by Linda Evans

 

In the spring of 2001, my sister Jane and I brought our mother to Ireland for her 80th birthday.  It was her fifth visit.  Jane and I were only on our second visit.  This is an excerpt from that visit.

 

As we drove towards County Cork from County Waterford, the landscape begin to change.  We knew that we would soon be in County Cork and the home of our ancestors, the Donovans.  The landscape appeared more rugged.  Lush farms gave way to smaller ones and in the distance we could see the mountains of West Cork and Kerry beyond.

 

We passed through Youghal (pronounced Yawl), a small town where the River Blackwater meets the sea.  It’s clockgate, built over the main street,with traffic flowing directly under it’s arched form, was built in 1777 and was once a combination of clock tower and jail.  Several United Irishmen were hung from her walls after the failed 1798 uprising.  I envisioned them hanging there, suspended over the main street of the town.  What a gruesome sight that must have been.  Youghal is most famous for having Sir Walter Raleigh as mayor back in 1588-89.

 

Tradition has it that it was he who brought back the first potatoes from the New World.  He first planted them here.  The introduction of the potato into the Irish diet would help to keep the masses alive and healthy for many generations.  But when it failed, mayhem would ensue, for that was all they had to eat, and many suffered harvest to harvest.

 

Our road eventually brought us to Cobh (pronounced Cove), a picturesque seaside town that seems to simply rise up the hillside from the sea.  It was here in 1912 that the Titanic made its last stop – when the town was known as Queenstown.  It was also here that Queen Victoria landed in 1849 when she visited Ireland.  It was also from Cobh that many emigrants made their way for their journey across the Atlantic and probably the port of departure for our ancestors.  It is said that during the “Hungry Years”, otherwise known as the “Great Famine”, the streets were so littered with people awaiting passage that one would have to step over them.  Many died waiting for a ship.  The skyline of Cobh is dominated by the spire of St. Colman’s Cathedral.  Today, small boats, fishing and pleasure, bobble up and down in her harbour.

 

Across the marshes from Cobh, we could see the City of Cork and it was here that we ventured next.  Cork City is Ireland’s second largest city with a population of 180,000 – though you would hardly believe it from first glance.  It is compact in size and with a low skyline.  Built on marshlands, the main part of the city is on the flats and an island between the two channels of the River Lee.  Most of the southside of the city is built on the marsh while the northside scrambles up the hillside, clinging to it.  Urban sprawl is evident and signs of Ireland’s new prosperity are visible as subdivisions, all mapped out and tidy spread out beyond.

 

Unfortunately, our timing to visit Cork City couldn’t have been worse.  We arrived in the heart of the city in rush hour traffic so we quickly escaped again across the River Lee.  Following the river west, we passed by some very expensive real estate – part of the new suburbia that spread out along the riverside.  We had been looking for a good Bed and Breakfast, but found none in this area so decided to head north towards Blarney where we were sure to see lots.  We stopped at a crossroad to get our bearings but it took me a good ten minutes with the map spread out to see where we were.  The signpost – like many in Ireland – was topheavy with several direction signs showing not only directions to towns, but other things of note to tourists.  To add to the confusion, it had become loose with time and had spun around on itself.  All of the signs were pointing in the wrong direction from where we had come from!

 

After much twisting of the map and standing almost on my head to read the sign, we left the rush hour traffic and headed north towards Blarney.  At Tower, we found Ashlee Lodge.  The owner, a Mrs. O’Leary, we immediately labelled “Martha Stewart”.  The house could have been out of one of her magazines.  It was pristine and absolutely perfect inside and out and very well decorated.  Our room was much the same and well co-ordinated.  The drapes were custom made to match the decor.  The rest of the house was also out of Martha Stewart Living with a lovely collection of Waterford crystal and expensive Irish pottery.  Mrs. O’Leary lived up to Martha’s reputation at breakfast the next morning.  We had fine china, real linen napkins and a breakfast menu – rare indeed in a B&B.  My mother and Jane settled for the traditional Irish breakfast but I couldn’t ignore the variety and settled instead for smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. It was to die for!

 

A gentle mist fell throughout the next morning, but the skies cleared for the afternoon.  We drove around Blarney and I saw Blarney Castle but opted not to kiss the Blarney stone.  The town, rightly so, is a town built on tourism.  Every second house is a B&B or small junky gift shop geared for the tourist.  It looked like it had been a lovely town before all of that arrived.  We did stop at the Blarney Woolen Mill’s shop which is a massive two-storey building in the heart of town.  I was impressed more with the huge blooming rhododendrum in the parking lot than the shop.  It was massive and tree sized, not like my wee bush at the cottage. We did locate a automated internet machine that was coin operated.  It was finger touch operated, with no keyboard, and we did manage to pump in enough coin to get the NHL scores back in Canada but were not able to check our e-mail before the time ran out.

 

From Blarney we went south again and then west as we followed the River Lee.  We had had enough of brash toursim, and travelled the back roads – R619, 585 and 590 towards Bandon. 

As we came away from the River Lee, the narrow roads became twisty and the countryside less manicured.  We passed near Beal-na-Blath where Michael Collins was assassinated in 1922.  It was easy to see how he was ambushed in this landscape.  A steep forested twisty road brought us down into the valley and to Bandon, a drab little greystoned town.  We found the first evidence of our family name – on a billboard for a convenience store.  We lunched in a cafeteria built in a courtyard of a block of shops. 

