Tales on the Bog Road
The roads of 1970s Ireland were a maze of hairpin turns and narrow lanes, but to us children, they were pathways to magic. Every weekend, we’d make the 80-mile journey to our holiday house in Wexford, crammed into a Vauxhall Viva Estate that seemed to shrink with each passing year. But we never complained about the tight quarters – not when The Da was at the wheel.
Our father wasn’t just driving us to a thatched cottage in the countryside; he was ferrying us into worlds of his own making. As Dublin’s streets faded behind us, his storyteller’s voice would rise with that distinctive Irish lilt:
“Have any of ya heard of the wolfhound of Wicklow?”
“No,” we’d chorus back, already grinning with anticipation.
“Well, let me tell ya…”
And just like that, we were transported. The cramped confines of our little station wagon dissolved into vast landscapes populated by his characters: Gollup the Woods, a gentle giant who stood guard over nature’s realm, and Dinny the Leprechaun, who found safe haven in Gollup’s ear, protected by a pair of fierce wolfhounds.
The coveted seat was “The Hump” – a feather pillow Ma had placed over the parking brake lever. Whoever won the weekly battle for this spot got to nestle between Ma and Da, with a front-row view of The Da’s animated expressions as new stories formed behind his eyes. He’d drive with wild abandon through rain and fog, his face lighting up as he delivered the punchlines that sent us into fits of giggles.
“But Da, how could he be that tall?” one of the younger ones would pipe up, and without missing a beat, he’d spin a new tale about the secret growth spurts of giants, each improvised detail more elaborate than the last.
By the time we heard the familiar clank of the cattle grid at the entrance to “the Ole Bog Road,” we’d traveled leagues through his imagination. Six children, two parents, and two large dogs would spill from the car, ready for our real-world weekend adventures at the cottage.
Those nights, we’d pile into the upstairs bedroom beneath the thatched roof, the stone chimney radiating warmth between our room and our parents’. We’d whisper and joke until Ma’s voice would rise: “Whist your gobs!” (“Close your mouths!” for those unfamiliar with angry Irish mother speak).
In the quiet after, I’d lie awake listening to my siblings’ breathing, reimagining Da’s stories. Maybe Gollup would meet a dragon next time, or perhaps a powerful heroine would join his adventures. Each of us held different versions of these tales in our hearts, colored by our own imaginations and the peculiar magic of childhood memory.
The stories have blurred now, like watercolors left in the rain. Ask any of my siblings about Gollup or Dinny, and you’ll get different details, different adventures. But the heart of them remains clear as ever – The Da’s voice, rising and falling with the curves of those country roads, weaving worlds from thin air to entertain his children on the long drive home.