To the Church of Poulathomas

From the memoirs of architect James Franklin Fuller

After knocking about London and the provinces; and, having married, and given “hostages to fortune,” I began to think seriously of settling down. I always had a hankering after the old country; and when a chance presented itself I jumped at it, but hardly expected that the jump would land me again in Ireland. A vacancy for a District Architect under the Irish Ecclesiastical Commissioners was advertised in 1862. The duties comprised the supervision of church works in nine counties, and extended from the sea at Carlingford to the sea at Belmullet, with residence in a central position, at Killeshandra. There were ninety-seven candidates, from whom six were selected; and finally I was chosen. This post I held for eight years before the Disestablishment of the Church…

When repairs were required, the Parson reported to the head office in Merrion Street, and the Architect had then to visit. I remember having to go to Belmullet about the putting on of a few slates after a gale; and this was no trifling journey, though the repairs were trifling enough. One had to get to Ballina by the “long car” from Sligo (which was a day’s journey in itself), and then to post (another day’s journey) to Belmullet, through a wild tract of Mayo bog, flanked by bald-headed mountains; with the prospect of a similar return programme. And glad enough one was to get back to the genial host of the Imperial Inn at Ballina, the late William Flynn, one of the best of good fellows; for there was always a certain — or uncertain — amount of risk in this journey — an upset, a breakdown of horse or of car, or a driver too much given to potheen, an article which in those days was easily got in Mayo. On one of these return trips in winter, when darkness had set in, I began to be very uneasy because of the reckless manner in which the driver, a man named Barrett, was steering his vehicle. He had evidently taken more than was good for him; and when we came in sight of the glimmering lights of the town of Crossmolina I begged of him to pull up and go easy, but all to no purpose. He dashed furiously through the main-street, and, as ill-luck would have it, knocked down a child just in front of the police barrack, who happened to be the son of the R.I.C. sergeant. Fortunately the boy was only very slightly injured, but there was no end of excitement in the town. Barrett was arrested, being manifestly drunk. In the dim light I caught sight of a black bottle in the well of the car, and hastily threw my rug over it as I jumped off. Barrett was locked up, and I was permitted to drive the car to Ballina, but if the potheen bottle had been spotted by the police, horse and car would have been seized.

I recall another police incident, which menaced my freedom during the Fenian rising. There were a number of Irish-Americans at large through the country, who were badly wanted by the Royal Irish Constabulary. I was driving, on a scorching summer day, through Blacklion in Co. Cavan, on professional duty for the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, when I was stopped by a sergeant and a constable of the R.I.C. The description of a Fenian “captain”, in the Hue and Cry — the official organ of the police — seemed to clearly indicate that I was the man. “ What’s your name?” demanded the sergeant. After some demur, I answered this and other questions as vaguely and reluctantly as I could; looking for some enjoyment out of the situation; and winding up with an angry assurance that I was a government official, and therefore he had better be careful how he acted. “ That will do,” he said — cutting up rough. “I want no more of your chat. Where’s your luggage?” I hadn’t any, and did not explain that I purposely left it behind at the Manorhamilton Hotel, to which I intended to return. The jarvey, who had been looking on with a broad grin on his face, and who knew me well — in fact, I may say intimately, now entered fully into the spirit of the joke; and, assuming a hostile attitude towards me, broke into the conversation. “Be gob, sergeant, the sorra a thing he had wid him when I picked him up; not so much as a top-coat ; and, shure, the rug belongs to the car.” “ Where did you pick him up ?” “He kem by the long car to Manorhamilton.” This was literally true. There was no railway then; but the information was conveyed by the jarvey in such a tone as convinced the sergeant that I was the “captain” wanted. “Howld the horse be the head,” the sergeant said to the constable. “Aisy, aisy, now,” cried the jarvey, “the baste hates the sight of a policeman — saving your presence — like the divil! He’ll ait the head off ye, and smash all before him.” The constable could not show the white feather in presence of his superior officer, and proceeded to face the danger, with the result that “ the baste” squealed, and began to lash out furiously. “I suppose ’tis the way you want to kill us entirely,” remonstrated the jarvey. “Keep behind the winkers — so as he won’t see you — ‘till I come down.” “Get off the car,” shouted the sergeant to me, in peremptory tones. I declined. “Do you want me to use force against you?” “At your peril,” I retorted; “what right have you to order me down?” “You must come to the barrack to be searched. I’ll strip you to the bare skin. Gimme them hand-cuffs,” he said to the constable, who promptly produced them. Things were becoming hot now, and I thought it time to change my tactics. “ Suppose,” I said, “ that I can get some respectable man in the parish to identify me, would that satisfy you, sergeant?” “Of course it would!” “Very well. Just get up here beside me, and we’ll drive to the rectory and see if the Rev. is at home; I dare say he’ll put things straight to your satisfaction.” This mention of the clergyman’s name staggered him a bit, and he began to think he had made a mistake. We all drove to the rectory; and he and myself were ushered into the study, by the astonished servant girl. Of course the bubble burst; and the disappointed and crestfallen sergeant had to make the best of his discomfiture. He apologised profusely; but I comforted him by an assurance that he had not exceeded his duty; the parson commended him for his vigilance; and, shaking hands all round, we parted the best of friends, the parson and myself proceeding to the church where I had business to do. The jarvey was jubilant, going back to Manorhamilton; and explained satisfactorily the temporary bad behaviour of his “baste” by touching with the loop of his whip, a particular spot on the animal’s flank, which resulted in a renewal of the performance, that nearly landed me on the road. He had given a similar tip to the “baste” when the constable approached his head.

Halfway between Ballina and Belmullet a road branched off to the right, leading through some twelve miles of dreary bog to the Church of Poulathomas, which was on my visiting list. Going there one day through a fearful storm of wind and rain I saw in front, driving a cow, a strange-looking figure which turned out to be a girl of apparently twelve or fourteen who hadn’t a “stitch” on her but a Mayo man’s grey frieze tail coat, buttoned up the back and with the tails in front. As the car approached, the child turned and suddenly sat down on the sod-fence by the roadside, thus making the best of the “situation,” till I had passed.

James Franklin Fuller (1916), Omniana: The Autobiography of an Irish Octogenarian (London, Smith, Elder & Co), pp. 164–168.