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Memories of an Inchicore Christmas

The Season of Christmas is always a special time for children. Not unlike most adults, I tend to reflect on my own childhood at this time of year. The Grand Canal, in a roundabout way, played an important part in my enjoyment of the festive season. It was a working canal back then, with quite a few barges passing through Inchicore with their various cargoes.

There was something pleasing about barge-travel. Always easy on the eyes and never hurried, a laden barge seemed to glide through the water like a royal black swan.
There was always time to talk; the barge-men leaning on the lock gate, happy to tell the enquiring passer-by where the barge had come from and the type of weather left behind. The lock-keeper, key in hand, controlling the flow of water. Peter Lynch at the first lock, Larry Condron at the second, Paddy Moore at the fourth and Danny O’Brien at the fifth, all highly respected house-hold names in the Inchicore area.
I wonder how many people would even know the first name of the local busmen today?

The children generally behaved themselves at the canal, keeping well back. There they would stand, spellbound as the barge in the lock-chamber rose or fell depending on the direction it was going.
Of course, there was always a race then to find who could get to the next lock first.

Almost every type of goods were delivered by canal in those days and anyone in Dublin lucky enough to have relations living in the country could expect some sort of parcel or package at Christmas. We had relations in Tipperary and every year a special parcel was handed over to the canal agent in Dromineer, on the River Shannon. From there it was loaded on a barge for the two day journey to Dublin.

The distinctive sound of the barge engines could be heard right down in Inchicore, the traffic situation not being what it is today. At night the haunting sound of a barge horn in the distance gave a comforting feel to a restless child on an over-quiet night.
Looking back, I must have had my poor mother pestered with my questions.
“Is our parcel on that barge, Ma?”
“When will it arrive, Ma?”
“What’s in the parcel, Ma?”
And all this at three or four in the morning.

After what seemed like an eternity, word would finally come that our parcel had indeed arrived. My father would be left with no choice but to bring me along, on the crossbar of his bicycle, down to James’s Street Harbour. The porter in the canal stores never had to search for our parcel. I would have it spotted amongst the hundreds of other packages before my father had the release papers signed.

Then it was back on the bike, myself once again on the crossbar, the parcel carefully tied with string, on the carrier. It was free wheel most of the way to Kilmainham but we would have to walk up Emmet Road hill.

As soon as we would arrive home, my brothers and sisters would appear and we would all gather around the kitchen table as the parcel was carefully opened.
“Please, Ma”
“Read the letter later, Ma”
“Ah Please Ma”
My mother would give in, the letter placed aside, and the contents of the parcel would be taken out, one at a time:- home-made butter, brussel sprouts, a bottle of poitin (meant as a pick-me-up for my father), a rich-fruit Christmas cake and last but not least, a large un-plucked goose. We could really look forward to our Christmas now.

When Christmas morning eventually came, it was up early for Mass in the Oblates, then a visit to the Crib. After that it was up to the canal for a brisk walk, to work up an appetite. It always ended up as a run home for the dinner. The home-made butter melting on the potatoes, the steaming brussel sprouts, the smell of roast stuffed goose filling the air – ah! This was the life!

After the dinner, it was back out on the road, playing cowboys and Indians, showing off our new guns. There was always more Indians than cowboys, proudly attired in their home-made feathered head-dresses.
When asked about the head-dress, the reply was always the same “ the Kelly’s got a goose from the canal for their Christmas dinner.”
What some people must have thought, it’s a wonder we were never reported to the D.S.P.C.A for cruelty to wildlife.

This year, I once again look forward to Christmas. I will be up early for Mass, I will visit the Crib and take the walk up to the canal but the journey home will be at a more leisurely pace. Nowadays, I get my pleasure from seeing the children enjoying their Christmas. The only thing missing for me will be the goose.