Both sets of visitors were referred to either as “the yanks” or “the yankees”. They were viewed as richer, though not every Christmas card contained a token of their wealth. They were also much more sophisticated, enjoying a level of culture far higher than available in Ireland. So all members of the family had to engage in an act of collective effort, referred to by their unsympathetic neighbours as “putting our their egg bag.”

 The paterfamilias or “oul’ lad” had to take regular baths, whereas beforehand a bath was a rare luxury, occurring at most once a year, and not always then. He would rationalise his aversion to water by saying: “Once I’m dead they can clane me, and once I’m in the ground no one’ll see whether I’m clane or clatty.” Such contrariness was a matter of real concern to the  “woman of the house”, and so plans were put in place to lessen contacts between him and the Yankees to a minimum.

 If time and finances allowed there might be structural adjustments to the house. One of these was the addition of an inside lavatory.  This might replace a “lean-to” structure referred to euphemistically as The Sugarhouse, though any disruption in the facilities dealing with bodily function was bound to be resisted by the “man of the house” who would express bewilderment at why the “hole in the yard” wouldn’t be good enough.  Everyone’s hair would be washed almost daily, and the children would have to undergo the torture of their locks being trawled by a heavy comb in the search for nits. The children would undergo a “no frills” crash course in manners and correct behaviour with the males being physically chastised each time they attempted to pick their noses. The man of the house was also told to leave his proboscis undisturbed, to refrain from using coarse or vulgar language, and to not break wind, especially at meal times. A toothbrush, with toothpaste might even be bought. Any miscellaneous expenses might be defrayed by the man of the house avoiding the pub. What’s more unsightly displays of over-indulgence in alcohol would no doubt disgust the yanks.

 The hen house, sometimes located in an old Volkswagen Beetle, would be towed out of sight or given on loan to a distant neighbour, while any other unsightly visions, such as piles of rubbish or excreta, would be removed.

 The visitors’ arrival was often anti-climatic. If they were native Yankees they might exhale delightedly at the quaintness of it all. The visit would end with the formulaic “You must come and visit us in the States” but it was seldom accompanied by the proffering of an airline ticket or displays of largesse. Once their (rental) car had staggered down the rutted lane there would be a collective sigh of relief, usually initiated by the man of the house stating: “Well thank fuck the hoors are gone. These new pants are cuttin’ the balls off me” followed up with “What’s for tae?” The “oul’ lad might be let back in, smelling strongly of urine, while the woman of the house would start scolding her husband, “Me mother always said I was makin’ the biggesht mistake o’ me life marryin’ you ya lazy, good-for-nuttin’ hape o’ shite, an’ she was right the Lord have mercy on her.” Little Seamus would then attempt to stem her wrath by asking: “Mammy, can I pick me nose now?”

 Jonathan Cherry is a very good friend of mine. We have much in common. We both attended Cavan’s Royal School where the teachers, not least Douglas Anderson and Ivan Bolton, imparted that spirit of civility, combined with a thirst for knowledge, which has served us both so well. We have both been “doctored” in history. We are both scholars,  motivated by a deep and sincere respect for each other’s work.  What is more we both come from well-respected families in our respective communities.

 Dr Cherry’s book is a history of a small, vibrant and tenacious rural community. He traces its history, using written sources, maps and folklore, as well as less traditional sources. But this is more than just another history book, as Dr Cherry brings the unique perspective of an historical geographer to his task. He tells the story of the locality, but never forgets that its story unfolds in a far wider context.

 Cloverhill was, for over two centuries, synonymous with the local landholding family of the Sandersons. Dr Cherry sympathetically describes their relationship with the community, and what emerges is a picture, not of exploitation, but of co-operation. The Sanderson demesne lands at the centre of the parish were a considerable employer, while the rents collected didn’t feed the gaming habits of some far-off and ambivalent absentee proprietor. Instead they were used by a series of landlords, including the indomitable Mary Ann Sanderson, who was deeply committed to Cloverhill.

 The central aspect of this community is without doubt St John’s parish church. It was built by the aforementioned Mary Ann Sanderson. Like many people I had been misled into thinking that the church had been consecrated in December 1856 by a centenary service reported in the Anglo-Celt in December 1956. The formal consecration took place in 1860. This may help in identifying the architect. Dr Cherry repeats Jeremy Williams’ assertion that one of the Wellands may have been responsible. Why I felt that it was NOT the work of William Hague Jar (1836-99) was that, in 1856 Hague was only twenty years of age and not a qualified architect. If the building work only began say in 1857 or 1858 it Hague might have had a hand in drawing up the plans for his father who built the church, although he was as yet still too young and inexperienced to be credited with the work.

