While tidying my workspace a week ago, I uncovered a treasure trove of old cassette tapes containing stories from Travellers that I had listened to many years ago. As a young lad, I’ve always held a fascination for the Travellers – their vibrant, unconventional lives in barrel top wagons nestled beside golf links along a narrow path intrigued me. I’d spot kids my age who never attended school, instead, they basked in the comfort of makeshift tents crafted from canvas slung over wattles steeped in ditches, firm and comfortable. Their curiosity matched mine as I’d ride past on my bicycle.
There were occasions when one of the men would greet me in traditional fashion.
“Good lad!” was the regular greeting I’d hear.
In reply, I’d halt and engage in a friendly conversation with him. The topic would often sway towards where I was living and I would gesture towards our house, visible from where we stood. Likewise, I’d ask if those were his kids, indicating the smudged faces peeking out from the tent, the answer followed with a lighthearted chuckle, “Yes, all of them are mine.”
These brief encounters sparked an innate desire within me to delve deeper into the lives of these transient children. As the years rolled by, I found myself working as the resident writer for three months with the Irish Traveller Movement in Tullamore.
I initially perceived Travellers as peculiar and foreign until I formed bond with them. Post which, their similarities surprised me.
I had recently become a father and had come to understand that my child was the centre of my world. I resided on a canal barge and would make regular visits to the halting site with a tape recorder in hand. The enchanting tales of historical weddings where the bride dressed in wellington boots or adorned an old tartan shawl whilst only a handful of rice served as the confetti in the churchyard left me spellbound. Stories of childbirth under wagons, makeshift tents or in the back of vans, were equally mesmerising.
In stark contrast, my mother resided in luxury amidst clusters of teapots and floral arrangements, with her golf set always at the ready in the garage. However, her affection for us, her children, was no different to that of the Traveller mothers whose embracing hold I saw on their children. This shared sentiment of motherly affection, despite drastically different living conditions, still amazes me.
The serenity of the Nomadic woman as she gently placed her child on the rug was what caught my attention. This specific event brought psychological significance to the drama, a detail that would’ve been applaudable for Chekhov.
Being recollected of an anecdote about a woman who delivered her baby amidst war, in Mullingar where the hospital was sealed tight due to the ongoing battle. She left the hospital in the darkest hour. The firstborn didn’t survive, but, on her way home to Kinnegad, another surprising event took place. She had to protest her husband to stop the vehicle mid-way, as they were expecting another child, the stillborn’s twin. She gave birth just road side. She pointed to a burly man walking past the trailer window claiming it was him.
These incidents deeply affected me, as I used to perceive Travellers as eccentric beings during my childhood. But when I endeavoured to befriend them, it was their similarities to us that amazed me, not just parenthood.
I came to understand that I could acquire as much knowledge from these older Nomadic women about storytelling as I could possibly get from university courses spanning a decade. Additionally, their unreserved passion for weaving stories altogether transformed my writing style and made me realise the importance of testifying one’s own life to become a successful writer.
I recall another anecdote of a woman, involved in a dispute with a store owner. She was carrying a baby in a tartan shawl and was accused by the shopkeeper of hiding a turnip beneath it. He chased her out of the store, calling for the guards.
The Nomadic woman handled the situation with grace, spreading her tartan rug on the sidewalk, ensuring her baby’s safety by placing it carefully on the rug, before hurling a turnip picked from a nearby stall through the shop’s window. The law enforcement arrived soon after and she found herself imprisoned in Mountjoy for a month.
But it was her tranquil demeanor as she ensured her child’s safety that struck me. This particular detail added a deep psychological undertone to the drama, noteworthy for Chekhov.
Listening to these recordings today, one can still discern the enchanting melody within them. The narratives inherently possess intricate patterns of rhythm and intonation, making them as harmonious as any musical composition. Reflecting on those early morning sessions in caravans long ago, I appreciate the immense luck I had to encounter people who understood that narrating one’s personal life experience is the purest route for story-tellers. It’s hardly surprising that those cassettes, which I deeply revere, are now cleaned regularly and occupy a privileged position on the highest shelf.