Tales of Ballykillian

Tales of an Irish Village.

The very woman for Joe,” replied Mick. “Do you recall that, over in ‘Derryvore’ townland, there is a well matured lady by the name of Sara, who lives with her brother, John?

Aye! You mean Sara McCree?” smiled Kathy.

That’s the girl!” said Mick. “Only last week I was having a pint with him in the ‘Pheasant Pub’ and John was telling me that he has took a notion for a woman and would like to marry her and have her move in. But Joe told me that his sister Sara had not the least notion of moving out of the house, and her just over forty. It’s his sister and he can’t just throw her out. Yet, I’ve heard it said that Sara McCree is not a woman who would turn her back on a man who could put a roof over her head and provide her with some degree of comfort.

Well matured is the right description, but that Sara has a bit of a history behind her some people say,” Kathy remarked. “It seems that a few years back she went off to England quite suddenly and left a little bundle with the ‘Good Shepherd Sisters’ in a convent. But the woman never married and that’s for certain.

Well, I bet you that Bud doesn’t know that and if they marry it won’t matter. Anyway, Bud never married, for he has never left the district except once or twice to go to Dublin for an All-Ireland final. He could hardly have gotten himself hitched in one night and, besides, have you ever seen another face as bad looking as ‘Bud’s’? He has hardly a bar in his grate and any teeth that have survived are as black as your boot,” laughed Mick.

Aye,” laughed Kathy, “and the hair on his head, what’s left of it, standing up like the quills of a porcupine!

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The Author

Across the Sheugh

Little Red Bike


After almost sixty years after the events that follow, in this book of stories, it amazes me that I can still recall so much detail. This was particularly true as I began to recall my very first bicycle. Firstly, it was not a bicycle in the true sense of the word because it had three wheels and was, therefore, technically a tricycle. From the very beginning I must point out that this tricycle was nothing like the hard, plastic tricycles that we see small, children of today using. My tricycle was a much bigger and technically advanced piece of machinery that was much more suitable for an adventurous four or five year old boy
of average height. It was, in fact, a “big boy’s bike” just like the one that I had seen several weeks before Christmas in the toy display window of “Binn’s” Department Store in Middlesbrough town centre. “That’s what I want Santa to bring me for Christmas,” I told my mother even as my face was squashed up against that pane of glass admiring the tricycle. Naturally I had to ask Santa and ensure that I was a very good boy to make sure that I would even have a chance of getting this prize. My mind can clearly recall that wonderful Christmas morning, so long ago, when my eyes first fell upon that
beautiful tricycle. All my prayers and efforts to be good had been rewarded by Santa Claus and he had placed my prize in front of the Christmas tree. The colourful, winkling lights on our Christmas tree reflected on the tricycle’s shiny, all-metal frame upon which three, chrome-spooked wheels with black tyres had been fixed. These were not the solid rubber wheels common to children’s tricycles of the time, but were tyres that were treaded and needed to be inflated, using the small white pump that was clipped to the tricycle’s frame.


Attached to the right-hand side of the chrome handle-bars there was a large, round-shaped, shiny steel bell and I pressed the trigger just to hear it ring. It was a wonderful sound, so loud and shrill in a silent house that Christmas morning. I can remember being so thrilled by that sound and was certain that the bell would provide a more than
adequate warning to any person who might carelessly get in my way. But it was the beauty of that machine, twinkling in the lights of the Christmas tree, that truly overwhelmed me. I gently ran my hand along the chrome handle-bars and then down the glittering frame toward the black mock-leather seat. It was a nervous examination
with my hand shaking as I made every effort to avoid disturbing the tricycle or leaving even the slightest of marks upon it. As my careful inspection continued I came upon a large triangular-shaped, box was secured by a clip lock and when I opened it I was pleasantly surprised at just how spacious the box was and knew that it was sufficient for carrying many of my toys in. Later I would discover that the box had other benefits, including carrying some of the groceries my mother would purchase at the local shops. On certain occasions she would send me to the shops on the tricycle to pick up certain
items that she needed, making me feel proud and grown up. However, the thing that made me puff out my chest most in pride was the fact that the frame of the tricycle had been painted in a bright, metallic-red, colour. This impressed me most because it reminded me of the colour of a fire-engine and, occasionally, I would just sit on my
little red tricycle in the back garden of our house, ringing that shiny bell and pretending that I was a fireman rushing to the rescue of a stricken victim.

The days I spent with friends and my little red trike are still fondly remembered. She was my pride and joy, and we went almost everywhere together. After school I would rush home to cycle it around the houses, and on week-ends I would get up early and play on the tricycle almost all day. But, sadly, children grow up and put aside the things of their childhood. I became too big for the tricycle and all my friends had started to get two-wheel bicycles for their birthdays. It was soon time for me to abandon all the trappings of childhood and this included putting aside my beloved tricycle. To assist me in making this difficult decision my parents convinced me that I should pass my little red tricycle on to my younger cousin. Nonetheless it was with much sadness in my heart that I took the tricycle on the long lonely road to her house, accompanied by my mother. She, of course, tried bravely to be a source of comfort to me on that difficult journey by constantly attempting to engage me in light-hearted conversation. But, throughout that long and sad journey I was almost totally caught up in my own thoughts and memories about the adventures That I had shared with my little red trike. Believe me the tears I shed as we separated that day were very real and came from my heart. At that time it seemed that I had lost my greatest friend and that there was nothing in this whole world that could ever replace it.