 Attached to a bakery, Jakes provided one of the best “soup-of-the-day” we had had.  A menu anywhere in Ireland that advertises “soup-of-the-day” is invariably “Cream of Vegetable” soup.  Only once on our trip was the “soup-of-the-day” not this.  Rich and creamy, with a piece of wheaten bread on the side, this soup clings to your innards.  Jakes also had the best lemon pie I have ever had and the piece was humungous!

 

As we came out of the square we noticed that people were gathering at a massive Roman Catholic Church at the top of a hill which dominated the town.  We thought it was a noon day mass, but it was obvious that it was something bigger.  People strolled in from all sides for a funeral of a local merchant.  We bypassed the funeral, and strolled around the graveyard attached to the church.  We found several Donovans therein, but like many churchyards with cemeteries in Ireland, this cemetery was more recent – and graves there only dated back to the last decade of the nineteenth century.

 

I knew that there must be an older cemetery about somewhere and stopped an elderly man on his way to the funeral for directions.  Now I’ve always had a theory about stopping people for directions – always stop a senior who looks like they belong in the community to get information.  This fellow fit the criteria to a “T”, but sometimes my theory fails and did so today.  Dressed in his finest for the funeral, it was pretty obvious that the suit he wore was saved for just such occasions.  Uncomfortable in his church clothes, he nonetheless took the time to try and explain.  He was obliging indeed but I hadn’t a clue what he said.  In his thick Corkian accent, through a toothless grin, he attempted three times to give me directions.  His hands also flailed about as he spoke.  He reminded me of the old farmer Mr. Moleturd on the hotel version of the British comedy series “Are You Being Served?”.  Only about every seventh word was understandable.  I got the words “old”, “red”, “left”, “goat”, and “right”.  Nothing else made sense.  I thanked him for his time and we motored on out of Bandon and on to Clonakilty.

 

We setted in Clonakilty – or as my sister Jane called it “Clunk-a-kitty” for the night.  Clonakilty is a lovely market town, known for its colourful handpainted signs and colourful buildings.  I strolled down the High Street and took some lovely shots.  This was apparently uncommon, as three ladies with shopping bag carts stopped gossiping long enough to see what I was doing.  They gave me a stare as I passed by and then resumed gossiping.  I was particularly interested in O’Donovan’s Hotel and not just because it carried our family name.  Many of Ireland’s top politicians stayed here and gave speeches from its small balcony on the second floor to a crowd below.  Among them were Daniel O’Connell, de Valera, Donovan Rossa and even Charles Stewart Parnell.  The town itself was well-kept and manicured.

 

The highlight of the town, however, was our accomodations.  I recommend the Riverside B&B, just off the High Street, to anyone passing through town.  It is a treat in itself and came with it’s own entertainment.  The “woman of the house” offered us a separate contained unit – a “Granny House” they had had built for her parents who had decided they “were not old enough for one” and we were thrilled. It was nice to have a place to ourselves.  The entertainment was provided by the “man of the house”.  Tall and wiry, and a bit spastic, Richard Darcy’s movements and antics kept us in stitches throughout our stay in Ireland and well afterwards too.

 

My sister Jane first encountered him while taking our luggage out of the trunk.  He literally bounded out of the house and popped up in her face to ask if all was well and if we had enough towels.  She was startled at first and arrived at our door with the luggage and fits of laughter.  A little while later I went out to the car for something and again he bounded out of nowhere with arm outstretched.  In it was a cup of milk for our tea.  As quickly as he bounded out of the house, he rushed back inside again, leaving me standing in the driveway with a cup of milk and startled out of my mind.  I returned to the room in fits of laughter as my sister did and nearly spilled the milk on the way.  Richard Darcy was immediately dubbed “Basil” of the British sitcom “Faulty Towers”.  All his mannerisms were hilarious.

 

Breakfast was just as comical.  We were hardly in the house when he bounded about again, jumping out in front of us with a towel over his left arm.  He rushed us into a very tasteful dining room of bright yellows and blues.  He then flitted about a cupboard on his tippy-toes as he listed off at full verbal speed the list of offerings which included a vast array of juices, fruit and cereals to hold us till the “full breakfast” arrived.  He was so spastic and full of such energy that it was everything we could do not to burst into laughter.  His mannerisms and appearance were unmistakable.  Had he tipped our breakfast in our laps, poured coffee in our cereal bowls, or even walked away with the tablecloth tucked in his pants, we would have not been surprised – or cared!  The entertainment was worth the cost of Riverside B&B and I recommend it to everyone!

 

After breakfast we went to explore an old abandoned graveyard we had seen the day before on the top of a hill in Clonakilty.

 

CLONAKILTY’S FORGOTTEN ONES

They lie at the top of the hill 
On a road that went to others 
But now leads to nowhere. 
Overgrown with gorse and bramble,
There are no signs – no recognition. 
The gate and turnstile,

Rusted from years of disrepair and neglect
Encase their shrine. 

Here lie Chieftains and seanachies, 
Bards, farmers, and townspeople – 
Makers of the past – now forgotten. 
From massive tombs open to the wind, 
To Celtic crosses once lovingly carved, 
And small markers hand-tolled crudely, 
And beyond – to the unmarked expanse 
of the famine graves – all silent now.

Moss and weeds cling to the stones, 
Yet mayflowers and bluebells battle them 
to stand sentinel over all who lie here – 
A precious splash of colour in salute. 
A crow shrieks menacingly from on high – 
His cry a warning that this is his domain now, 
And that it is he who is guardian and 
Caretaker of the souls that lie within.

