27/05/2024
A 1914 account of a visit to Leenane, including Gaynor's Shop, by American author Burton Stevenson in 1914.
'We got a warm welcome from the sergeant in charge of the Leenane barracks, and from the one constable who happened to be on duty there.
They showed me all through the place, clean and bare and Spartan-like, with their kits along the wall, ready to be caught up at a moment's notice, for a call to duty may come at any time, and there must be no delay. It was a real barrack, too, with heavy bars across the windows, and a door that would resist any mob.
They have a beat of twelve miles along the mountain roads, and they cover it twice every day and once every night.
I asked them the reason for so much vigilance, for I could not imagine any serious crime back in these hills among this simple and kindly people; and they said that there was really very little crime; but a sheep would be missing now and then, or a bit of poaching would be done, or perhaps a quarrel would arise between some farmer and his labourers and a horse would be lamedโit was such things as those they had to be on the lookout for.
We sat and talked for a long time about America and Ireland, and intelligent fellows I found them, though perhaps with a little of the soldier's contempt for the shiftless civilian.
And then I walked on to the village which nestles at the head of the bay, a single street of slated houses.
Everybody wanted to talk, and I remember one old granny, with face incredibly wrinkled, who sat in front of her door knitting a stocking without once glancing at it, and who told me she was eighty-five and had nine children in America.
And I met the girl who, with her brother, teaches the village school, and she asked me if I wouldn't come in, before I left, and see the school, and I promised her I would.
Then I noticed that one of the little shops had the name "Gaynor" over the door, and I stopped in to ask the proprietor if he knew that was also the name of the mayor of New York.
He didโindeed, he knew as much about Mayor Gaynor as I did. There were two other men sitting there, and they asked me to sit down. One of them was a mail carrier, and he told me something of his trips back up into the hills, and how almost all the letters he delivered were from America, each with a bit of money in it.
"When there is bad times in America," he went on, "and when men are out of work there, it pinches us here just as hard as it pinches them thereโharder, maybe, for if the money don't come, there is nothing for it but the work-house.
A man can't make a living on these poor hill farms, no matter how hard he tries, and there is no work to be had about here, save a little car driving and such like in the summer for visitors like yourself."
"Why do they stay here?" I asked. "Why don't they go away?"
"Where would they go? There's no place for them to go in IrelandโAmerica is the only place, and every one that can raise the money does go there, you may be sure.
Them that's left behind are too poor or too old to cross the sea; and then, however bad it is, there is some that will not leave the little home they was born in, so long as they can stay there and keep the soul in their body.
There be some so in love with their home that they won't even move down into the valley farms which they might be getting from the Congested Districts Board!"