In recent weeks, I’ve been rambling through Lucan Village, stopping where I can to simply try to be a bit more mindful about the place, be it keeping an eye out for what plants are in bloom, listening to the changing music of the birds or unearthing an interesting snippet about a place. This week, I will end my loop of the village and begin at the top of Chapel Hill at St. Mary’s catholic church.
The church itself has a beautiful facade, dating back to the 1830s. Apparently, it took five years to build and, during that time, mass was still held despite a lack of a roof! On occasion, when I had to come here as a child, the old gravestones at the rear of the church would fascinate me. I decide to ramble back there to have a look, making my way around the various gates and loud barriers that have been erected to keep out, well, me I guess! Soon, in what could pass as a hundred-dollar remake of a Tom Cruise movie, I have maneuvered successfully around them and stand in the car park at the rear, where the old gravestones are stacked up against the wall like giant index cards in an open-air filing cabinet of Lucan residents since past.
Behind me is a hedge that delineated the grounds of the Sisters of Mercy convent, founded here, apparently, on the invitation of the Colthurst family in the 1860s who had seen, and been greatly impressed by, the order when they served in the war hospitals of the Crimean War (1853-56). The hospitals were under the remit of Florence Nightingale and, according to the diaries left behind by the nuns who served there, she was not in any way pleasant to them, In fact, Mrs. Bridgeman, the leader of the group of nuns in the Crimea, ended up refusing to serve under Nightingale because of her rudeness!
As I make my way back out to the footbath, I look up at the bell. Recently, I have come into possession of a copy of ‘Lucania’, written by Reverend Donegan in 1902, the last 34 pages of which are nothing more than reprints of speeches given at important church events in Lucan around 1889/1890. I was particularly taken by a speech given in 1889 by Archbishop Walsh on the “solemn” occasion of the blessing of the bell which mentions the bell only once before launching into a plea for public sobriety as, apparently, Ireland could never be free unless it was sober first.
I move on down the path, past St. Joseph’s Secondary School, where I played one of my first ever gigs at a battle of the bands many moons ago. I remember on that night being told that Meatloaf had, apparently, played on the same stage years beforehand on a low key tour of Ireland. I have, sadly, never been able to verify this. I have also, probably also sadly, never failed to tell the story of how Meatloaf and I played the same venue, omitting the minor details of the fact being unverified or the concerts being decades apart …
As I walk along the footpath, I cannot but note how remarkably green and thriving the plantlife is at this time of the year here. I know that Sarsfield Park is below this road, but I cannot see through the leaves to it. I can barely see the outline of Larachon Hill framing the background (or ‘Larrycon’ as I recently saw it spelled on a historic map). A tapestry of maple leaves and mountain ash fill the view to the right. Beside me, on the left, the woods are thick with Hawthorn and thriving ivy. A little plantbed has been created along the footpath. Tussock grass, poppy and periwinkle leaves all flow and ebb with the breeze.
To my left, I follow a set of steps up a short, steep climb to the viewing spot over the village. But there is barely any village to see. From here, with trees in full bloom, one could be forgiven for thinking you were looking out over a wooded valley. There are only occasional gaps that window onto the buildings below. In the autumn, particularly after dry summers, I like to come here to watch the changing autumnal leaf colours. It’s not quite as spectacular as what my wife grew up with in the autumntime of the Northwoods in Minnesota, but it really can be special.
I decide to continue up the steps and come out near Canonbrook House, once the home of famed Irish architect James Gandon. Although from here it is possible to see only the side of the house, its buttresses make it look nonetheless imposing. I note that there is a very old back gate at the end of a set of steps leading down from the house to the road. It strikes me that Gandon himself would have walked on these steps back in the late 18th century – a nice and simple example of direct link with our local past.
I reach the end of the hill and rejoin the village. The road down the hill is, I am told, a particularly ancient road and would have led down from the ancient Esker Riada ridges at the top of the hill, sweeping into Lucan through the laneway behind the Methodist church. This route is likely many thousands of years old.
When I was growing up in Lucan, this hill was known as the Jet Hill because of the Jet petrol station that was here. Before this was a garage, it was part of the Lucan tramway operations in Lucan. When busses took over from trams and trams became defunct, many of the busses retained the tramline number for the sake of continuity. The Lucan tram was number 25.
I end my walk at the old schoolmaster’s house on the corner across from Courtney’s. Before I reach it, I look into the window of the charity shop and see a rather fantastic display of the things for sale, including a pink ‘I Love Mummy’ blanket, communion shoes, old wooden candlesticks and, best of all, a rubber mask, hands and feet of a gorn-like lizard costume. I think that the window is trying to tell me that the people of Lucan today have diverse interests and that our current crop of Lucanians are as interesting and colourful as any that have come before them!