There is family buried here, 
On the hillside above Clonakilty.
Their names have passed down 
Through the stormy generations
And crossed the seas to Canada.
Here lies John, and Daniel and Michael 
Alone you are, but not forgotten, 
Your memory crosses the sea with me.

It was a clear day, but cool, as we left Clonakilty to explore West Cork and Donovan territory.  We took the N71 towards Rosscarbery, the birthplace of O’Donovan Rossa in 1831.  He was born the same year our people left Ireland.  We stopped in the small village of Leap – a one-way street village, squeezed between two steep hillsides.  We were really in Donovan territory now as evidenced by the many shop-fronts signs with Donovan on them – or perhaps it was one wealthy Donovan who owned all of them!  It seemed that half the village was going into mass so mother and Jane followed them in while I went to explore the High Street and the graveyard behind the church that was literally built into the hillside.  It was a steep climb to the cemetery behind and I wondered how the pallbearers managed such a climb after funerals with caskets as well!  There were several O’Donovans buried here and many of their tombs listed their farm names as well.  But again, the graveyard was modern – early 20th century.

 

As the church spewed out the worshippers after mass, I stopped an older fellow again asking for directions to the old cemetery.  I hadn’t learned from my experience in Bandon.  This fellow had teeth but I still couldn’t break through his thick accent.  My baffled face brought on a second detailed list of directions to the old cemetery but we left confused still.  In fact, I couldn’t swear on a bible, but I think that the second set of directions were entirely different from the first.

 

We opted instead to continue on to Skibbereen.  A market town steeped in history, especially as it related to the Great Famine years.  Thousands died here between 1845-1850 and are buried in mass graves.  We visited Abbeystrowry Cemetery on the River Ilen, just outside the town – the site of the massive burial pits from the famine years.  I couldn’t help but sing the folksong “Skibbereen” while I walked through the site.  We also visited the Famine Museum in Skibbereen.

 

As we left Skibbereen, we were very quiet after all that we had seen.  Our laughter over breakfast in Clonakilty seemed so long ago.  We took one of the back roads north through farmland and rolling hillsides towards Aghaville and then turned east towards Drimoleague.  We had every intention of visiting the village as mother had spent time there years ago and first visited Donovan Castle from this small village.  Here she waited hours for a “taxi” to go to the mountain where Donovan Castle was located just to the north and she had to wait as the taxi driver also ran the mortuary and some other business.  It was a real “no hurry” town.  Unfortunately we didn’t get into Drimoleague.  Just before the village, we saw a signpost for O’Donovan Castle and we took this road north and then east to the castle ruins.

 

Built in the 12th Century, by the O”Donovan Chieftain (who had been driven out of Limerick by Brian Boru), the castle was a pitiful reminder of her glory days.  She had gaping holes from an attack by Oliver Cromwell’s men in the 17th century – when she was abandoned.  Impressive still, the castle juts out of a rocky outcrop, and the hole made by Cromwell’s army is still visible.

 

O’DONOVAN CASTLE

 

Once a stronghold

She offered refuge to all around her,

When wars were commonplace.

Her walls were strengthened

By the seanachie’s words

Told ’round a turf fire till dawn’s wee hours.

Her being was once filled

With the dancing music of jigs and reels

Scratched from a fiddler’s bow.

Subdued by Cromwell,

Her people scattered, not by choice,

To the four corners of the earth.

Alone the ruins stand now,

Isolated on a rocky outcrop –

A testament to a history once rich and full.

 

Because the mountain near the castle was named the same as my son, Owen, we motored on thinking we would find a way back to Drimoleague.  The road was paved near the castle, but as we climbed the mountain it quickly turned to gravel and eventually loose dirt and then rose sharply.  Having nowhere to turn around, we continued to climb, balanced precariously on the edge.  Halfway up the track, sheep bounded out in front of us, the wee lambs lagging behind.  They were quickly followed by a small red Toyota – a shepherd on wheels!  We watched this modern farm method with amusement.  He continued to shout at the herd of sheep which went up the mountainside in parade.  At a gap in another field, the shepherd issued another command, and without a fuss, all the sheep entered the new pasture.  We continued to follow the shepherd in the Toyota up the mountain and it eventually turned into quite a climb through switchbacks.  We had no idea at this point where we were but felt he would lead us out somehow.  He did.  We peaked the mountain and roared down the other side.  The shepherd turned into his farm for lunch and we motored on.  The countryside was typically West County Cork, where rock and farmland melted together – a landscape that could support nothing more than sheep.  Farms were scarce and not very prosperous – nothing like the pristine farmlands we had seen in southeastern Ireland.

 

Hopelessly lost, we continued on our trek as we knew we were at least heading west.  We stopped some children and found that we were on a back road leading to Bantry.  We were now a long distance from Donovan Castle and the village of Drimoleague and so carried on.  After a quick lunch in Bantry, we headed north to County Kerry and left County Cork behind for another time.  There will be another time – perhaps several.

Submitted by Donna Hicks

 

This is just an excerpt of the diary. The full diary will be published in hard copy at a later date. To correspond with me regarding the diary, or to ask about anything you see here in this excerpt, please e-mail me at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.

Angella Riordan was born Oct. 24, 1880, in North Teteagouche, New Brunswick. When first settled by the Irish, the community was called Kinsale. Her father was Daniel Riordan and her mother was Mary-Ann Hall (there were relatives in the town of Bathurst). The house that she grew up in still stands in the Upper Settlement. It was built in 1857 (a stamp of the year can be seen on one of the roof beams).