I began in early October to pray every day that God would help me get a new bicycle. Then, when Advent arrived, I sent my usual letter to Santa Claus and almost begged him to bring me a bicycle for Christmas. In return I promised Santa that I would be a good person; that I would not fight with the other boys, or say bad words, and that I would make my bed every morning. For a boy of six or seven years these were serious promises and were chosen to demonstrate my real desire for a new bicycle, just like all my friends had. But, I should never have doubted that Santa would find a way to satisfy my Christmas wish. On Christmas morning the great man once again came to the rescue of a child in need by bringing him the perfect present. My mother, of course, insisted that Santa couldn’t have done it on his own without the help of God and made me say a prayer of thanksgiving to Him.


Once again I arose on Christmas morning to find that a brand new bicycle had been placed, by Santa, in pride of place before the Christmas tree. On this occasion, however, it was definitely a bicycle and had only two wheels. The metallic painted frame sparkled with the reflections of the flashing, multi-coloured lights and tinsel that hung from the branches of our Christmas tree. Though it was again red in colour, like my tricycle, on this occasion it was a deep, crimson red that made it stand out from everything that surrounded it. The wide handle-bars were silver-chrome and there was a ‘package shelf’ attached to the rear mudguard, immediately below and behind the red and white bicycle seat. It was just like the bicycles that I had noticed in the shops, but was only allowed to admire them from a distance. Now I could sit on the saddle and put my feet on the pedals.


My heart beat heavily with pride as I examined its modern, streamlined shape with a chain guard that prevented my trouser legs from being soiled with oil. With my foot on the pedal I could imagine myself sitting on the bicycle and propelling us both forward along the highways and byways of the nearby countryside. Meanwhile, on the bike’s wide handle-bars was fixed a silver coloured bell that was much bigger, and much louder, than the bell had been on my little red tricycle. That bicycle looked like perfection to me. In my young mind this new bicycle was much more technically advanced than most of the two wheel bicycles I had seen and I was sure that I would now be the envy of all my friends. My bicycle had a headlight and a red-tail light that were both powered by a dynamo, which was driven by being pressed against the tyre wall on the rear wheel. That little red bike was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen. The departure of my little red trike was forgotten in the joy and love that I had for that new bicycle, which Santa had brought me for Christmas.

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Jim Woods 04/01/2020

Tales of Ballykillian (BOOK)

Tales of an Irish Village.

The very woman for Joe,” replied Mick. “Do you recall that, over in ‘Derryvore’ townland, there is a well matured lady by the name of Sara, who lives with her brother, John?

Aye! You mean Sara McCree?” smiled Kathy.

That’s the girl!” said Mick. “Only last week I was having a pint with him in the ‘Pheasant Pub’ and John was telling me that he has took a notion for a woman and would like to marry her and have her move in. But Joe told me that his sister Sara had not the least notion of moving out of the house, and her just over forty. It’s his sister and he can’t just throw her out. Yet, I’ve heard it said that Sara McCree is not a woman who would turn her back on a man who could put a roof over her head and provide her with some degree of comfort.

Well matured is the right description, but that Sara has a bit of a history behind her some people say,” Kathy remarked. “It seems that a few years back she went off to England quite suddenly and left a little bundle with the ‘Good Shepherd Sisters’ in a convent. But the woman never married and that’s for certain.

Well, I bet you that Bud doesn’t know that and if they marry it won’t matter. Anyway, Bud never married, for he has never left the district except once or twice to go to Dublin for an All-Ireland final. He could hardly have gotten himself hitched in one night and, besides, have you ever seen another face as bad looking as ‘Bud’s’? He has hardly a bar in his grate and any teeth that have survived are as black as your boot,” laughed Mick.

Aye,” laughed Kathy, “and the hair on his head, what’s left of it, standing up like the quills of a porcupine!

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Tales of Ballykillian

The very woman for Joe,” replied Mick. “Do you recall that, over in ‘Derryvore’ townland, there is a well matured lady by the name of Sara, who lives with her brother, John?

Aye! You mean Sara McCree?” smiled Kathy.

That’s the girl!” said Mick. “Only last week I was having a pint with him in the ‘Pheasant Pub’ and John was telling me that he has took a notion for a woman and would like to marry her and have her move in. But Joe told me that his sister Sara had not the least notion of moving out of the house, and her just over forty. It’s his sister and he can’t just throw her out. Yet, I’ve heard it said that Sara McCree is not a woman who would turn her back on a man who could put a roof over her head and provide her with some degree of comfort.

Well matured is the right description, but that Sara has a bit of a history behind her some people say,” Kathy remarked. “It seems that a few years back she went off to England quite suddenly and left a little bundle with the ‘Good Shepherd Sisters’ in a convent. But the woman never married and that’s for certain.

Well, I bet you that Bud doesn’t know that and if they marry it won’t matter. Anyway, Bud never married, for he has never left the district except once or twice to go to Dublin for an All-Ireland final. He could hardly have gotten himself hitched in one night and, besides, have you ever seen another face as bad looking as ‘Bud’s’? He has hardly a bar in his grate and any teeth that have survived are as black as your boot,” laughed Mick.

Aye,” laughed Kathy, “and the hair on his head, what’s left of it, standing up like the quills of a porcupine!

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