Zooming along the Lismore Ballyduff road, the sole occupant of the back seat of a black Ford Zephyr, black leather seats, ocean's of space, the hum of the engine, the smell of the polished leather, hoping that someone I knew would see me. Driven by a Chauffer. Past Sean Moriarties gate,  Daunt's sandpit the bottom of the Coole road, Kearneys Cottage, hoping we will have to go to Ballyduff to turn because there was always a chance I would pass one of the Moloney's or Lawless's. How grand. My driver James (Jim)  Willoughby and my Aunt Noreen, would have a very civilised chat up front, but they were just an essential part of the scene, like extra's in a movie, from my perspective they could just be ignored because I had to concentrate on being seen. Unfortunately, the roads were devoid of human life and Jim Willoughby, (RIP 2007) after two or three attempts, got the big Zephyr pointed up Coolishal, anyone I met up here would be useless because they knew it was my Aunt Noreen that was the main star in this show. The finale was pulling up outside my Grandparents and amid scenes of tears and hugging and kissing, all thoughts of my own stardom was forgotten. Noreen always had the bestest presents in the entire world for everyone. Noreen worked for the Duke and Duchess of Westminster when they owned "Fortwilliam" and Jim Willoughby was their Chauffer while they were in residence. Many the fine spin I got in the back of that Zephyr. Noreen was lady's maid to her grace the Duchess of Westminster and James Willoughby was the Chauffer while the Westminster's were in residence at Fortwilliam.

At one time Dad was the Ploughman at Usher's, two pairs of plow horses and one Ploughman, Mam and Mrs Moloney worked in the Dairy, and Mary Farrell worked in the kitchen. Master Tom and Miss Usher, that's how they were addressed, were old time gentry. While John Lawless and the two ladies were milking, I would be brought into the kitchen, a huge kitchen, with brass and copper pans hanging on the walls, enourmous china serving dishes, ice cold spring water on tap, flag stone floor, Mary Farrell had the giant timber table scrubbed till it was white. It was cool in the summertime and comfortable in the winter because it was thatched. Master Tom brought me around the yard showing me the Horses and the stables, they had a black horse that I always equated with "Black Beauty" a beautiful animal that they used to pull the Trap. The Coach house had an Automobile in it, if only I could recall the make, a really fantastic piece of machinery, gleaming brasses, bulbous horn and a pram type cover that could be raised or lowered. Their normal mode of transport was the Trap, they would be in Lismore every Friday and pass us on the way home from School, Miss Usher delighted in throwing fistfuls of sweets up in the air as they passed by, the scramble was on for the most sweets. Both Master Tom and Miss Usher were kind and gentle people. Things were not always so, the Bell over the yard entrance used to signal the workers to Start and Stop, meals for workers, brought by Wifes, somtimes for miles, were either on time or foregone.

After Ushers, Mam moved up the road to Babe and Bill Walsh's (Leamy's today), a rambling house, people came in of an evening and spent hours in front of the fire, Tom Kearney and Mick Murphy worked there. They killed and cured their own Bacon, had a Thrashing, had a Car that Bill bought in Barry's Garage in Ballyduff. They had a Clydesdale horse with feet bigger than a dinner plate, it was my job to drive the hay float, an ingenious iron wheeled cart that tipped and had a winch to pull the cocks of hay onto itself. Many times I lost my seat on the cock of hay and slid down under those enourmous feet, he was so gentle he would keep that leg off the ground until I extricated myself and resumed my seat atop the hay.

My first job of a morning would be to go to the Village (Ballyduff) for the messages and "The Paper" (Cork Examiner). Into Lizzy Feeney's with a shopping list, bring the wet battery for the Radio to Barry's garage to have it charged, out to the Creamery or down to Paddy Harris. In Lizzy Feeney's I was a bit of a celebrity, Lizzy introduced me to everyone that came in, brought out to the kitchen for a cup of tea and the bun of my choice off her shelf, she had a grand Cork Accent and had a great sense of humor. McCarthy's hardware Eamon Bolger at the Post Office and Paddy Harris were the only other shops in the Village that I recall. Paddy Harris had a travelling shop, he would come out Coolishal one day a week, great excitement when he opened the back door of the van, revealing a dazzling array of sweets. The smell of fresh bread combined with all the other items he had is unforgettable.

Talking to John Jackson about Paddy Harris and the travelling shop, one thing that there is no escape from and that is the decline in population and services to the people out Coolishal and Tooradoo, John would be few years younger than I, and he lived further out than Flowerhill, they had a travelling shop call to their door six out of seven days, plus of course, Connie Scanlon and the Milk lorry, Connie not only brought the milk to the creamery he also acted as messenger, notes stuffed under the handle of the churn were handed in to the shop and filled out into boxes with the milk churn number written on the side. In the evening we would roll off the empty churns and leave the box of groceries beside it. I was far from being the most important passenger Connie brought around, Gerald Farrell our Postman, his job made easier by Rambling houses situated on the main road, he would drop off mail for numerous houses at one house, Johnny Quirkes at the bottom of Tooratoggle would be one. Later in the evening as the ramblers gathered to play cards or just warm their toes in the ashes, they also collected their post. John Jackson would have, Roches - Meaghers - Hynes and a few more travelling shops during the week.

Mam, my Grandmother (Feeney, Curragnav) and Dad, my Grandfather. Uncle John and Aunt Alice, Mary, Breda and Christy and my Sister Eileen lived in the Cottage at Flowerhill -  I think it's called "Foxglove" Cottage today. To all of us it was "Home" Friendly - ordered - industrious - spotless - how many words would describe Home. Mam was a meticulous house keeper, Dad was a gardener in Fortwilliam, he was also a Carpenter Hairdresser Shoemaker, but mainly he was a Gardener, with a passion. St Stephens day at Flowerhill, all the Daughters and their broods descended on Mam & Dad. A dinner fit for a King, craic and banter between the adults while the multitude of children squabbled over their latest prized possession from Santa Claus. Something always got broken or lost in the melee, adults trying to soothe the heartbroken child. A card game of forty five in full voice at the table, thumping the table to make their trump card feel as important as it was, amid cries of reneging and other underhand practices. It was really a great time. Dad's snowdrops usually got trampled and the small border hedge ended up like swiss cheese. John Joe Troy would produce his accordian and a space cleared so that some dance or other could be performed. That was the Flowerhill that I fondly remember

John Jackson, Paddy John Feeney and many more besides would have their own memories of Coolishal / Tooradoo / Curraghnav and maybe in time we will get around to writing a serious piece on the merits or otherwise of modern progress, with respect to rural life.