An elderly man I barely knew died in the wee small hours of this morning. But I lament him, and mark the quenching of another light in the window of a dwindling community.
Martin was 93 and had lived his robust life on a small farm in a rural townland whose name would resonate little beyond its own hinterland.
But it would mean the world to those foddering and foraging on these few square miles of low hills and scraggy enough fields, and it was a world Martin peacefully lived in and, thankfully, peacefully departed those few hours ago.
He had lived his plain enough bachelor farmer’s life in Trieneragh, Duagh, Co Kerry, having long ago thwarted the one serious opportunity to leave that came his way.
And was never heard to regret his indecision.
Sunday dinner in his nephew’s adjacent family house was as close to a break as Martin would get from his year-round farming endeavours.
And that same nephew, Brendan, and his wife and three sons, and Martin’s widowed sister-in-law Hilda — Brendan’s mum — who brought him his dinner every day, also formed a vital social grounding and conduit.
Not that Martin would not have considered Trieneragh and his low-lying acres to be in any way exotic.
Like many farmers, Martin was not one to gild his utterances, especially with people he barely know, but I remember one time asking him about his farm, and him peering out over it from under his trademark tweed flat cap before wryly noting: “’Tis easy wet it.”
There was a twinkle in an eye well used to subtly weighing up people, and I was struck by the beautiful economy and poetic wisdom of his pithy observation.
Martin was no Patrick Kavanagh or Seamus Heaney, great men to set an earthy vignette to word music, but he knew his nature, his farm, and his people.
The same nephew Brendan is married to one of my sisters-in-law.
So I would know Martin to say hello to, and had maybe four decent conversations with him in the 20 years I knew him.
One I particularly enjoyed was when we found ourselves talking about radio reporter Paddy O’Gorman, best known for his street vox pops in Dublin city’s less salubrious quarters.
RTE, Ireland’s national broadcaster, repeats the day’s radio shows during the night, and Martin, who as well as reading the local Kerryman newspaper from front page to back, was interested in the bigger world too, and it transpired, was an unlikely fan of O’Gorman’s.
He was fascinated by O’Gorman’s interviews with and reports on “the tough crowd above in Dublin” as Martin described them.
Like I say, I did not know Martin well but what strikes me now is what his passing represents.
I remember in my arrogant youth thinking how boring small town people must be, especially the ones who never left the place where they were born.
Now, of course, I know that some people who have travelled the world have learned little, while others who never lived a mile beyond a cowpat from where they came into the world can see, as William Blake put it, “a world in a grain of sand,/And heaven in a wild flower”.
I think it’s something to do with being able to truly live in the moment, aware of one’s surroundings and appreciating them, indeed feeling connected to place in a visceral way. As rooted there as any tree or shrub.
Connected in a way that one takes in season, sound and sight so that they never cease to fascinate and reveal.
Not that these people would stop to think of it all like that.
I read a marvellous piece by writer Michael Harding in the Irish Times a while back called “The lights go out on another solitary country life”.
It’s so worth reading in full but I when I think of Martin now, and what his passing means not just to his family, but to the community he lived on the outskirts of but was a part of, I think of the neighbouring bachelor farmer whose passing Harding’s piece was lamenting:
“A quiet man who never married but was good to the mother and was cherished by nephews and nieces and lived in a cosy house in the quiet hills above Lough Allen,”
I thought “pure Martin” as Harding noted how “Like many rural men, he wasn’t given to overexcitement. He’d raise one finger from the steering wheel to salute me. If I whispered my enthusiasm for the good weather as we passed, he might agree, but he would cautiously add: “Will it last?”
And then this killer observation: “When a farmer dies in the countryside there is a strange emptiness in the fields. They grow ragged with rushes, and without paint, the galvanised sheds turn to rust, although nothing rusted on my neighbour’s land”.
Harding and his neighbour rarely spoke but the writer felt he knew him, and his activities formed such a part of his daily life:
“The summer sky is full of sound, from the exquisitely booming bittern to the call of the curlew, but there was no sound as delicious as my neighbour’s tractor in a field of grass as he sat steering and twisting his head to watch the rake toss the mown grass into perfect lines behind him, and later the thump of hay bales being piled into the red galvanised shed”.
And now this man was gone, leaving behind his lovingly tended acres and taking with him a lifetime’s gathered knowledge of soil, lore, and peculiarities of weather.
This quiet man “who walked deeply on the earth and loved its colours” was no more and Harding signed off on his exquisite piece with these words:
“The house where there was always a light in the window at Christmas will be dark this year. Those who live in the hills above Lough Allen have lost another solitary man. But all across the west of Ireland it is the same – one by one, the lights go out”.
Rest in Peace, Martin.
- If you enjoyed what you have just read, try another one! Try them all! Seriously, follow my blog and you won’t miss out again. Thanks for reading.
