Hollow 8

Walking down the boreen on a beautiful summer morning a skylark sprang from nowhere. Flying and singing, it surprised and delighted the walkers. They watched until it was no more than a speck in the lavender-blue sky.

The lane was bright with colour. The middle of the path long since reclaimed by nature. The grey and white drystone walls decorated with ivy and lichen, suffused with fuchsia framed the route.

 Before the boreen reached the road, a stone stile gave access to a little-used footpath. Sean and Jonjo squeezed between the upright stones. Juggling their bags through the gap, they settled for their morning break.

"I found some interesting stuff in the parish records," began Sean. "All our family records are there. The most unusual was some correspondence from 1847 about extending the cemetery."

"That would be 'Black 47' the worst year of the famine," added Jonjo.

"That's right, it seems that the graveyard was expanded right to the roadside. Room was made for a mass grave so that the victims of the famine could be buried on consecrated ground."

"That fits in with what I've seen," contributed Jonjo. The churchyard wall has been altered. It looks as though some layers of stone were taken from the top and used for extending the length. Robbing Peter to pay Paul, my Dad used to call it. It accounts for that strange corner that Fr. bumped his bike on. When I cut the grass yesterday, I could see an outline of what must have been the grave. The ground was sunken and had a rough edge of stones, small rocks little more than pebbles. A makeshift plot but probably a huge undertaking for those struggling people," continued Jonjo.

"It does all go together. I'm not sure what we can do next to find out what is troubling the poor soul in the graveyard," asked Sean.

"Well, that's why we are on a marathon of a walk today. We are walking down the river, then following it past the mill and down to the stone bridge. Across the bridge, the old warehouse has been converted into a Rest Home. It's there we'll find Bridie Murphy. She's the oldest person in the parish and a local historian. She has a good twenty years, even on us two."

The footpath reminded the two of the Hollow. The path lay below the level of the fields, the canopy of trees almost forming a tunnel.

"The tinkers used to come this way, but I've not seen any for a long time," commented Sean. "Great fellers those tinkers."

"You know Jonjo, you've had your fair share of tribulation in life. How do you stay so cheerful?" asked Sean.

Jonjo thought for a moment. "I've had to work at it since Mary died, but she taught me a lot. I try to say positive things, and if I think something that's not positive I try not to say it."

"If you've nothing good to say say nothing at all my Mammy used to say," said Sean.

"Then Mary told me that I should remember JOY, it stood for Jesus, others, yourself. She said that was the priority, I told her, that I found it difficult to work out what Jesus would want. So she told me that putting others before myself would do the job."

"A clever lady," replied Sean.

"The other things I've taught myself are, if I think of a sad memory, then straight away think of two happy ones. I take pleasure in small things; the smell of bacon frying, the songs of birds. If I think about Mary, God rest her soul, I don't think of her criticising me from above. She knows my failings, and I think of her helping me. The same goes for my Mammy and Daddy, and everyone else I've lost, God rest them."