IN NOVEMBER OF 2023, CLOGH WRITERS GROUP LAUNCHED ‘WHERE I AM’, A COLLECTION OF POETRY AND PROSE FROM ELEVEN DIFFERENT WRITERS. AS CO-ORDINATOR OF THE WRITERS GROUP JANE MEALLY SAID: “WHERE I AM” IS A PUBLICATION WHERE EACH WRITER COMMUNICATES THEIR PASSION TO THE READER.”
Having attended the launch in Clogh, The Kilkenny Observer Newspaper was quite taken with not only the publication, but the work ethic of the writers group. Over the next 11 weeks we reproduce some of that work, and are delighted to work hand in hand with this North Kilkenny writers group.
WEEK 5: This week we feature the work of Seán Mansfield
The Thinking Cap
Standing in a queue in the bank I found myself studying the bald pate of the man in front of me, a farmer I know by sight. He was a middle-aged man and the sun had not only tanned his head but had scattered it with dark brown speckles that one should be wary about. Why on earth doesn’t he wear his cap, I thought, and I realised the cap is obsolete. None of his generation wears it anymore. Once the common head-dress of the Irish farmer and general worker, it is now only worn by men of a certain age.
Now don’t get me wrong caps are worn by young and old if they are, for example, emblazoned ‘The Cats Are Simply The Best’. Grown men are no longer self conscious of being seen in public in all sorts of bizarre head-gear to mark sporting occasions. No, I am now specifically talking about the humble versatile tweed cap; the typical Irishman’s cap.
The traditional cloth cap was above all, practical. It was as much a part of a man as his nose. Men were distinguishable by their caps. Its basic function was to protect one against the elements. The prominent peak kept the sun out of the eyes and the rain off the nose. Rain or shine it was hardly ever removed except for Amhrán na bhFiann, the Angelus or as a mark of respect.
The cap was to be seen on most heads. The old caps were honest-to-God ones worn by those that worked the land, footed the turf, dug the coal and swept the chimneys. Then there was the thinking cap that put away money every week for Communion, Confirmation and maybe next year’s holiday.
Two generations ago working folk in rural Ireland wore the same kind of clothes for all occasions, the only difference being their relative newness. Men mucked out cow sheds, followed horses and drove tractors in clothes which had once been reserved for ‘Sunday best’ but had been demoted to working gear. A man’s working trousers were often part of a suit.
Gaelic games have always played an important part in our culture and the cap was part and parcel of players’ gear. Goalies in both hurling and football wore caps when playing against the sun. Some of the early hurlers jammed the cap on back to front and it was regarded as having the same protective properties as the modern helmet. Juvenile players often wore caps to ape their elders.
The cap was part of social etiquette. A man always removed his cap when sitting down to a meal. Touching the peak with the forefinger was regarded as only good manners when one’s social superior went past. Pushing it to the back of the head was said to assist thoughtfulness. Raising it and scratching the head indicated disbelief. Leaving the cap behind in the local was a sure sign of being the worse for wear. If you were the worse for wear you could throw the cap in first when you arrived home. If it didn’t’t come back it was a sign the coast was clear. If it did come back, however, then it was the doghouse for you.
As well as providing protection from the weather, the cap could be put to other uses. The farmer could use it as a kneeler when milking a goat. It could be used for swatting bees and keeping horseflies away. Caps were even used to gather mushrooms or for bringing home the eggs when the hens were laying out. The drovers used the cap and stick to get the cattle past byroads on their way to the fair.
The cap was the last element of country uniform to lose its grip, but it didn’t disappear overnight. When a man’s suit was demoted to everyday wear the coat and suit often went their separate ways. When the Sunday cap was replaced by a spanking new one it became a working cap. It only became a fully fledged working cap when it had acquired a healthy stain of sweat underneath the rim.
The Sunday cap could be worn on week-days but only for social purposes. You could assume that the man in the pub wearing his Sunday cap was out for a social drink. However the man with the working cap was likely to ‘be on the beer’. His sojourn in the pub was likely to have been lengthy. He may have been coming from work and fallen into company as people in Ireland are wont to do. He may have been reminded that ‘a bird never flew on one wing’ but it may not have occurred to him that she never flew on three either.
Seán Mansfield
The Murmuration
Growing up we called them stares. In the lexicon, now, they’re starlings.
They return to the same breeding ground Season after season. It happens to be
Our garage, set in a secluded spot,
A self build, with bird guards omitted, mea culpa.
They’re not the same starlings, but the same DNA. They’re like our blackbirds, but with sturdier legs, And are more upright, with short tails.
Coming in pairs; he in black, she in brown plumage. Numerous nesting pairs make up their colony.
We know them to be gregarious and accomplished mimics.
With synchronized egg-laying leading to
The whole colony fledging together; ingenious. Both feed their young; flies, snails and worms. In short order, the nesting colonies
In a quick turnaround, bolster their numbers. Enough to make, their own mini-murmuration.
Juveniles, of both genders, dressed in brown plumage Are ready to join the ranks.
Strutting their stuff on our ridge tiles, Flocking together like sheep and cows. They learn about strength in numbers, Stronger together, minding themselves.
Murmurations are their forte, the bigger the better. This tradition, born back in the mists of time.
A crafty creation, to keep themselves warm, and confuse predators
And geared to fly to the lower latitudes.
If that’s the scientific, what about the aesthetic?
Well, they are nature’s great performers of aerial displays.
Driving down the Crutt Hills, one September evening I spotted a murmuration in my rear-view mirror.
I took a left turn, they followed. I swung a right, they followed.
I felt as if they were escorting me home.
Alas! I lost them under the high trees at Owens’s.
Seán Mansfield
The Comer Crows
The murder of crows pass above us twice a day: once in the early morning; back again in the evening
on their way home to Comer.
Their nests are in the high branches
of sycamores, chestnuts or sturdy oaks
in the Wandesforde Demesne or Sawneys Wood.
They’re always raucous, complaining, but musically mute.
We don’t know where or how far they go but no doubt we can surmise it’s
corn country, maybe Athy or even Kilcullen.
When they settle back again for the night in their rickety nests near Comer,
they fall in to a silence
and all is quiet on the Western Front.
Seán Mansfield
