Warm tribute to Castlebar's Martin Corcoran on his passing

by Francis Cawley

My uncle Martin Corcoran was born on Wednesday, October 29, 1941, in Ballynew, Castlebar.

He was the first-born boy of Mary Stephens and Patrick Corcoran.

He spent the following 80 years living in the same house, bar a few weeks in 1995 when he camped up to the nearby bungalow, whilst the old house was being refurbished.

As far as I can tell, there was only two or three other occasions where Martin didn’t return home to the roost.

One of these occasions was Sunday night, August 1, 1965. He was not too sure where he slept that night, or indeed if he slept at all, when attending the Thurles Fleadh Ceoil in Tipperary.

He didn’t travel to the fleadh until the Sunday afternoon, because cows had to be milked, and he wanted to get Mass in before hitting the road.

Martin left Turlough National School at 12, and he worked a few years with David Potter before joining the Castlebar Bacon Factory at the age of 14 in 1955 where he worked very hard, and never missed a day sick, for the next 33 years.

Martin had an old-fashioned sense of humour. They say he inherited his quick wit and sense of devilment from the Stephens'.

He was very well known and liked in Castlebar. I heard a man once say that you couldn’t believe the radio in Martin Corcoran’s house!

Martin found it pretty much impossible to avoid a windup or what I would call 'a hairy story.'

I spent quite a bit of time in his company over last few years, especially during the pandemic lock downs where I used to visit himself and Mary most Friday and Sunday evenings.

The last drink we had was only five days before he died on Thursday, February 23.

We discussed many topics as usual, including the fact, according to Martin Corcoran, that crows start building their nests on March 1 every spring, unless of course March 1 falls on a Sunday.

Then, according to Martin, the preachains will postpone nest building duties until March 2.

It makes perfect sense, sure the crows, like Martin, are deeply religious.

Martin had a great affection for the old traditions of the rosary and the Angelus. He used to bless himself with holy water every time he left the house. He never missed Mass on a Sunday, even if the last few years he was listening in on the radio.

Martin loved animals and he loved being a farmer. Over the years he cared for cows, pigs, hens, dogs, like Prince and Beauty, cats, ducks, guinea fowl, bantom cocks, goats, horses like Bonnie and ponies like Darkey and Lassie, badgers, turkeys, and donkeys on their holidays from the Pontoon Road.

There were the two famous peacocks, one of whom, incidentally, through no fault of his own, he had purchased as a pea hen.

During the summer the peacocks would screech their mating calls from the break of dawn.

One of the peacocks used to sound an awful lot like they were roaring “Meigheo,” “Meigheo.”

I asked him could he hear the similarity, and he said: “The peacock would hardly be shouting for Dublin now would he?”

I pointed out this last summer that there was a meadow of grass growing out of the gutters of his house and he said, without any pause, that he was thinking of getting a giraffe!

Martin loved this time of the year with the onset of spring.

One of his favourite verses was: “The bee, the bat, the butterfly, the cuckoo and the swallow, the corn crake and the weather bleak and all the rest to follow.”

Martin loved all animals, bar the mink and the magpie.

There were two occasions where Martin did not like surprise visitors, during Mass and telly bingo. Martin loved playing the national lottery.

I asked him what he would do if he ever scooped the top prize and he said, again without pausing, that he would get a mechanical liver and a presidential suite in the Sacred Heart Home.

He was a man of contradictions too. He preferred funerals to weddings.

If you asked him will Mayo win the All-Ireland, he would say: “Not all all.” If you asked will Mayo lose the All-Ireland then you would get the same reply.

Martin was a man of routines and structure. I think that evolved from his life as a farmer and a bacon factory employee.

Maybe this is why he loved watching snooker, a skilled, organised and controlled game that follows a very precise set of rules.

Martin never drove a car, he cycled everywhere up until his early 70s when his back started giving him trouble and eventually forced him to park up his bike.

Most people in Castlebar will remember him on the bike. He stopped to talk to everyone he knew and some he did not know on the short journey into town.

Martin talked to everyone. If Martin ever joined an order of Trappist monks, he wouldn’t remain silent until the mid-day Angelus.

In the recent past Martin used to get a taxi with Kathleen Grey and others every Wednesday and Saturday to go into town.

He continued that routine all the way through the Covid lockdowns, when his trips where shorter than normal times.

The main purpose of his trips was to pick up the lotto and the pension, and, of course, find out if there were any funerals that he needed to go to.

He was delighted when the pubs reopened. He had his regular haunts like Coady’s, Moran’s on Rush Street, and Johnnie’s. I think Higgins’ in Turlough was one of his favourites.

I’ve no doubt he went to more funerals in Castlebar than most politicians. Some people reckon there was a time where Martin was at more funerals in a week than undertaker Rocky Moran.

If you or any of your family had a relation who passed away, and you worked in the factory, then Martin would most likely have been at the funeral.

Martin was a man of generosity. When he was cycling, he used to call into the Sacred Heart Home every Sunday night to visit patients. He would bring in whiskey and cigarettes, but most of all he brought himself, with his quick wit, good positive sense of humour and his gift of conversation.

I will miss him and his phone calls as I am sure will many many others.

Martin was in regular contact with many people. He embraced the mobile phone like a cow embraces a meadow after being released outside for the first time after a winter spent eating silage in a shed.

Martin Corcoran died on Shrove Tuesday, March 1, 2022. On Ash Wednesday morning, March 2, I noticed a single lonely crow building a nest in the sycamore tree opposite Martin's bedroom window, very close to the place where Martin stood for the last time.

So, it is not true that crows won’t start building their nests on March 1 if the first day of March lands on a Sunday. You see crows won’t start their nests on March 1 either if one of their dear friends passes away on that date.

As he would say himself: “That’s the way now. That’s the way.”