The house is occupied by one of Dan and Mary’s grandsons, Jim Boyle. The homestead of the Halls still stands as well, up the road from Boyle’s. It is a working farm, and is owned by Margie and Peter DeGraaf. Judging by the style of the construction, this house is likely the oldest of three in Teteagouche, the second-oldest being Powercroft, the original homestead of the Powers. Angella Riordan married Alexander Kelley (Kelly now) whose family lived in the lower settlement. She married him a few years after the diary was written and by that time, being around the ripe old age of 25 or more, was considered an old maid in the standard of the day.

The Kellys lived in the part of Kinsale that some of us still refer to as Kelly’s Hill. When Sandy’s father and grandfather first settled, it was in a dirt-floored log cabin at the foot of the hill, close by a spring , but not on the bank of the river where the Mic’Macq usually had their cabins at various locations spread out up and down the river. The Kellys had walked up from the Miramichi to reach their land grant, with one son already born. The Boyles had disembarked in Caraquet, having sailed from Sligo, in either 1837 or 1947. The Halls were United Empire Loyalists from Saint John. To have been able to build a cabin in time for winter’s arrival was not a ‘luxury’ that all the settlers had. The O’Connels were taken in by the French in Petit Rocher in order to survive and one of the Wheltons recounts a story of how his ancestors had to turn the root end of a spruce blowdown into a shelter at Black Rock or thereabouts, in what is referred to as the Downshore area on the Baie de Chaleurs. A few of the names found in the areas on and around our Bay are matches for names that can be found in County Cork: Kinsale, Bandon, Youghall, Black River, Canobie.

This diary excerpt is from 1903, when Angella was 22 years old:

MARCH

March 1st Sunday: A wild gale blew last night but it must have been very soft wind for the snow looked scarcer this morning. The roads are too soft to go to Mass. Water came into the cellar and caused quite a disturbance. Bob came down this evening for a while. Not a very suitable evening for a drive.

March 2nd Mon.: Election day. Amos and Father went down. I sent for some lemons and candy. Weather cold again and roads bad being broken up where soft. Still knitting.

March 3rd, Tuesday: The most important news today informs us that the election of the old members and the most important event is the arrival of Bill Ford. We were so well entertained that we almost forgot to go to bed.

March 4th, Wed.: We spent quite a pleasant day listening to accounts of old times. Bob came down in the morning. I went down the road with Wm in the afternoon to Dan’s and to John Murphy’s. Dan came up in the evening.

March 5th, Thursday: I got up early this morning but still did not get much knitting done to-day. Ma (?) is getting tired of it. M(?)A Boyle came down this evening and stayed for tea. Ed. And Bob came for her. Mr Ford was away all day came back at night.

March 6th, Friday: We had two calls from Bob to-day. Amos went to town and brought home candy & so forth for Mr. Ford’s cold. He made some calls but was home early.

March 7th, Satur.: The quilt is finished or at least the knitting is done but it still has to be sewed together. Amos was down again to-day. Mike O’Kane came up to tell us it was his birthday. Ed. Boyle came down and took Mr. Ford up home.

March 8th, Sunday: Another soft day. Amos and Maggie went to Mass. Mr. Ford came home in the evening. Later Mr. K called. Was up to Mary’s today and saw a nice piece of carpenters work.

March 9th, Monday: Amos and Mr. Ford left us today to go to Clifton. A beautiful soft day. Maggie went to Boyle’s to stay all night with Mary as Bill is away to Peter’s River for sand. Bill arrived home later and so did Maggie.

March 10th, Tues.: J.P. called this afternoon with wood that her papa wished to see me. Maggie went up with me in the evening. We get a drive from Mary’s up with Bob. Saw some pretty fancy work and settled my account for teaching. Amos has not returned yet.

March 11th, Wednes.: Amos and Mr. F came home to day and got pretty wet on the road. It rained quite hard. Dan Ford came up and brought the handsled.

March 12th, Thurs.: I went to Boyle’s this morning accompanied by Wm and stayed till afternoon. Amos went to Peter’s River for sand with Ed. Bob came down in the evening. They piled the boards that were in the kitchen on sleds to take down in the morning. This is the night Uncle Tom’s cabin is to be played in town & I almost regret having refused an offer to go. The night is perfectly bright and beautiful.

March 15th, Sun.: I had enough outing today to make up for the winter. First I went to church (most important event was death of Ed. Boyle) then up to Mary’s afterwards back to the brook on the crust and last but not least I went driving with Mr. K, Amos & B.F. Went to Alexander’s.

March 16th, Mon.: I began a mat today after washing was done. Mrs. B Power & Janie came in the morning. B.F. went down to Dempsey’s & Dan drove him home in the evening. Dan Ford was in too but I was away. Mary & I went to see Mar B And Maggie kept house.

March 17th, Tuesday: Spent the day hooking a mat. Mr. Ford left us this morning. Amos took him to town and went to mass also. No callers to-day.

March 18th, Wed.: Amos went to town again this morning & brought Bart down to spend the day. Mrs. F Roy and Libby M. Call in the afternoon. Nellie Bee & Zita Power at night but I missed the pleasure of their company as I was up at Mary’s. This is her birthday I offered her a present but she refused it though she accepted Amos’ – a pair of kid gloves. We made some fudge.

March 19th, Thurs.: Amos went for sand again. We finished a mat (with the leaves and sticks on it). Dan Ford called.

