I was born in Farmleigh House in a first-floor bedroom which was known as the Christmas Room. It was used by my mother Miranda; filled with her clothes, would-be Christmas presents, wrapping paper, bows and Christmas cards – stored in the deep recesses of chests of drawers and wardrobes, all of which had to be cleared out to allow me to come into this world. Farmleigh was our home and a working farm in the magical natural surroundings of the Phoenix Park, yet Dublin and the St James’s Gate Brewery were only five minutes away. It was the country and the city all at once.
My very first memory of the house is me standing in the big dark kitchen downstairs, “helping” prepare lunch, mesmerised by a particularly large and heavy rolling pin, which I was allowed to use to make gingerbread and pastry. I was given a delicious illicit pre-lunch snack whilst going about this work, so long as I did eat my meal. I was a growing boy with an insatiable appetite; the kitchen was key to my kingdom.
Meals for us younger children were delivered up to us on the top floor via a noisy hand-pulled lift. The big wheel spinning atop the shaft, the hot food would be hauled up, the rope spinning quickly. The noise of our lift was sufficient to let us know our food was ready. From a young age we were introduced to Guinness Yeast Extract, spread on our bread and toast, which was a delicious byproduct from Guinness’s brewing, a bit like Marmite. We grew to love it.
After breakfast, we were packed off to school in the blue tradesman’s van, driven by Malachy with his tackety boots, or Charlie, the groundsman, who worked this vehicle’s clutch with a lighter touch. The back of this van was windowless; we sat in the semi-darkness on a big black bench seat, with only the eldest of us allowed to sit in the front. Only when my sisters moved on did I get the prized passenger seat.
RM Block
We went to the local Castleknock National School which was a two-classroom set up. Miss Jones, the head teacher, was ruddy-faced, dressed head to toe in tweed, and fairly stern. She would summon us to a whole school assembly, and call out crimes or any misdemeanours. In contrast, I adored my teacher, Ms Cosy, tall and thin in stature, with her thick-rimmed glasses.
In the afternoon, we used to race out to the garden. Off we went, on an adventure – if it was wet, we would try diverting the course of streaming water under my great great grandpa Ned’s planted Thuja trees out front. In a downpour, we made a cosy den under the yew canopy of the dog pen. If our neighbours, the Fitzgerald children, were about we would ride our bicycles as a gang, or we would venture into the farmyard to feed the Charolais cattle, or to help Louis the herdsman with some task like feeding, moving or cleaning out.
In the walled garden, where each one of us had our very own children’s garden plots, we grew delicious tomatoes and seasonal delights – radishes were somehow my speciality. I loved watching everything grow, the incredible flowers that had been planted for their scents or for their standout forms; this created my love of planting and growing.
If it was a strong windy day, the delicious, sweet scent of roasting barley from my Papa’s employer, the brewery, would catch my nostrils. This nostalgic smell still hits me as I walk around The Liberties today, and I always know then I am home.
On damp afternoons, Mrs Telford would beckon us down to the front gate lodge to prepare her cauldron of raspberry jam. She would be wearing her apron knotted around her waist and was always such a kind, warm country woman, latterly helping with the cleaning at Farmleigh twice a week.
My father kept a book dedicated to naming and recording the Charolais pedigree herd carefully managed by Seán Fitzgerald. These animals were ever so docile although many times my size. I spent my childhood naming the cattle – it was by order of alphabet each year. I never quite knew if I was named Edward for historical reasons or after Edouard the imported French bull, the sire of the Farmleigh herd.
There were two donkeys, Bessie and Muffit, drafted in to get us started at horse riding, only to have the opposite effect – except for my sister Louie, who became quite the horsewoman.
Sometimes Papa would take us with him into St James’s Gate, to meet someone or other, or to sign papers, and make long boring telephone calls. Everyone was so kind. We dreaded these visits – I never saw any brewing until I was an adult. Visiting the ships on the Liffey was more fun; watching the silver bullet trucks moving back and forth, filling the ships’ tanks.
Occasionally, my parents decided to host a grand bash in the place; on such occasions I would accompany my Ma on her whirlwind tours of the diningroom, the flower room, the pantry. I loved all the action, the quiet normality of Farmleigh shattered.
The most exciting of all these gatherings was the visit of all the foreign ministers from around the European area – it was Ireland’s first time hosting such a gathering, having acceded to the European Economic Community in 1973. We had to vacate our children’s bedrooms on the second floor in favour of our parents, and to accommodate the guests.
I remember the cavalcades of black cars with motorcycle outriders with sirens and blue flashing lights, which amazed me as a child. We were allowed to come into our house briefly, with our autograph books, before spending the night with our wonderful cousins, the Moynes, who lived on the other side of the road, at Knockmaroon.
Screens did not feature in our lives as much as they do now. Despite having a television aerial double the height of the roof, and Castleknock’s relatively elevated position compared to much of Dublin, the channel was obscured by “snowstorms of interference” – if we could access any channel at all. My father took to the Welsh language fondly, as very often it was programmes in Welsh that we could tune into best.
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Farmleigh always had the most enormous positive energy. Until my father died in 1992 the place never had an alarm and our front gate on to the Phoenix Park stood open. I felt safe there as a child. Our small community there was trustworthy and tight. Sister Eugene from Mount Sackville School next door walked from one end of the place to the other in the afternoons, her nuns’ habit flowing behind her.
One last recollection comes to mind of when I was much younger. At the end of each day, we would sing “you in your small corner and I in mine” and recite bedtime prayers, which included Our Lord’s Prayer. I entertained the adults always with my recital of “Thine is The Kingdom, The Power and The Brewery, Forever and Ever, Amen”. I would pretend that I was blissfully innocent of my mistake.
Guinness: A Family Succession: The True Story of the Struggle to Create the World’s Largest Brewery by Ned Guinness is published by Scala
