Making the chains of the Mall

THIS is a photograph of my late uncle, Denny Fahy, which I thought I had lost. Thankfully, it turned up when I was cleaning out the attic, writes Tom Gillespie.

The photo, taken on the Mall, Castlebar, many years ago, as you can see by the vintage motorcars, is a snapshot of the gifted work he did as a blacksmith.

In the background are the iron chain links that encircle the Mall, which was once the cricket pitch for Lord Lucan.

It was Denny and his father, my grandfather, Willie Fahy, who made the links for the Urban Council in their forge at Newantrim Street, Castlebar. It was a mammoth task in those days as each link had to be handmade, and they have stood the test of time as they are still in place around the green.

As a school project, again many years ago, one of my daughters, Rowena, researched the history of the chains and she discovered there were 3,286 links forded into 58 chains. It involved physically counting each one.

Last May I wrote of the blacksmithing work Denny did and the hoops he used to make for cartwheels, the sláns and tongs he diversified into when the horse and cart became redundant.

He was a talented craftsman and I recall he once made me a buggy which was propelled by pulling and pushing the steering wheel. He also made similar buggies for neighbouring children.

As a lad I regularly visited the Fahy household where my grandmother Sarah resided.

I often went there for my lunch from national school and I would be sent to the forge to tell my uncle the food was ready by reciting: ‘Denny the spinner come in for your dinner’.

As well as being a talented tradesmen, Denny had a special love of nature and it was in Newantrim Street that I first saw a copy of National Geographic with its then black and white photos.

Next door to the forge was Hayes’ shop and across the road Tommy Lawless’ shop where you could purchase anything from a needle to an anchor.

During the angling season Denny had a boat on Lough Carra and he rarely failed to return on a Sunday with a bag of fine trout.

A fly-fishing expert, Denny tied his own flies and he taught me the art of fly-fishing.

In those days while fishing with a cast of three flies, it was not unusual to hook two trout at the one time.

Then you were faced with the quandary as to which trout you should land first.

With your landing net you netted the fish on the bottom of the cast first and then the second trout.

During the Mayfly season we collected the elusive insects in jam jars with air holes punched in the lid.

We would search the trees on the small islands for Mayfly. The secret was to look on the reverse of the leaves where they usually settled.

Initially they were hard to spot but once you caught the first one you knew what to look for, and where.

The Mayflies would be dapped by putting one or two on a tiny hook and, with a blowline, extending it in front of the drifting boat and waiting for the trout to strike.

Denny had great patience, both with fishing and with an eager young buck like myself.

You were taught to count to 10 after the trout took the Mayfly and them strike it. To this day dapping is my favourite form of fly-fishing.

Now, if anything, Denny was inventive and was prone to trying different lures to capture that elusive silver Carra trout.

Being folically challenged, he wore a cap and with lightening speed he could stun a passing bee or wasp with the cap and have them on the dapping hook in seconds.

His methods often proved successful, as would his efforts dapping butterflies, daddy longlegs or grasshoppers.

For lunch we lit a fire on Connor’s Island (which isn’t an island) or the West Twin.

In those days Denny had a Seagull engine which had to be topped up with petrol every so often because it had a small black tank.

So a tin of petrol was always on board and a splash of it was used to start the fire. You had to be sure to stand well back before you threw the lighted match on the fire or you would be going home without any eyebrows.

Thankfully we had no tea bags in those days, just loose Lyons tea leaves. A good fistful was thrown into the kettle when it came to the boil and to stop them clouding up your brew, a piece of whin bush was jammed into the spout of the kettle.

I can still taste that strong tea which washed down a few humble sandwiches.

After a few more hours of fishing it was time to hit full speed for Moorehall where Denny moored the boat. For this trip I usually lay on the floor and more often that not fell asleep after a day in the fresh air.

I usually had a trout or two for my mother on my return home, exhausted but full of the wonders of nature. 

 

 * Read Tom Gillespie's column every Tuesday in our print edition