March 20th, Friday: Some snow fell today but not very much. Still soft weather. Amos brought another load of sand. Dan arrived home this afternoon from the woods looking and feeling well. I made a shirt and trimmed part of my quilt.

March 21st, Satur.: Maggie went for the mail when Amos went for sand but got only Good Liter. Mother put another mat in the frames to-day. Dan Ford came up in the evening.

March 22nd, Sun.: Amos and Dan went to church to-day. I went up to Mary’s in the morning and stayed till after dinner. I was just ready for home when Bob arrived. When I got home I found we had visitors. Mrs. Kelley & Ed. They stayed for tea and afforded much pleasure. Later A. Kelley called and we had some private conversation.

March 23rd, M.: Amos began to take logs to Alex’s mill to-day. I startled Mary by a very early call this morning. I went for a bar of soap for washing. It is snowing this evening.

March 24th, Tues.: There was not much snow fell but it is still wet and dirty. We worked at the mat all day. Mary Kane called or was sent for certain patterns. Dan went up to Boyles to-night.

March 25th, Wed.: Dan went to town this morning with Bill Boyle to get his money and bought a pair of rubbers. Saw John Maloney who had just come home. Also F. Hegg. And P. Burke. We heard today that Bishop Rogers had died on the 21st. Dan Ford was in to-night. We finished the 2nd mat and began the 3rd today.

March 26th, Thur.: Nothing worth recording.

March 27th, Friday: Finished another mat today. Went up to Mary’s in the evening to engage passage to town tomorrow. Bob & Mary are at the house when I come home. Bob leaves his sled and takes our sleigh.

March 28th, Satur.: The boys started off very early this morning to the mill and I prepared to go to town. Started about noon. I bought some red velvet for a waist-cloth for a skirt sateen and several other things. Spent $9.00 in all. Mary & I spent the night at Uncle Edward’s & went to first mass in the town in the morning.

March 29th, Sun: Wil Hall came over to our church with us this morning. Father was down. In the afternoon we were coasting and again in the evening with Bridget Annie and Jor Boyle. Bob was in too.

March 30th, Mon.: Mother and Amos went to town today. Ma went to see Sister Martina. Bob was in for a while. Dan went back with logs and Maggie took Bert up to see his relations.

March 31st, Tues.: We washed to-day and I got a toothache. I might have gone to Dempsey’s but for the. Guss Calnan Came with the tickets.

Further Notes

Patrick’s Landing was the name of upper South Teteagouche at the time. Other place names in the diary are Clifton and Stonehaven (downshore), Belledune (upshore, where there may have been hall relatives)). Spelling of last names is flexible, for example: Doran/Durane; Meighen/Miahen/Meahen; Kelley (which shifted to Kelly); Doust (Doucet, Doucett); Hashey/Hachey; Malowney/Maloney; Kane/O’Kane. There are names of people in the diary who do not live in the community, such as the doctor, the Bishop (Rogers), the agent, Mr. Branch, Maggie Hall(lived in town), Sister Philomene, Sister Martina, Miss McKenna, Kent, Eddy (also a family of Irish immigrants), Mrs. Kearney, S. Williamson.

Branscombe, Hinton and McIntyre. With some of the names one cannot tell if they lived in Kinsale or not: Mrs. Melvin, for example. With the French neighbours, they may have been on some of the back lots or in some of the very nearby communities of Lugar, Ste. Louise, Dunlop. I do not know where Sadie Wells (who marries Nick Hashey) came from. P. Foley comes from across the river where the Foleys ancestors settled.

 

The descendants of Angella Riordan and Alexander (Sandy) Kelly are spread far and wide, from New York State, California, London (England), British Columbia, Alberta, Ontario, Nova Scotia and PEI. In New Brunswick there remains only 5: two Hickses (Debbie Sisk, in Miramichi and her two sons), Donna Hicks (Bathurst-North Teteagouche), Tim Kelly (Beresford), Stephen Kelly (South Teteagouche), and John Kelly (North Teteagouche). Those far-flung ones join the ranks of earlier generations of the family who also left North Teteagouche (for example, all of Sandy’s brothers and sisters, most of whom went to the States, Ohio, Boston, etc.) Very few of those Irish names that were found up and down the settlement of Kinsale are to be found there now . Still, there are Heggartys, Powers, Boyles, and Kellys.

 

2005 Johnville Picnic — Johnville’s Klondike Kate — Johnville Publications — Excerpt from the Irish in America — Newspaper Articles — Letters to the Herald

 

Founded primarily by the efforts of Bishop John Sweeney, the thriving farm community of Johnville is a fine example of the industriousness, grit and determination of the Irish immigrants to New Brunswick. Facing adverse weather conditions in an extremely remote location, the first settlers of Johnville showed remarkable strength, endurance and fortitude as they carved out their community from the deep forest of Carleton County.

Picture at (R) above: Cairn at Johnville. Text on plaque: Dedicated to the Memory of the Rt. Reverend John Sweeney, Bishop of Saint John, Whoe Founded the Settlement of Johnville in 1861, and to Those Good Men and Women Who Now Lie Here. “He Does Not Die Who Can Bequeath Some Influence to the Land He Knows.”

 

With the first settlers arriving in 1862, the arduous task of clearing the land, building shelters, and planting crops for their survival began. Despite these hardships, the naturally cheerful and resilient spirits of the Irish won out and around 1863 the first of many Johnville picnics was held to celebrate their fruitful labours and freehold independence. Games, music, dancing and great food filled the day. The picnic is still famous today and is attended by not only people of Irish ancestry, but also anyone who enjoys fellowship and takes pride in their own heritage.

