The Field ...Ballyferris

 

                                                                  Chapter Four

      The Field

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I had a wonderful conversation this week with the younger son of the farmer who owned the field...Neil Hope...sadly he says no wild flowers are now to be found in the field nor skylarks singing high above the caravans...such is the way of all flesh I think...but we can all do our bit to restore these precious parts of nature in our own little corners of this country.

                                                                            

In the early years our caravan was positioned along the back edge of the field. Behind us was the potato field and beyond that the coast road, leading left to Ballywalter and right toward Millisle. In front, a field of long grass and wild flowers, beyond that the beach and after a rocky foreshore the grey Irish Sea. The field was reached down a narrow lane which led to the beach, and on the right it was bordered by another caravan field . It was the first time that I had ever seen the kind of wild flowers that I had loved in the Flower Fairy books. Heartsease, wild thyme, marguerites, buttercups and lots more to thrill the soul of a dreaming child. Skylarks sang overhead as they soared higher and higher into the air luring us away from their nests hidden in the long grass .The air was sweet and spicey and when the wind dried on your lips they tasted salty and full of the sea. In later years pride of place right in the middle of all this was a flagpole and flying proudly from the top, the British Union Jack. Dad said that the farmer who owned the field, called it the “Flag of Prosperity” -pronounced “persparety” but this may only be a family fable. Caravans of various sizes and shapes were sited all around the perimeter of the field and thus began for me a life totally separate from the routine of home , school , home, in Belfast.

National Trust: Ards Peninsula.
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■sandhoppers, a little shrimp-like crustacean

■seaweed flies, insects which are food for turnstones, starlings and badgers

■sea aster (Aster tripolium) flowering from July to October

■scurvy grass

■thrift (Armeria maritima) flowering from June to August

■sea lavender (Limonium spp) flowering from July to December

■wild thyme (Thymus drucei)

■stonecrops and squills flowering in the summer

■bell heather (Erica cinerea) flowering from June to September

■bee orchids (Ophrys apifera) flowering from April to May

■pyramidal orchids (Anacamptis pyramidalis) flowering from June to August

■twayblade orchids (Listera ovata) flowering from May to July

Of course I didn't know the names of any of these wonderful bits of nature, I just reveled in their beauty and in my new found freedom.

The Story of Ballyferris. Chapter 3... The Road

Chapter Three

The Road Taken

                               
Journeys nowadays are speedy affairs... well that is if the traffic isn’t too jammed up... or the road works aren’t bringing us all down to one lane . But in these days that I write about, there were no bypasses or dual carriageways, so every trip was a major undertaking.
Which of course made it all the more exciting.

There was one special road that led to Newtownards. We called it, “The Switchback”.
It had no bends in it at all ... it was simply a dead straight road going up and down and over the hills. .The alternative road...the wider road was more regular, and thus deemed boring. So the cry went up from the kids on the back seat, “Dad, please take the hilly route!”.
As far as I can remember nobody was car-sick, but that may be because I didn’t want to admit to such feelings. Hauling your stomach back inside you as the car bounced over the top of the hills time after time, with Ian shouting “faster, faster dad!”, meant that I couldn’t let myself down by admitting to nausea.
Through Newtownards and the road edged along Strangford Lough, eventually turning left towards the village of Carrowdore. Isn’t it odd the feelings you get on some roads? It seemed to me that it was out in the wilds and had a wild west deserted look to it. Thinking back, farming wasn’t the pretty, crafty place that a lot of it seems in the fashionable magazines today...and the people were possibly poor cottage farmers....I'm not sure. Or maybe it’s just another example of my insatiable imagination!
 Right turn at the end of the village and we’re almost at the field, the farm, the caravan,
                                                             
                                                                     Ballyferris.

. Ah! Ballyferris! What magic is conjured up even at the mention of the name. As we come over the last hill the competition is on to be the first to shout out...“I see the sea”. ?
 I really, really want it to be me. …but usually it was my big brother Ian, Iupy ...the son‘n’heir.
Now and again we journeyed down by a different road, driving past the old windmill at Millisle, before turning right to join the coast road again. That was always a great route because dad really loved icecream, and there was a wonderful shop in Millisle selling cream ice in a poke (that’s a cone to you!) ...which was then dipped into melted chocolate and the joy as you crunched through the hard shell of the chocolate made a memory never to be forgotten.. So we were happy bunnies when we reached the field...........

 

..if also rather sick!

Chapter Two...Mr. Megaw's Car.

