Mo Laethanta Saoire: Holidaying with Nana in Ballybunion, by Alice Taylor
Alice Taylor at her home in Innishannon Co Cork. Picture: Eddie O'Hare
Once we had left the town of Listowel behind and hit the straight road run into Ballybunion, our interest was focused forward and we climbed over each other in the back seat of the roomy hired car to get as close as possible to a window and be the first to catch sight of the sea.
Whoever got the first sighting yelled out triumphantly ‘And what do we see?’ Immediately came the yelling sing song responding chorus ‘We saw the sea’.
And from there on chaos reigned in the back of the car until our patient driver Dick up-ended us all out in front of the guesthouse that was to be our base for a week.
But we only saw that base when we needed to be fed and watered, or fell into bed exhausted from sun and sea exposure. Or when my mother dragged us there to be scrubbed up for her nightly visit to the church to say the rosary.
This annual holiday in Ballybunion was an inherited tradition in our family. Our maternal grandmother had made this her annual health pilgrimage which she felt repaired her mind and body after a hard year eking out a living on her North Cork farm which was not far from the Kerry border.
But rather than publicly unrobing and immersing herself in the sea, Nana submerged herself into a seaweed bath in the locked-up privacy of Mary Collins Seaweed Baths emporium. Here she could relax in privacy soaking in the warm goodness of the sea through the long green strings of slimy seaweed oozing oils that lubricated her ageing muscles.
However, if on occasions she did feel like having a sea dip she would withdraw into the privacy of one of the bathing boxes that then lined the seafront and shielded her from the prying eyes of the populace where she could unrobe at her leisure.
While our generation may hurriedly dress and undress, our Nana’s generation slowly robed and unrobed, and our Nana was certainly not into hurriedly exposing her bodily parts!
And to further guarantee a distance from prying male eyes there was sea-front segregation in operation in Ballybunion, into the Men’s Strand and the Women’s Strand. The Forty Foot wasn’t in it with us!
But time moves on and with it went beach segregation, bathing boxes and our Nana. And in later years, on driving through Listowel on our way to Ballybunion, our aim was to catch sight of John B’s pub because he was fast becoming the local hero.
But the Women’s Strand remained the choice for our family as the warm caves along the base of the towering cliffs provided sheltered sun traps and warm pools for paddling and playing.
While we played my mother chatted with friends whom she had met over the years and often caught up with far-flung relatives from Kerry and Limerick. So for her this week was a mixture of a family gathering and a holiday. And she, like Nana before her, took time out for a visit to Mary Collins Seaweed Baths where she soaked in health benefits from steaming slimy seaweed-coloured water.
The memory of those Ballybunion holidays were forever to remain recorded on the back pages of my mind, so when my children came along I too took them back to Ballybunion. My mother, who was their Nana, came with us. But, wise woman that she was, my mother opted to stay in a nearby guesthouse while we all poured into a seafront rented house. This gave her breathing space and time to call her soul her own.
However, having their Nana around the corner from where she daily accompanied them to the beach, and nightly up town to the Merries, was a huge source of delight to her grandchildren.
But of all the delights on holidaying with Nana, the Merries were the best. Now, how does one best describe those Ballybunion Merries of old in today’s world?
These were open-fronted sheds along the main street of Ballybunion from where blaring music belted out to lasso you in. Two of these sheds were at one side of the main street and another right across from them. It seemed that the owners of each of these chambers of bedlam felt that the more maniacal the sound they emitted the better their chances of enticing in the punters.
Inside were bumpers, big spinners, pongo, one-armed bandits, a firing range and many other magnets to empty your pockets of money.
And of course, the children loved it. Every night Nana was their escort to these music pulsating barns of ear-bursting racket. But first, there was a Nana ritual to be observed and she led them all up to the church to say the nightly rosary.
To say that they were not bursting with enthusiasm for this pious pilgrimage is an understatement but it was the price that had to be paid for their night at the Merries. Returning from the church it was bank-balancing time. Money was counted and doled out so that each member of the team had equity. Though a devout Irish Catholic, Nana (on this occasion my mother) strictly adhered to the principles of Russian communism.
So when all were on an equal financial footing they headed up town to get rich quick or come home broke.
On these sojourns, I seldom accompanied them as this was Nana time and I deemed myself surplus to requirements. But afterwards, I occasionally sneaked up and unobserved watched proceedings from a distance.
There I saw a side to my mother that was new to me. She was their Nana but as the night went on the years peeled away and she seemed to become one of them.
Between those two generations was a bridge that superseded me and it was easy to see that they were all having the time of their lives and if a one-armed bandit coughed up a waterfall of coins their Nana danced in delight with them.
But she was still the financial controller and if one child went bankrupt she came to the rescue and if one became rich too quickly she appealed to his sense of honour to share. If the new ‘money man’ would not comply more subtle means were adopted and she was not beyond introducing bribery and blackmail.
But the aim at the end of the night was to come home with sufficient funds to buy a bottle of milk and a packet of fluffy biscuits for a picnic on a seat high above the beach. There they reviewed the night's activities and listened to the waves thundering in and out against the rocks below.
Then they coaxed their Nana to retell them the gruesome legend of the Nine Daughters Hole in which a barbaric father supposedly drowned his nine daughters because they refused to marry a wealthy chieftain of his choice. They loved this horror story and under strict supervision during the day had walked along the headland to view this scary hole and peer down into its deep chasm to see the sea crashing in and out below.
A moonlight night revealed the towering one wall of the Castle Green which is the identifying image of Ballybunnion etched against the sea and sky. If there happened to be a strong wind blowing along the headland the youngest would cling to his Nana’s hand requesting her to hold on to him in case he might be blown away. Years later when these roles were reversed and he was then her support system they recalled those nights with much amusement.
And now in the late summer of 2022, I am returning to Ballybunion with three grandchildren to stay in a house on the beach. And of course, I will take time out to have a seaweed bath, and as I soak up its green goodness, I will salute the visionary Mary Collins who had the foresight to create this relaxation centre and remember the other Nanas who enjoyed it.
So the tradition of the Nana family holiday in Ballybunion continues and as we drive home through Listowel I will look out for and wave to the sculpture of John B and acknowledge his friendly arm raised in salute.
- Alice Taylor’s new book The Nana will be published later this year.
