The Story of Ballyferris. Chapter Thirteen. Some Dad-type Incidents.

Me ...Dad ...and Rosie

 This chapter is a story about dad and it could only be told after he had passed on. It's hard to believe that he died nearly forty years ago, because my memories of him are so clear...though that may be because I am  now close to the age he was when he went! 

In our hidden garden, here at The Potters House in Penketh, every autumn we are amazed at the variety of fungi that crops up under the birch grove and the grassy paths of the labyrinth. Mushroom and fungi are everywhere. I'm astounded at the size of some of them for those in around the labyrinth are the most beautiful, tiny little orangey-red ones.

 I've looked in my fungi book in the summer house, but it's hard to know exactly what we have. So I just warn the grand children to look but not touch. Nowadays fungi is one of the most talked about subjects within the scientific world. Centres such as Kew are publishing reports of how it is a basic provider of environmental health on the earth's surface and I read about the link between fungi and trees in Merlin Sheldrake's book.."Entangled Lives"..well worth a visit!  But in the 50s I thought that the mushrooms which came with my Ulster fry were from a farm somewhere in the country. So it was with great anticipation that I was allowed to go with dad very early one summer morning, leave the caravan field and go up the lane and on to Greystone Road the one that led to Carrowdore...you remember Carrowdore? Once there to enter the best field where fresh mushrooms were to be found and take them back to mum for the breakfast she was cooking. 

Some of the fungi to be found here at The Potters House.

What child living in a city in the 50s knew that the best field mushrooms were to be found where the biggest cow claps were! Not me.  Big white umbrella like fungi that grew on the edges of  brown claps where dad and I picked enough to feed the family for breakfast that morning. I have really never since had such a wonderful taste as those freshly picked that day still with the early morning dew shining on their tops. And when they were fried in the pan with foaming butter and us all seated around the little table and the sound of the sea and the smell of the wild flowers in the long grass... well that was heaven. 

But this story of dad and Cassie and her field is a good one and all the better for a comment I received recently from someone who discovered me on my blog and was also in Ballyferris with her family at the same time as us. We always seemed to eat well at the caravan. Maybe it was the fresh air, maybe it was the smell of the calor gas stove or maybe it was because after a day roaming the beaches, we were just plain ravenous.  So as I have written, I learnt from dad that the best place to look for mushrooms was around the periphery of old cow pats! I suppose you could say that they were very well manured. As I have already said the difference in the taste of a freshly picked field mushroom and a lily white button one salvaged from the ravages of some supermarket shelf cannot be described with mere words. I would need you to smell and taste these plump, snowy morsels after they had been gently marinaded in hot butter by mum and arranged on toast... also dripping with butter... and placed on the caravan table sometime around eight in the morning, just after a successful search. The best field to find these jewels of the morning were always at Cassie’s farm. Cassie was an old woman living alone in her farm up on the right of the Greystone Road looking away from Hope's property. As kids we used to climb on the back of Wully Hope's tractor and cling on for dear life as one of the Hope boys drove at breakneck speed up the narrow road to Cassie’s to work in the potato fields gathering the harvest. In my memories this was normally Neil, the younger of the two sons, who allowed us on to the back of the tractor. Can you imagine this happening today? Of course it was a bit dangerous, but in all the years that I did it, I knew of no accidents. That’s not to say that there were none but I never heard of them. Cassie’s farmyard was a lot smaller the Hope’s. but just as exciting for us townies. I can't imagine now that I did very much gathering for the potato harvest, but to be with the others and the joshing and joking that went on was just such a wonderful memory.

 "The Quaint Couple" by Charles Vincent Lamb. 1893-1964

There is a great family story concerning dad and Cassie. One early morning he went out alone to pick some mushrooms. He was wandering about in one of her fields scanning the ground for fresh white goodies by the cow pats, when a voice cried out to him in a lovely Co. Down accent,

 “ I think you’ve strayed!”

He looked up and noticed an elderly farming woman approaching him pointing a loaded shotgun in his direction. But being the charmer that he was, he gave a chuckle and agreed. " I think I have!" However Cassie was having none of it, and dad had to carefully retreat back out of the gate and off down the Greystone Road. Dougie's charm was not enough that morning to calm the situation. Alas, that was the last time we ever gathered mushrooms there for our seaside breakfasts. 

Cassie had every right to defend her land. A woman living alone out in the country needed to know how to protect herself. Then again, maybe that’s why she was alone! I’ll never know. Moments like this are there to be savoured and remembered in the difficult times that all of us encounter in life. All I know is that she was highly esteemed by the Hope family and that's enough for me.

Fly Agaric under the birch grove in the hidden garden.

I believe them to be magic mushrooms....but I've not tried them so I have nothing to report!!