EndaStories 
Touching words. There are often characters that we know very little, but when they pass you do miss them. We have those in our small town. People that have lived their whole lives confined here as if it’s almost like Brigadoon!
#MixItUp (technically I ready this from being subscribed to your blog, but as I then was alerted to MixItUp and yours was the post before mine I thought I’d best add the hashtag!)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Glad you popped in, from wherever! Yeh, everywhere has a Martin or two! Unheralded but part of the very fabric of a place. Thanks for commenting David
LikeLike
And now coming via #TriumphantTales as you slipped in just before my post!
LikeLike
A worthy tribute in a thought provoking piece
LikeLiked by 1 person
A lovely tribute, Enda. I grew up in a village surrounded by farmland, and we had a near equivalent of Martin. It’s sad that many often don’t realise the true worth of the likes of Martin until they’re no longer with us, but you’ve done him proud.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ah, thank you Clive … good to see you busy online recently! Some great music .. amazing to see Vega, Thompson, and Wainwright on stage together!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Two posts on successive days, I’m quite worn out! There was music, but I don’t think it included any of them, or have I forgotten something? Advancing age and all that….
LikeLike
What a lovely tribute to Martin. I have much understanding of those that never leave their roots as I’m one myself. I guess I’ve never moved a mile beyond the cowpat despite living in a big city. Roots are roots though wherever they are grown. I’ve a way to go to 93 years though, so who knows, I may even move somewhere rural one day, I’ve always fancied living near the sea.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yeah roots get laid down in all sorts of places, Anne. Even by the sea! Thank you
LikeLiked by 1 person
I think the older generations who stay rooted to the villages they grew up in offer something invaluable to the community. They are the living history and memory of the place.
Back in April this year I started helping out a lady in our village. Partly as help to get her ready for bed in the evenings and partly as company. Alice is the grand old age of 101 and I love sitting with her and hearing her tales of how our little village and the wider area have changed over her lifetime. She is at the moment in hospital and it saddens me no end that if she passes all that local history which is not the thing people record in books will be lost forever.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hi Tracey, it really is amazing to think of the magnitude of what people like the woman you describe leave behind them when they go. I had an aunt who died last year and she had lived to be 104 and saw both momentous world events and huge shifts in Irish social and cultural history. So much lost when people like that go, real, lived experience that cannot be replicated or replaced
LikeLike
What a touching and beautiful tribute to your beloved friend. Martin, you are loved and remembered.
#globalblogging
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for your lovely comment
LikeLike
Martin reminds me of a neighbor we had when I lived at my parents’ house before I was married – Mrs. Brooks. Mrs. Brooks was widowed shortly after she was married. She lived on her farm all of her life, never learned to drive and never remarried. She depended on my parents to take her where she wanted to go. My mom (and later I) did her grocery shopping. Her little farm was beautiful – no weeds, straight rows, bountiful harvest. She loved her land with a passion, as I imagine Martin did, too. They do leave a hole when they leave, don’t they?
LikeLiked by 1 person
They sure do Laurie. It’s like they are such a part of the place that we take them for granted when they are alive but when they go we realise the value of what they have lived and taken with them.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Beautiful Enda, what a beautiful, poetic, and dignified farewell to your neighbour, kudos!
LikeLike
Thank you very much
LikeLike
Well done Enda. You manage to capture a lot of him and his disappearing equals. The highest praise I can give you is that he would have hated it!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Haha love it!
LikeLike
This is so tender, thought provoking and touching. I feel as if there are characters that represent another era and with each of their passing that era is fading. Thankfully there are people like yourself who have taken the time to consider him and so his ways live on a little longer xx Maria
LikeLiked by 1 person
#TriumphantTales
LikeLike
Thank you for taking the time to comment Maria. Amnd thank you for your kind words.
LikeLike
A touching tribute to Martin.
I always wonder if people know how loved they are. When 9 attend funerals Nd see the poeopl coming to pay respects I always ask if they knew they meant so much to this many people.
R.I.P Martin
LikeLiked by 1 person
Sometimes they find out too late, but I know Martin’s tribe loved him … even if they’d be the last people to use those words! Actions first …
LikeLike
what a lovely tribute to a lovely man #globalblogging
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you Suzanne
LikeLike
Beautifully and thoughtfully written as always. The world needs people like Martin. #BloggerclubUK
LikeLike
Thank you Katie … the world sure does!
