Horsing around
JOHN CROWLEY samples the joys of the open road — by joining
his father on a horse-drawn caravan trip through Ireland.
 By JOHN CROWLEY
I SUSPECTED by the way mum gleefully waved us off that it was she who
was getting a holiday away from us.
My Irish father Teddy had reluctantly agreed to spend five days with his
eldest son on a horse-drawn Gypsy caravan in rural Ireland.
Our close but highly-charged relationship would be put under severe strain
in an enclosed space with only a shaggy horse for company. Mum was predicting
fireworks.
In spite of his misgivings about his travel companion I knew deep down
he was looking forward to playing a tourist in his home country for the
first time.
As a boy growing up on a farm in the 1950s before moving to London he
had seen such caravans passing through his village. Like many of the locals
in rural Co. Cork he had never hitched a ride.
Half a century later I wondered whether our trip would awaken fond memories
of his childhood. Or, would the two of us look anachronistic in the achingly-groovy
Ireland of today? More importantly, would we still be speaking by the
end of the week?
The launch pad for our journey was Kilvahan, a site 10 miles from Portlaoise
in Co. Laois, some 50 miles south-east of Dublin.
From this base during the spring and summer dozens of groups are given
an induction in tacking-up before being put out on the road.
In truth, dad and I were itching to start. But first we were shown what
were to be our living quarters: The kitchen, gas lighters and the art
of morphing a table into two makeshift beds.
Then of course there was Taffie — a 17-year-old cob that had once
pulled vegetable carts in Dublin and who would guide us on our way.
 Our route was to take
us along quiet lanes with night stops every four miles at a country farm
or pub. On our car journey from Dublin the Irish countryside had flashed
past us in a blur. Now on the back of a caravan at the dizzying speed
of 2mph the world was thrown into sharp focus.
In Ireland they say God is in the detail: Sights and smells, imperceptible
whilst in a vehicle, danced before us. The scent of honeysuckle wafted
off the hedgerows while a patchwork quilt of fields with golden barley
and bales of hay would fold out in front of us.
From our perch we felt an incidental intimacy with the houses we were
slinking past and dad was happy to comment on which gardens didn’t
come up to scratch.
“Too much ornamentation,” he would mutter as we passed a manicured
property blooming with flowers that had overdone it on the statues.
Clearly beginning to enjoy himself he pointed out disused sheep dips and
water pumps he would have been sent to as a boy.
In the back of our minds however we both knew that harnessing the horse
every morning would be a lightning rod for our spats.
Sure enough, we lapsed into the default parent-teenager mode as we dressed
Taffie the next day. I felt dad had not paid enough attention during the
induction course.
His devil-may-care attitude to tacking up contrasted with his comments
on my untidiness in our tight living space. Suffice it to say we uphold
different standards. In response to his Boot Camp regime I adopted the
passive-aggressive stance of a 15-year-old.
After a row Taffie was finally harnessed up and dad retreated inside to
cook us a fry. Judging by his strangled shouts it was not the best idea
while we bounced along a gravelled road. Thankfully, the inclement Irish
weather helped break the tension.
With me at the reins and the heavens opening, dad stuck his head out of
the window and pronounced: “This looks like wet rain.”
“As opposed to dry rain,” I roared back in.
Like warring stags, we were fighting for dominance. But it was dad later
that morning who had a chance to shine when we spotted a blackbird wriggling
in a ditch. Quick as a flash he jumped down and gently freed the struggling
animal from the weeds. As it soared into the sky he grinned triumphantly
at me. I could only but bow to his superior expertise.
Though we both know Ireland well this was our first visit to Laois.
A prosperous and scenic county dotted with historic houses and grand Anglo-Irish
gardens it is thankfully not yet on the beaten track.
When we pulled over for provisions inquisitive locals would stop for a
chat and bug-eyed children would ask for a ride. At our night stops we
were warmly greeted by our hosts. For two hard-bitten people who feel
modern Ireland has lost its soul this lifted our spirits.
 At our first night
near the village of Ballyroan six caravans had arrived to be greeted by
our hosts Margaret and Rody McEvoy. Once we had put Taffie out to pasture
they took a group of us to watch a set dance in a country pub.
Dad was in his element here — sticking his hand up like an eager
schoolboy when volunteers were asked for. My heart swelled with pride
when a whisper went round the room that my dad was a handy mover on the
dance floor.
At our next stop near Abbeyleix, Noel and Ita Thompson told us why they
had been welcoming caravans for the last six years.
“It’s not a hotel and we love meeting the visitors,”
said Ita as we looked at her husband Noel out on his tractor. “Each
of them has a different story to tell.”
On another evening Jean Louis-Feys, a Belgian psychiatrist on holiday
with his family, explained why he was taking a similar break to one he
had done 20 years ago when he was a child.
“My children love playing with the horse, the farmyard animals and
the other kids at the stops,” he said. “The hospitality is
great, it’s perfect.”
If a family of four could get along, there was no reason why dad and I
couldn’t. As we settled into a daily routine our relationship turned
more harmonious. In the evenings we would go to a local pub, returning
to play cards, make our supper and chew the fat in the evening twilight.
We talked like we had had never done in years.
He is planning a similar holiday for us this year — I have told
him that I may not be quite ready for that. Still, he has been gruffly
informed that I saw an intuitive side to him which I never knew existed.
He now knows me for the spoilt brat I always was and has kindly informed
me that I still have a hell of a lot to learn
Evidently, mummy may know best. But dads will always think they’re
darn right.
Fact file…
Kilvahan Horse-Drawn Caravans,
Tullibards Stud,
Coolrain,
Co.Laois,
Ireland
Tel: 00353 502 35178
Fax: 00353 502 35155
Email: kilvahan@eircom.net
Web: www.horsedrawncaravans.com
Kilvahan is open from May to September. Starting days are Wednesdays
and Saturdays. Cars parking at base. A week’s stay costs £644
in high season (July-August). In May, June and September it is £476.
It costs £14 to stay at each overnight stop. |
