Change here for Ballyvary, Foxford and Ballina

A look back at Manulla Junction and beyond

By Noel Hoban

EVEN the most imaginative user of Irish Rail services, on arrival at Manulla Junction, can be forgiven for failing to comprehend that it was ever anything more than it is today - a barren oasis of tar and cement, devoid of buildings, staff, character, and public access. But oh, how wrong they would be, as this station was iconic in its day and boasted facilities that modern stations can only dream about.

Manulla Junction opened on May 1, 1868, a full six years after the opening of neighbouring Castlebar. In today’s article, I wish to put meat on the bones and guts in the belly of this great station.

The rail network west of Athlone was commonly referred to as the Lord Lucan Railway. Despite warts and all, it was so named because he was able to secure funding from the British Parliament to lay tracks and build stations, with the primary intention of transporting his massive cattle herds to Britain.

Back in the day, farmers had to drive herds from as far away as Belmullet to Castlebar to board cattle wagons and begin their journey. Say what you wish about the British, but they devised the finest infrastructure and buildings, which are still deemed preserved to this day.

The junction itself consisted of two running lines, a loop, seven sidings, two giant water towers, a turntable to turn steam engines or one dreaded diesel loco, and an engine repair pit.

In 1874, a sum of £510 was allocated to build the waiting rooms and signal cabin, and all was very much in order for the opening of Ballina in 1873.

The middle platform consisted of the waiting area, gents' and ladies' toilets, the hallkeeper's office, and a ticket and parcel office. The rest of the platform was covered by a steel veranda supported by iron standstills and incorporated timber seating. It was here that a large saloon bar stood serving alcoholic drinks and cigarettes. It was L-shaped inside, and the counter resembled a pub in the Wild West movies. It was a nice touch, though as often you think that today you can’t get a cup of tea on the three-and-a-half-hour journey to Dublin, and they called that progress.

The footbridge was a sturdy three-way structure that transported passengers between both platforms and the adjoining car park. The far platform consisted of a red brick waiting room and the signal cabin.

EELS AND THE GRAND NATIONAL

Whilst Manulla would not be renowned for cattle loading there were many sometimes unusual items exported from there. During its demolition many years later I discovered invoices for the export of eels to Birmingham which were a major delicacy back then. Local lakes rich with eels were fished by local fishermen and the slippery buggers were boxed and exported from the stations. Pullets (baby chickens) geese, Irish potatoes, and vegetables were also exported from the junction.

Those were innocent times but I also came across a memo from a District Manager to a signalman to refrain from allowing his ass from grazing on the lineside. I found this faintly amusing.

My late father John was the haltkeeper there up to its closure in 1963/64. So having grown up by the tracks, played games at the station and been third-generation railway people, we essentially were the Railway Children.

I remember on Grand National Day the goods train would make an unscheduled stop to allow the crew to watch the race in our house. I recall a man named Willie Sheridan, who would drink ten mugs of water straight down after his lunch. This amazed me for a while until I learned he was a diabetic.

Getting back to the operation of the station, in the early days, it was vital to have access to water to quench the thirst of the greedy steam engines, so it was necessary to approach Lord Kilmaine, who owned land and a lake about half a mile on the Balla side of the station. A deal was procured, and a pump house and burners were built.

My late grandfather, Mike Kennedy, operated the pump house, feeding coal into the fires, which generated pumps to pump water from a holding tank beside the lake back to the two towers at the station.

When he retired from there, his wife Kate and he, took up a position as resident gatekeepers at Barrackland.

From its very infancy, the railway required extremely hard work, with no protective clothing or footwear provided as it is today.

While the English designed some magnificent buildings and infrastructure, the actual construction of the railway involved gangs of men cutting through embankments and draining bogs using nothing more than picks and shovels. The saying, "dying to get your job," was meant quite literally then, as scores of onlookers stood by, waiting for someone to die from physical exhaustion. So sad to see how this was plundered later.

Manulla Junction survived three wars, with the Civil War recording the most significant damage when the signal cabin on the eastern side was blown up in 1922 by the notorious Black and Tans. My grandmother often recounted how even her long hair would be searched for blades by those campaigning thugs.

There is an old belief that when you hear the cry of the whip-poor-will bird, you take three steps back, pick up what’s at your heel, spit on it, and make a wish.

Well, when the railway Porters shouted, "Change here for Balavary, Foxford, and Ballina”, the passengers took a few steps back, picked up the heavy trunks at their heels, and fulfilled their wish to reach either of their destinations. With no PA systems then, the cry was repeated so often that I can still hear it in my sleep.

