Against the Tide Read Online Free PDF

Siki’s jaws. Death came in an instant of pain. The walk had lost me
more of my childhood innocence. Unaware of my shock, Pat kindly showed me how to slice a hole with a knife in the heel tendon of the rabbit’s leg. Then he put the other foot through that slit
and slung the rabbit over the walking stick, carried for just such a purpose. He brought home four dead rabbits; Siki had paid for her keep.
    Pat once invited me to go with him to a place just outside Athlone called Horseleap, where there was to be a coursing match. There were so many new experiences that day which bombarded my small
child’s mind, but only one remains with me clearly, that of a man with a long leather lead with two collars in which were strapped the necks of a pair of quivering greyhounds. A silence fell
on the crowd. All of us turned to watch the man as he ran backwards, tugging on the double leash. This had the effect of releasing the hounds. Together they burst after the hopeless scurrying puff
ball of fur, twenty yards ahead, flying for its life. Two yelping hounds eager for the kill. Just as eager were the on-lookers with their own animal sounds, only deeper: they were men. The hounds
reached the hare together, each furious at the other and mad for that spoonful of blood in the small body, as indeed were the baying human beings around me. There was a long death scream of pain
that rose to a crescendo, and died in my ear. Like acid on a glass, that memory of the primeval ritual of a coursing meeting remains etched on my mind.
    Other country rituals would take their annual course. In the late summer and autumn, each farmer’s wife would churn the surplus milk and make butter to bring to Athlone for sale. The day
would start for her at dawn with the long drive into town with her husband seated on the narrow plank in the horse and cart. The humiliating trail from door to door, where she was not always well
received, would begin. The oblong basket, made from sally rods, could also hold eggs, a pair of bright-eyed pullets, or old hens past their best and meant for the pot. My mother enjoyed reviving
memories of the butter-cup yellow country butter associated with her childhood, but we children were not as fond of the butter as she. It tended to be salty and go rancid easily.
    The bargaining was intricate and slow. The farmer’s wife was torn between anxiety to get a good price and the desire not to have to face another stranger at a door. She might even have to
bring the butter home. Much depended on the price, but the taste was even more crucial. Many a farmer’s wife had a heavy hand with the salt; it depended on what she and her family liked. My
mother would use the third finger of her right hand to scoop a shallow line in the soft surface of the narrow block of butter; this small fragment of butter she put to her lips. If the taste suited
her family, then the haggling began; the usual price was around a shilling a pound. If a deal was closed I was sent into the kitchen to get a big clean white dinner plate. The butter was placed in
the centre and brought into the kitchen. Sometimes it was marked by the wooden thistle-mould used by the more artistic farmers’ wives.
    Living in the centre of Ireland we were beside the Bog of Allen. Farmers, their own fuel needs looked to, would earn extra money by loading turf into the horse cart to be sold in Athlone. The
usual shallow two-foot-high sides of the cart were increased in height by the addition of creels on all four sides, made of light timber slats and shaped like a cage. The turf was built up beyond
the top of the creels and shaped inwards like a cock of hay, held in place by another cage made from ash or birch slips.
    The turf loaded the previous night was ready to start for town shortly after dawn and timed to arrive as early as possible. Prospective purchasers, such as my father, started their watch early
also. Most of them first generation small-holders, they knew a load of