2005 Johnville Picnic

 

 

For over 100 years the small community of Johnville has held the Annual Johnville Picnic in early August. (see picture of Provincial Archives Booth at Annual Johnville Picnic at right.) What started as a means for neighbours to relax, enjoy each others company, and to celebrate and give thanks for another bountiful harvest, has become a time of year for residents and former residents to return to the place it all began. Children and grandchildren, friends, neighbours and distant relations, come from places widespread to reconnect with their loved ones, rekindle friendships, and to celebrate the memories of this wonderfully close-knit community.

Visitors interested in the history, heritage and genealogy of the Johnville community make the annual trek to take part in the weekend’s festivities, take in the activities on the fairgrounds, share a meal together, dance and talk to the wee hours, and celebrate their annual Johnville Mass where they will once again give thanks for all they share and the common bonds that bring them back, year after year.

 

The Provincial Archives makes research materials available on-site during the picnic weekend to assist the many visitors from all over the continent, and perhaps even the world. The picture to the right shows the 2005 booth of the Provinical Archives at the Johnville Picnic.

 

 

The area in and around Johnville has a strong Irish heritage and may be best known as the birthplace of Klondike Kate. History Television produced a segment of their “The Canadians” series on Klondike Kate.

 

 

Even though Johnville is a small community, by anybody’s standards today, it has generated enough interest to have had its own place in the written histories of Canada. These publications include:

 

– An Honourable Independence: The Irish Catholic Settlers of Johnville, Carelton County, New Brunswick – by William Patrick Kilfoil and Mary Kilfoil McDevitt

– Johnville: The Centennial Story of An Irish Settlement – by W.P. Kilfoil

– The Real Klondike Kate – by Anne Brennan

– The Irish in America – by John Francis Maguire

As some of these publications may no longer be in print, please check with your library services to determine if they are available for borrowing.

 

 

For more information and an interesting look back through history, please take the time to browse through the following links for more insight into this early Irish settlement in New Brunswick:

 

– author J.F. Maguire, M.P.

 

 

25 July 1861 – Johnville Gets Its Name

09 September 1862 – Johnville Colonization

30 September 1862 – Johnville & Glassville Settlements

19 April 1864 – Emigrant Aid Association Letter

21 April 1864 – Editor’s Response re: Emigrant Aid Association Letter

26 May 1864 – Johnville Settlement – Carleton Sentinel

12 January 1865 – The Emigrant Aid Society Settlements – Report for 1864

20 October 1866 – The New Settlements

03 November 1866 – Johnville – Author J.F. Maguire, M.P.

27 November 1866 – Johnville Prosperity

22 December 1866 – Johnville – Woodstock Sentinel

20 August 1867 – Maguire on Johnville (In the House of Commons – Britain)

17 October 1867 – Pastoral Visit to Johnville

 

 

05 January 1878 – Letter from Johnville – Colonization

05 January 1878 – Editorial Comments re: Letter from Johnville of the same date

12 January 1878 – Letter from Johnville

19 January 1878 – Letter from Johnville – History

26 January 1878 – Letter from Johnville – History

02 February 1878 – Letter from Johnville – Charles Connell

09 February 1878 – Letter from Johnville – Charles Connell

16 February 1878 – Letter from Johnville – Government Members

23 February 1878 – Letter from Johnville

02 March 1878 – Letter from Johnville – Politics

 

Spirituality is a subject that affects us all, in one way or another, throughout our entire lives, but there is no time that tests our beliefs more than in the time of war. Of all man’s inventions, this is the creation that forces even the purest of heart and mind to contemplate and question their faith. When faced with the horror that unfolds before them, they can do nothing but wonder what sort of God would allow such nightmares to exist on this beautiful planet.

 

They are not alone in their struggles. Within the ranks, marching side by side, are men and women who have not only given their lives to God, but to helping our service men and women retain the faith they need to make it through just one more day on the battlefield.

 

Little talked about, they are given perhaps the most important task of all – the care of the hearts, minds and souls of soldiers who dedicate their lives to protecting our safety and freedom.

 

“’I’ll give you just three nights in the front line trench before your hair will turn grey.’”⁽¹⁾ So Rev. B.J. Murdoch was told by another priest during his early days in the military of the first World War, and which he recounts in his book “The Red Vineyard”, which is then followed by the even less encouraging, “’You’ll not be very long in the army till you’ll wish yourself out of it again.’” ⁽²⁾

Truer words were probably never spoken, but no matter how discouraging they may have seemed they could not stop the Reverend Murdoch from facing the horrors ahead. He was, if not prepared, then most certainly determined to continue his work despite being faced with such a dour outlook. His strong heart and mind, perhaps bred through his Irish heritage, would not turn away from such a worthy cause. 

Quaint churches, glorious cathedrals, unwavering parishioners were not to be part of his life for quite some time as he joined the ranks of war. Indeed, the main tool of his trade was provided by the military in a small wooden box, which he recalls with a sense of fondness.