I can only find two examples of actual rail crashes at Manula Junction and thankfully no fatalities.

On the 5th of September 1910, the 8.30 down mail train trundled into the junction and crashed into an engine that was shunting. In the late '50s, a passenger train ran into the back of a stationary goods train, leading to some ambiguity over the call on signal. The signalman paid the price but like all rail incidents, lessons were learned. And that's when, looking back, levers were introduced to break the system's full-proof.

My memories as a child, and some great spins on the old Locos, were true gold. The drivers then, all gone to their eternal rest. On the Ballina line, men like Hughie Dawson, Paddy McTighe, Mr. Canavan, and Christie Hunt, while on the Castlebar line, we had Paddy Cassidy, Phelim Lyons, Davy Garavan, and many more.

THRIVING VILLAGE

Manulla village was a thriving little compact village back then. With a population of over 1,000 people, it boasted the smallest ballroom in Ireland in the form of John Tom Clarke's thatched ballroom. Charlie Hennelly ran the pub next door, while Tommy and Sadie McEllin ran a very successful business across the road, selling shop goods, fuel, bagged staff, straw, and more.

Across the road at the crossroads, there was a flourishing school and a post office/shop run by the Ralph family. McDonnell's Garage was highly successful in its day, and Ella McDonagh ran the Railway Tavern.

My grandparents operated Barrackland Gates, which became a focal point for neighbours to congregate and share the news of the day. Among those who gathered were Johnny Glynn, Mick Maille, Jim O’Brien and Pat Kelly, its postman. Diviney’s Van was the mainstay of grocery and food deliveries then. It stocked everything from a needle to an anchor on its twice-weekly visits.

On a Monday, the late Johnny Murray would arrive with the single cab and Lavelle's bread van. The appetising aroma of the batch loaf would waft through the morning air like Chanel No. 5 at the Baftas.

I helped with the gates on many occasions, and I always remember the main radio soap of that era was The Kennedys of Castleross. My grandmother would be glued to the old radio as Maureen Potter would scream, "Christy!" to her son. The stories of Castleross were a must back then.

Speaking of stories, I have one lasting one of my grandfather and the Rás Tailteann team bike race. One Saturday, my grandfather got the train on, so the gates had to go across. Unfortunately, this occurred as the race passed, so when the first few riders went through, Mike slammed the gates on the rest.

The riders' expletives lit up the midday sky as they clambered through with their bikes on their heads. Luckily, the yellow jersey was not covered in my grandfather's blood that evening.

On the east side of Manulla, we had three crossings: Lisnolan, Smuttenagh, and Carrontubber. The old drivers nicknamed them Faith, Hope, and Charity. Faith, the first, would be open. Hope, for the second, and pure goddamn Charity if the third one was.

DEMISE

Back to Manulla Junction and the burning question - where did it all go wrong? In the late ’50s, we had a Lemass-Andrews-led government that failed to see the worth of a railway in Ireland, least of all in the west. As a result, the rape and plunder of the finest infrastructure took place, with tracks ripped up and unceremoniously demolished. Donegal lost its railway network, and many, many stations were closed.

Manulla took the brunt of it in the west, and I was present to watch its demise as bulldozers ripped everything to shreds. The west of Ireland was badly hit, as the Cromwellian saying "To Hell or to Connacht" was still the dish of the day. Even today, after the limp response to the storm damage in the west, that saying is still believed east of the Pale.

On the 6th of February 1998, the down-morning Westport train derailed and turned over. When the EU checked their maps, the line did not exist. At once, funding was released to give us the smooth, continuous welded rail and signalling systems rail customers enjoy today.

In 1963, a set of dodgy power points were installed at the derelict junction, and those, though broken half the time, were operated from Balla station. I remember Bernie Pidgeon's heart was broken trying to keep them going in one piece.

When Balla and Castlebar cabins closed in ’88/’89, a portacabin was installed at the junction with a modern switch track circuit panel for operating the points and signals. In the first half of the new millennium, that too closed - this time in the name of progress, not the political ineptitude that prevailed in ’63.

The station that had so much history and so many facilities would be no more. The ghosts of those who worked there and passed through can roam freely now. It’s not that they lack space to do so.

So the next time you arrive at the once-great station, I hope that, upon reading this, you perceive it in a totally different light. If that is the case, I will feel that I have done a good job today.

As I reminisce on the glory days, I recall the words Barbara Stanwyck used to Cardinal de Bricassart in the final scene of The Thorn Birds. She asked, “Will anyone remember how it was for us?” Echoes so true in the canyons of my mind.

Special thanks to Mr. Ray Lawlor for the arrangement of photos and my script for publication.