 In an introductory chapter Dr Cherry outlines the various sources he used. He outlines one which is probably the most important, and which is all too easily overlooked: an intimate knowledge of the location.  He writes:

 An often understated but hugely important source in understanding the sense of a place or the place as lived is personal experience. As a native of the area … I have been immersed in the history of the place since an early age. My own personal interest in the evolution of the village and district, coupled with strong familial ties to the area, have been of significant value in charting the history and understanding Cloverhill past and present. Speaking with local people and simply observing change has given me a greater understanding of what Cloverhill means to those who live there.

 This is a local study par excellence. It is of value on many different, though parallel levels, first as a local history, and then as a volume that gives keen and erudite insights into rural and religious history, as well as the history of landscape. All these elements are deftly brought together by Dr Cherry through his engaging and pellucid style.

 The name was said by some to come from a shadowy Anglo-Saxon nun called St. Walburga. However, there was a much longer cult among the German tribes of worshipping a forest deity called Waldborg. This traditionally occurred on May Eve. So deeply entrenched was the belief that the Christian authorities dealt with it by making Waldborg into St Walburga, whose relics were moved to the German town of Eichstatt on … 30 April which then became her feast in the Christian rite.

 The Sabbath on the Trocken wax always marked by excess. The witches met there with their master, the Devil or as they say in these parts, the lad with the horns. They engaged in wild and delirium-inducing dances, and after being laid prostrate by constant circular motions the Devil would have beastly carnal knowledge of them. Once awaken again they would compete with each other to satisfy his voracious lustful appetite, by taking his manhood in their mouths. At the moment of consummation they would allow the diabolical seed to spurt out onto the ground. Tradition held that wherever the Devil’s semen landed would be devoid of crops for seven generations.

 The air was often permeated by frightful growling sounds like thunder. This was caused by the gargling of other witches as they allowed the diabolical essence to course through their bodies. No matter how many times they gave head to their master, he remained unsalted.

 Similar Sabbaths were held in parts of Ireland. It was held that the locations where the witches spat out the Devil’s seed were marked by the plant long known in Irish as the Bohillan bui. This had poisonous effects on the soil and was also toxic to livestock.

 Walpurgis night falls fatefully this year on a Friday night, and so young Irish males returning at late hours from discos should be on their guard against the temptations of disguised witches. They should remember that these ladies have experiences and kills of sucking men dry with far bigger tanks than theirs.

A place where the ordinary people of Ireland are still unwelcome

at Farnham – but that’s as far as my admiration goes.

 It seems to me absurd that motorists cannot drive their vehicles to within a comfortable distance of the hotel. Instead they must hand over the keys of their vehicle to valets who will park them out of sight and at some considerable distance away. When they wish to leave the hotel, their keys must then be handed to another valet who will fetch their car. The employment of a small army of valets must add considerably to the running costs of the hotel – costs which are then passed on to guests. But then I suppose such a luxury hotel caters for people who aren’t worried about such trivia as exorbitant prices.

 The main foyer is huge; dominated by classical columns, a polished floor and a rather incongruous table that could do duty for a Séance or some attempt to get in touch with “the other side”. It is ringed by a number of seats and smaller tables, set back in little alcoves. Indeed were they concealed by curtains they would make excellent confessionals. But it does nothing to take away from the brooding and chilly atmosphere of this foyer. This is fine when filled with milling crowds, but when filled even with a few people the general atmosphere is of the ticket hall of a large continental railway station after the last train has left. The only people you expect to see are badly dressed, cigarette-touting scavengers and sweepers, yet even they are absent from the SAS Radisson hotel.

 The hotel contains a number of truly ridiculous trinkets, one being a Steinway Grand Piano. As someone who loves Chopin I would never call a piano useless, except when it carries a sign forbidding anyone to play it or touch its keys. In Florencecourt House they have a beautiful original fortepiano, dating from the look of it to c. 1800. It would be outrageous for anyone to attempt to play such an instrument, but a Steinway Grand Piano, which looks quite modern and in generally good shape, to be thus left outside of the possibility of use, is bizarre. What would our Minister for Health, Mary Hernia, who is known for her gargantuan appetites for food, five-star hotels and piano players make of this?

 I an assured by guests that they find the hotel comfortable, and I have no reason to doubt this. On my admittedly few visits there I have found the hotel to have a very cold and somewhat austere atmosphere. In the fine Botanical Restaurant one’s attention is grabbed by the excellence of the food, which is just as well as there is little to look at. In the evenings one sees through the windows a line of bright, regularly spaced bright lights which, for some reason, put me in mind of the illuminations around a high security prison.