 

“After a few days a box about one foot and a half long, one foot high and nine inches wide, arrived. It was made of wood covered with a kind of grey cloth, with strips of black leather about the edges and small pieces of brass at every corner. There was leather grips on it so that it could be carried as a satchel. It was my little portable altar, containing everything necessary for saying Mass. One half opened and stood upright from the part containing the table of the altar, which when opened out was three feet long. Fitted into the oak table was the little marble altar-stone, without which one may not say Mass. In the top of the upright part was a square hole in which the crucifix fitted to stand above the altar; on either side were holders to attach the candlesticks. From the wall that formed a compartment in the upright portion, where the vestments were kept, the altar cards unfolded; these were kept in place by small brass clips attached to the upright. Chalice, ciborium, missal and stand, cruets, wine, altar-breads, bell, linens, etc., were in compartments beneath the altar table. The whole was wonderfully compact and could be carried with one hand.”⁽³⁾

 

His whole life, his career, packed away in one small box that was able to be carried like a satchel. Looking about myself, taking in my own possessions, gathered with care and love and memories, I can’t imagine having my entire life put together in one small box, and yet Reverend Murdoch and those like him achieved perhaps their greatest feat with such limited resources. 

 

They did not think of all they had left behind, but looked ahead to all that they would gain.

For Reverend Murdoch, it wasn’t about the battlefield or skirmishes. It was about lives, the lives of men he would have seen everyday, and the stories they’d have to tell. Repentance would be the norm from men afraid of what would happen from day to day, hour to hour, and yet he never questioned their motives, or their purpose. He remained an honoured confidante with the strength of character to listen to all these men had to confess, and offer them some form of salvation.

 

One afternoon Reverend Murdoch was approached by a soldier who, in his quiet manner, desperately needed to talk. For hours this soldier poured out his entire life history, stating over and over “’Father, I’ve led an awful life!’”(4) He seemed to feel it was important for Reverend Murdoch to know why he’d turned his back on God, and why he wasn’t deserving of any forgiveness for his sins. After hours of this conversation, when the soldier had apparently exhausted all he’d needed to say, he didn’t meet any form of recrimination or doubt, just an acknowledgement of the words spoken, and an offer to help. “’Yes,’ I said, ‘and now if you will come with me into the confessional and ask God’s pardon from the bottom of your heart for all those sins, I will give you holy absolution.’”⁽⁵⁾

 

It was late evening by the time Reverend Murdoch finished speaking with the solider, offering advice and hope, despite the soldier’s initial thought that he deserved none of it. One small step, to make such a great difference in the life of one man, and in doing the same for one more, and then one more, making a greater difference to all who had contact with him in such a dangerous time.

 

Perhaps Reverend Murdoch thought his war-time counsel would have ended with WWI, but he was most certainly mistaken. Many years later, as Canadian soldiers once again gathered to be sent overseas, he was approached by a former student, the young Reverend R. Myles Hickey (Picture at left).

Reverend Hickey was making his own decisions of whether to go to war or stay home, wrestling with the same questions Reverend Murdoch had had some years before. His mentor offered encouragement, as repeated in Hickey’s book, “The Scarlet Dawn”, and truth combined. “’Yes, go Father Raymond; you will make a good chaplain; and if you are killed, well you’ll save your soul.’”⁽⁶⁾

 

Reverend Murdoch’s last words would have shaken the strongest of men, and they did cause Reverend Hickey to realize, perhaps for the first time, that death was a great possibility. It might have made others turn aside from the service, but Reverend Hickey faced those fears and joined the men going to the war. Later, during some of the worst battles, Reverend Murdoch’s words came back to him, and in them Reverend Hickey found the strength to carry on. He might die on those fields so far from home, but in so doing he would save his soul, and perhaps the souls of the men fighting alongside him.

 

Later, when Reverend Hickey had occasion to speak with a Senior Chaplain who describes for him in vivid detail the horrific retreat at Dunkirk, Hickey wished to be back in his home at Jacquet River. His faith almost failed him, leaving him wondering, “My turn will come, and will I have the courage to go through it?”⁽⁷⁾

 

He finds, as the days continue to pass, that he does have the courage. He found the strength in his faith, and the faith of those around him to carry on, day by day, to continue administering to the needs of his men, and even to help them through their own little romances amidst the events that unfolded.

 

One evening Reverend Hickey is approached by a shy, young soldier who reminds him of an offer to write letters for the men who cannot read. Reverend Hickey might be a little surprised when the young man blurts out, “’Could you – could you – could you write a love letter.’”⁽⁸⁾, but no matter how unusual the request for a chaplain, Reverend Hickey merely assured the man that he was a master at love letters.

 

A sweet moment during a terrible time; and a moment that came back to Reverend Hickey some four years later. When preparing the day’s dead he comes across a familiar face; the same soldier, who had been so anxious to write his love letter, now being lowered into a narrow grave. As Reverend Hickey whispers his prayer for the young man he recalls the struggle over that letter, the repeated “Dear Mary, Dear Mary,”⁽⁹⁾ as the soldier tried to work out what to say to his love back at home. And later as the Reverend writes to her about the death of her husband, the same voice repeating “I love you, I love you as much as…”⁽¹⁰⁾, to which the young man had eventually ended, “…as much as I love the Lord!” ⁽¹¹⁾

 

We hear so often of the struggles of soldiers, of the heroism on the battlefield. We’re asked to remember the war, in the hopes of learning from our mistakes. We’re taught about the great Generals of our time who led our men and women to victory. And here, almost silently, are a group of military service men who have put aside their comfortable lives and quiet service to God so that they may be beside our soldiers, marching across war-torn countryside, to offer some sense of hope and faith in a time that could easily destroy both.

 

It may be rare to hear their names, or think of their positions, but they remain the silent guardians of all hearts in war. May we remember them, and pray for them, like all those who fought so fearlessly for our great country.

Lest we forget….