LikeLike
Beautiful writing as ever. It made me think how if I had not been adopted I would have lived in such a place and known farming well. It also made me think how we all bang on about the need for mindfulness and counting our blessings when people like your man knew it instinctively all along. How we complicate things and to our personal cost I think. Thanks for sharing your reflections and also signposting to other things that I will follow up on #BloggerClubUK
LikeLike
This is lovely, Martin sounds like a great man. Reminds me of some of the older chaps that come to my shop, one is a farmer that supplies eggs to lots of local businesses and although gruff he has a sparkle in his eye His wife once told me he had managed to burn his kitchen down and had to be rescued by the fire brigade wearing nothing but a tshirt. Poor guy! #blogcrush
LikeLike
What a lovely tribute, Enda! He sounds like many old farmers that live round my way. Lift their cap, round their cows, brush their hair to go to church. Such characters and worth remembering. Lovely read. #thesatsesh
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hi Sophie. Yes, he certainly was one of those Thank you
LikeLike
What a lovely goodbye to your neighbor. You’ve managed to make me feel as if I knew him to – and I feel his loss. Rest in peace, Martin. Beautiful, Enda. #globalblogging xoxo
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ah thanks Lisa. A great life, but also great tribute due to his nephew and family who made sure he had a great quality of life right to the end. But he made it easier for them by being such a decent and lovable man.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Small towns seem to make you realize how fragile life is, much more so than a big city. You notice people more often, and get a better sense of who they are – even if you only briefly speak with them in passing. RIP Martin. And thank you for making me cry Enda, I was overdue for an emotion that wasn’t over-exaggerated rage. #GlobalBlogging
LikeLiked by 1 person
That is the other side of small town life … every one can be important in a small town, part of the fabric of a place, in a way they might not be in a bigger place. Thanks Heather
LikeLiked by 1 person
What an absolutely beautiful tribute. I come from a family of farmers (some are surprised, I’m not your typical farmer’s daughter!) and this touched me in a way I wasn’t expecting. Thanks so much or sharing with #TriumphantTales, do come back next week.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you Jaki
LikeLike
Thanks Jaki. I appreciate that
LikeLike
A beautifully poignant and thought provoking piece. May Martin rest in peace and all those like him living in a quiet way be remembered by someone. Thanks for being on the #DreamTeam
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for lour lovely sentiments Kirsty
LikeLike
Lovely deication to Martin and agree with the statement about you can travel a lot and learna little and vicer versa, very true indeed X #thesatsesh
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hi Sam. Glad you liked it. Thank you
LikeLike
Back with another nod to Martin, ❤ #itsok
LikeLiked by 1 person
People can have such an impact and never know it. We should show our appreciation before it is too late. RIP Martin #dreamteam
LikeLike
Thanks for linking up to the #itsok parenting bloggers linky.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
Such a lovely post, I grew up in a small village in Devon which had many men and women just like Martin. Sometimes they hadn’t left the village, or even the house they were born in, others had done extraordinary things and then come back home and settled straight back into farming and country life, but they all held so much wisdom – something I didn’t realise as a teenager, but now, like you, I am very aware of. Thanks for sharing xxx
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much.. yes there are many like this that younger people maybe do not appreciate. Only later
LikeLike
Gorgeous writing!! There must be some real comfort in putting down roots and then staying there. Not feeling the need to look further and do better constantly!! #triumphanttales
LikeLiked by 1 person
Indeed … but sometimes it’s hard to keep a person.down on the farm when theyve seen Par-ee! Takes all sorts. Thanks Kelly
LikeLike
Enda I found this profoundly moving. My mother’s family are farming people from Kerry so there was much I recognised here. Thank you for this compassionate tribute. May he rest in peace.
Regards Thom.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanj you so much Thom. Greatly appreciated. A fine life but an era passes
LikeLiked by 1 person
A beautifully written piece lamenting the passing of a special kind of fellow. A lovely tribute. Thanks for sharing. #thesatsesh xx
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks so much Hayley
LikeLiked by 1 person
What a beautiful man and an equally fitting piece you have written here. I rather love the analogy “a world in a grain of sand,/And heaven in a wild flower”. These people are at the very core of many communities and are often the glue that holds them together. Beautiful tribute. Thank you for sharing with us at #tweensteensbeyond Endardoo and I wish you and your family a wonderfully festive time.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much Nicky.You are so right about that; these are the kind of people who, as you say, are at the very core of communities and we often don’t realise their worth till after they are gone. Wishing the season’s best to you and your family and a great 2019
LikeLiked by 1 person
Sorry I meant Enda!
LikeLike
Being born and raised in the rural communities of the Cambrian Mountains in Mid Wales I knew a lot of gentlemen just like Martins and I’m saddened when I’m told that any of them have passed. This is a a keenly observed tribute and it sums up a lot of the positives about rural life. Thanks so much for your support for #TweensTeensBeyond during 2018 and Happy New Year!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much Sharon. Delighted to support TTB, always great posts and pertinent to me as our two kids are 13 and almost 15. A Happy New Year to you too
LikeLike
A wonderful tribute Enda and one many of us who grew up in the country can probably identify with but there are people like that in the cities too and it is wonderful to be reminded of the glue that they provide in our communities. #TweensTeensBeyond
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank yiu somuch Jo. You’re right they are there in towns and cities too
LikeLike
Pingback: Tweens, Teens and Beyond Linky #55 -