaf and the tea cake were the most popular. The customers never seemed to be in a hurry like today. The same pensioners met every Friday as if by prearranged appointment, so they could exchange news from the different townlands. Mrs. McGlynn engaged in deep conversation on ordering her half oz of snuff, kept a keen eye on the size of the paper bag you were using so she got the full weight. As the old men finished their shopping they retired to the bar to have a half-one first, followed by the usual bottle of porter and the ritual of filling the pipe for that well deserved smoke. It was just like a scene from a post card. These men were the “once a week tippers” in for the shopping: B. Brennan, Mick McKeon, Peter Healy, Mick Kelly (Flute), John Henehan, Ned Garvey, Berney Spellman, Mick McLaughlin, Andy Keavney, Jimmy Harlow, Oddy McHugh, Paddy Connolly. As a result, the drink went to their heads a lot quicker than the night-time regulars. The conversation again was usually about the weather, relations, and of course, who’s who and depending on the season, the work being carried out on the farm. As more of them came in and got merrier they drifted back to their youthful days, The folklore flowed as did the odd difference of opinion. Sometimes voices were raised and even led to arguments on their version of events. By one o’clock, eight - ten would be there and their stories seemed to be from another age.