The 14 hour journey to Knock on wooden crates for seats in a Ford 10 cwt

When I was a child in the 1950s in the small Carlow town of Tullow, trips to the shrine at Knock were part of growing up.

My first visit came the year I received my first Holy Communion in 1951, and my brother Pat and I excitedly boarded the train for the 182km trip to Mayo.

Throughout the journey, between recitations of the Rosary, we waved at the people on the platforms of the various stations we passed through and marched up and down the carriages.

We also hung out of the windows, inhaling the smuts and smoke from the engine — an action that was eventually halted by an abrupt clip on the ear, as it was so dangerous!

On arrival at Claremorris station, we disembarked and reached the shrine by bus. There was much jostling and pushing for seats and, needless to say, it was a typical West of Ireland day — rain gear and umbrellas required.

After a day of prayer and rosaries at the shrine, we got the bus then the train home, with leaden eyes watching cows in pasture — long before Tullow station, we were fast asleep.

Two years later, I repeated the excursion by train, but my next trip to Knock as a child would prove to be memorable.

We made it together as a family in a blue Ford 10 cwt (hundred weight) van, registration number IC 3612.

It had been bought by my father as a bread van and was shelved. These shelves would be removed for the Sunday visits to Courtown beach in Wexford, or the trips to football matches in Portlaoise, Athy or Newbridge. The shelves were also removed for the trip to Knock.

The van was purchased in 1949, for £360 after a £175 deposit. The balance was paid over 24 months on hire purchase from Irish Buyway of Bachelors Walk, Dublin.

The passenger list for that trip comprised of my father, who would share driving duties, my mother, my brother and I, our cousin Paddy Nolan, who delivered the bread, his then girlfriend Annie Lynch, of Clonmore in Co. Carlow, later his wife, our aunt Margaret Nolan of Rathlyon, our cousins Teasie Byrne of Straboe, and Kathleen Gilton, nee Kavanagh of Maynooth, and our neighbour, Mrs Duggan of Abbey Street, Tullow, who had gone to America as Ellie Taylor but wed and was widowed there before returning home.

Kathleen later lost her life in the tragic Dublin bus crash on the quays in 2004.

My mother navigated our trek, and had all the towns and villages along the way written down, it then being only necessary to get the right turns at the junctions.

Now, the Ford 10 cwt was not a luxury vehicle, its top speed was about 30-35mph, so the 182km trip was a long one. It was therefore a seven-hour trek to Knock — 14 hours in one day!

The seating was by Corcoran’s of Carlow — wooden crates for bottles of minerals and beer that were emptied for the day!

My uncle, Louis, had procured a cast-off railway carriage seat and this was the luxury seat which was reserved for Mrs Duggan.

Needless to say, this type of seating had a mind of its own, not being secured to anything, and moved around the floor freely. It also meant that when the van hit a pothole, the occupiers’ heads made contact with the roof, so bruised heads and bottoms were to be expected.

We were due to be on the road at 6am so the adults were up early making bottles of tea, which were packed into woollen socks and then into boxes with hay packed around them, to save them from the jolts of the potholes. The sandwiches were made the night before.

A kettle was also brought, and matches, while rain gear was packed — as my train trips had proved, it rains more in the west than in the east!

So away we went in the van loaded with food and bodies. Cousin Paddy drove, which was a bit faster than my father. The litany of rosaries began soon after we started.

After a while, we stopped for tea and sandwiches as we were all hungry after the early start, then it was back to driving across the country.

You might ask what the kettle and matches were for. At 12.30pm, outside Moate, co. Westmeath, we decided to stop again for a break. A house door was knocked on and a request made for drinking water, but the woman of the house said she hadn’t any. This didn’t go down well with the pilgrims — scant thought was given by us townies to the possibility this woman might have to draw buckets of water from a well a mile down a bog for her own family.

At that time, the tap water from the town supply wasn’t trusted in my own house — we used to get water for tea at a well a half mile away at the back of Ellis’s Bike Shop.

Anyway, to continue the story, the next house was knocked but there was no- one home. At the third house, a woman came out and said she had a kettle boiling on the cooker and we could have it. Sandwiches and tea were again consumed and away to Knock, on the Rosary Road, laden with potholes and bad bends as we continued our journey.

Knock was duly reached around 1.30pm and the van parked. It was raining, as expected, but that didn’t deter us and the rosaries continued. We went to Mass at the shrine and bought souvenirs, then it was back to the van, drenched, tired and hungry, for the long journey home.

Once out on the road it was time for the tea and ham sandwiches, again made with fresh home cooked ham and plain loaf bread, baked on Saturday. Sliced pans were not common in the country at the time... and don’t forget the mustard!

It wasn’t long before a house door was knocked again and drinking water attained. Here is where the kettle came into use. Sticks and a newspaper were used to light a fire and the kettle eventually boiled.

Fewer rosaries were said on the way home as everyone was tired. My brother and I had probably got most of our night’s sleep by the time we got home around 1am.

It takes less than three hours to get to Knock these days, a journey that bears little resemblance to the penance and pilgrimage of the 1950s, when many people began a tradition which they have kept to the present day.