(1) The Red Vineyard – Reverend B. J. Murdoch – Page 12
(2) Ibid.
(3) The Red Vineyard – Reverend B. J. Murdoch – Page 19
(4) The Red Vineyard – Reverend B. J. Murdoch – Page 116
(5) Ibid.
(6) The Scarlet Dawn – Reverend R Myles Hickey, UNIPRESS, Fredericton, N.B. – Page 12
(7) The Scarlet Dawn – Reverend R. Myles Hickey, UNIPRESS, Fredericton, N.B. – Page 97
(8) The Scarlet Dawn – Reverend R. Myles Hickey, UNIPRESS, Fredericton, N.B. – Page 40
(9) Ibid.
(10) The Scarlet Dawn – Reverend R. Myles Hickey, UNIPRESS, Fredericton, N.B. – Page 41
(11) Ibid

Picture (above): Memorial in Carpiquet, France to the soldiers of the North Shore Regiment, 8^th Infantry Brigade, Canada

 

 

 

Born in Chatham, NB on March 21, 1886, son of Robert Murdoch and Mary Allen, Benedict J. Murdoch received his elementary and high school education in Chatham, and his univerity courses at St. Dunstan’s College, Charlottetown, PEI, from which he graduated in 1908. In September of that year, he entered the Grand Seminary in Quebec and was ordained to the priesthood by Bishop Barry on June 29, 1911.

 

Except for a few months spent in the Redemptorist Novitiate in Ilchester near Baltimore, Maryland, USA, in 1914, Father Murdoch’s early years in priesthood were given to the pastoral ministry in New Brunswick: in Balmoral, Charlo, Dundee and Newcastle. During World War I, in 1915, he enlisted as chaplain to the 132nd North Shore Battalion; and from then until the end of the war he served as chaplain with the Canadian Expeditionary Force in France, Germany and Belgium. From these harrowing years came the warp and weft of the material he presents in his best-known book, “The Red Vineyard.” Here, he relives for his readers the experiences of those war years which, when it was all over, demanded an exacting toil from his human resources, as he recounts in a later autobiography, “Part Way Through.”

 

In his book about his WWI experiences, “The Red Vineyard”, Father Murdoch provided this dedication:

 

 

In 1971, on the sixtieth anniversary of his ordination, Father Murdoch received from Pope Paul VI the special honour and title of “Honorary Prelate to His Holiness”, a fitting recognition of his richly beautiful giving to the People of God during so many years. The last three years of his life were spent at Mount St. Joseph. He died at Hotel-Dieu Hospital on Wednesday evening, January 31, 1973.

 

 

Born in Jacquet River, NB, Raymond Myles Hickey attended the local school; St. Thomas University, Chatham; and Holy Heart Seminary, Halifax, NS.

 

After ordination in 1933, he did ministry in Bathurst, Campbellton, and Chatham, NB. For three years prior to the war, he was on the faculty of St. Thomas University.

 

His six years as Army Chaplain were a great experience. He won the Military Cross on D-Day at St. Aubin, France, and was invested by the late King George VI at Buckingham Palace on July 5, 1945. In 1956, he was made a Domestic Prelate with the title of Monsignor. In 1976, his Alma Mater conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Laws, Honoris Causa.

 

He is author of three books, “Scarlet Dawn,” “My Hobbies Three”, and “D-Day Memories.” He also collaborated with the Reader’s Digest in the three-volume “Canadians at War.” 

 

In his book “Scarlet Dawn” Monsignor Hickey penned the following dedication:

 

 

 

“In 1979, Msgr. Hickey was chosen to attend the Ceremonies for the 35th Anniversary of D.Day in Normandy, France. On June 6, 1979, in the Beny-sur-mer Military Cemetery, where 2,400 Canadian Soldiers lie buried, Msgr. Hickey, speaking to the large crowd in French and English, ended his speech as follows:

“My dear friends, my dear confreres, my dear compatriots: 

The prayer that I am going to say with you here this morning is the same prayer that I said here so often – oh, so often – 35 years ago. 

You, too, from experience, know this prayer.

 

 

I thank you for the honour of saying this prayer here this morning. Without a doubt, it is for the last time.”⁽¹⁾

 

In September, 1987, Father Hickey returned to France to take part in the unveiling of a monument to the men of the North Shore Regiment who died at Carpiquet on July 4, 1944. It was during this visit that Msgr. Hickey retired to his room for the night and quietly passed away in his sleep. As he so often prayed for others – he will be remembered.

 

(1)The Scarlet Dawn – Reverend R Myles Hickey, UNIPRESS, Fredericton, N.B. – Page xxxi

 

 

In the Day of Battle:  Canadian Catholic Chaplains in the Field,1885-1945 by Duff Crerar (CCHA, Historical Studies, 61 (1995), 53-77)

The Scarlet Dawn by by Melynda Jarratt, Webmaster, www.CanadianWarBrides.com – a brief biography of Msgr. RM Hickey

D-Day: Canadian troops land in Normandy as part of the largest invasion in history (A CBC “Canada – A People’s History” production)

An article on Capriquet and D-Day from Esprit de Corps magazine on-line 

The Normandy Campaign from the Juno Beach Centre

 

 

 

In addition to the two books mentioned above (The Red Vineyard by Rev. BJ Murdoch and The Scarlet Dawn by Msgr. RM Hickey), another book of interest about war-time Irish New Brunswickers is “North Shore (New Brunswick) Regiment” by Will R. Bird, Brunswick Press 1963. Please check with your local library or book store for availability of these books as one or more of them may no longer be in print.