 ...and so the story goes...

Chapter Two

Mr Megaw's Car

Mr. M was our next door neighbour. He lived with Mrs. M and their daughter Margaret. I didn’t know for a long time that she was called Margaret as everyone knew her as Miss Peggy. In my “singy” moments I used to hum, "If her eyes are blue as skies that’s Peggy M.......". Of course any Irish person worth their salt will know that it should be “Peggy O’Neill”, but mere facts like that have never stopped me changing things to suit the occasion. Perhaps another reason to doubt my story, but that would be a shame as you would miss out on the whole magic of what I am telling you. Mr. M’s car was like something out of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It was large and square cut with massive running boards, shining silver headlights and a wonderfully loud claxon horn. Now although the Ms were exceedingly posh for St. J’s,  they were also very kind. So the five Macs got to drive to the caravan in this amazing car for the first few years that we holidayed in it. The caravan ,of course, had already been hauled there for us by other means, and thus it was that we were on the way to our first great Ballyferris adventure.

Mega preparations had to be made before setting off. There was always a cooked chicken in a tin pan with a bobbley lid , you know the kind that I mean. All weathers were provided for, though I could never understand why, as I shed shoes and all heavy garments as soon as we arrived at the caravan field. There were always two questions asked as dad started up the old car. “Mary , have you got the kitchen sink? And “Mary , have you packed the grandfather clock?” The reply was always “Of course, Douglas.” And off we would go. Two children and a baby setting out on an adventure with mum, and dad at the wheel sounding the claxon horn at every impossible situation, while the eight year old screamed with delight.

 

When I started to write a blog many years ago, about my wonderful life from the age of 8 until I left Ireland at 21, and the old caravan in the townland of Ballyferris, Co. Down...Ards Peninsula...I never in my wildest dreams imagined that years later farmers of that land would have discovered my story and are printing it up to share with others who may have been named in the story.

But they have! And this week one of them..after nearly 60 years since we last met...contacted me on landline to let me know how much he enjoyed it.

I couldn't ask for a better result. Ballyferris was for me and my family a littoral place of peace and rest on the edge of Ireland.

I'll repost the story regularly....I hope you enjoy. 

                                  x

This is the story that I started writing a few years ago. Life came along in the meantime, and the tale has progressed in fits and starts. But it's all true. Well that is according to me and my memories, though I think my family may differ on some of the points that I make. But isn't that what  storytelling is all about? Life from an individual's perspective, and maybe a bit of embellishing...  to add to the flavour!

Here begins the story that Mary, Dougie and the three children lived through.

                                                                                                                              



It really all happened because of the baby. She was born in December... properly messed up Christmas for me. And on the morning that she was born, Miss Vint asked me if it was a boy or a girl, ( Miss Vint, the scourge of the third year infants ).  I said a boy, Christmas was more important, and anyway Miss Vint always confused me. Dad wanted to call her Mary after our mother, but mum thought that was a shame for such a pretty baby, so they called her Rosemary. And over the years it became “wee pet” or “the baby”, but I liked to call her Rosie Posie ....Now I call her Ro, it’s quicker.


Here’s what occured. It was decided that Dad should build a caravan. With five in the family, holidays needed some thought. And apart from that it was a tradition for the men in our family to do that. Uncle John  and uncle Cecil  had already made their's, and you know they did things properly..... or so I had heard.

And so it came about. Oh, I could tell you how exciting it was, what with the noise of sawing and planing, hammering and Dougie ( dad-type) expletives. The smell of the glue, as it was heated up to melting point and ladled on to wooden joints, seemed like magic some magic potent.....though doubtless it was because I was as high as a kite on the fumes! I was dad’s little helper and always under his feet until the whole job was finished. So, I could tell you more...how each screw had to be in the right place....how the cupboards slotted into the walls so perfectly and..... but you might get bored. Anyway however great  all of that was, it was just nothing, compared to the holidays we were about to have in it.

On the day that the finished caravan was rolled out of the driveway, all the neighbours came to watch. No doubt many prayers were said for Mr. McC. In particular by “Auntie Orr”, my godmother, who lived three doors away. But I should think it more likely that others were displaying that great Belfast character builder... cynicism! However, all went according to plan and the caravan rolled safely out on to the street. Did I mention that at this time, the family didn’t actually own a car?

No? Oh well, merely a minor blip in the Dougie world. There were always friends, neighbours and relatives to call upon in the community that I grew up in. So that’s what was done.