 As most people know I am confined to a wheelchair. In order to gain access to the second floor of the hotel I must use a lift – nothing strange about that. In the Radisson Hotel the lift is concealed by a length of full-length curtain down a rather dimly-lit, and dare I say creepy corridor. It’s a bit like one of those self-service ‘photo boots. The lift is quite small and you don’t operate it by merely pressing the number of your desired floor but by continuously holding some button or dead-man’s-handle device. Not surprisingly I have re-christened the lift as The TARDIS. And then when you eventually arrive at your floor there is no smooth egress from the lift, as you have to pass over a rather annoying lip. It seems obvious to me that the provision of access for the disabled in the hotel was an embarrassing after-thought, a strange situation considering that one of its operators is the Scandinavian Airline System, but then they’re operating in Ireland where is has long been accepted by the Powers-That-Be that the disabled could never afford to go near a five-star hotel.

 My most recent visit there was as a guest of my dear and most generous friend, Joseph Donohoe of California. Joe is a really gifted man and an engaging conversationalist. He said, on one occasion, “I’m sure you could do something for the hotel”, knowing of course that my gifts extend far beyond that of the mere historian. I thus told him how, it must be ten years’ ago, I had received a telephone call from the then owner, Mr Roy McCabe, whom I found to be a most accessible individual. He invited me to go out to Farnham to see what they were doing there, and he undertook to be my guide. We finished are most amiable conversation with the undertaking that he would contact me shortly to firm up a date and a time for my visit… I have never heard from him since, and knowing him to be a busy man of business I did not contact him. I found the manner in which I was apparently dropped, and deemed unworthy of any further communication puzzling, though sadly far from unprecedented. Had someone, somewhere poured poison into Mr McCabe’s ears about me? I do hope not, but I would not be surprised if this had happened, though people should be given an opportunity to defend themselves against calumny and calumniators. You know, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not all out to get you.

 Like most people in Co. Cavan I have nothing but hatred and contempt for the Maxwells, the previous owners of Farnham House, who were a group of grasping hypocritical tyrants. They were descendants of mongrel foxes from south of Glasgow who unceremoniously grabbed land from not only the native Irish but from their fellow settlers.

 The Maxwells, upon their elevation to the Irish peerage inn 1756, adopted the title “Barons Farnham” supposedly after their place of residence in Co. Cavan. Farnham sounded ever so genteel – far better than the place-name Fernan or Farnan, shown on the original early Seventeenth century Plantation maps, signifying a pave where alders grew. (This was first pointed out by the late Oliver Davies in the 1940s, and he may not have been the first to know it.)

 Their involvement with the Anglican Church certainly did the latter institution no favours. They took a leading role in the so-called Second Reformation of the 1820s, when many gullible people in England were fleeced into providing large sums of money to promote evangelical movements in Ireland to win the Irish peasantry from the “darkness of Popish obscurantism”. Apart from a few converts, this campaign was a fiasco. One of the means used to win converts was the provision of food to the starving and malnourished, most of whom gladly took the offered provisions in return for a very brief conversion to Protestantism, but once they had consumed enough food they returned to the religious practices of their birth. Their preference for Protestants, to fill jobs in the house and on their estate, attained almost farcical proportions. I have noted before how the Lord Farnham of the late nineteenth century was urged to fill posts on his estate with “English Protestants”. A policy of employing only Protestants might have been defensible to a certain extent; so too might have been the opinion that the best people to employ for certain tasks were Englishmen, as they had greater knowledge and experience in the performance of some tasks; but to seek only “English Protestants” was absurd. Not only would it have excluded the composer of “Land of Hope and Glory” – sir Edward Elgar, a close friend of King Edward VII, and an English Catholic – but it showed that the Farnhams’ anti-Catholic bigotry would have left them with no qualms whatsoever about employing the greatest English jailbirds, many of whom had been baptised and brought up in the Church of England.

 But their religiosity did not extend to all areas of human activity. Folklore still current, though not recorded by the Irish Folklore Commission, tells the tale of the “Human Hunts” enacted at Farnham. Local girls were stripped and hounds set upon them. They were pursued through the Farnham House demesne grounds and some managed to gain sanctuary in the grounds’ many trees. They were only liberated from their sylvan refuges by some of the young “gentlemen” staying at the house who would carry them away from the fangs of the baying hounds on horseback – though in return for unspecified favours. Perhaps the management of the hotel might seek to stage a re-enactment of the Human Hunt one of these days, while the management of Cavan County Museum might care to dwell that the perpetrators and participants in such activities are probably among the portraits of the Farnhams they hold, so gladly donated to them by a former Lady Farnham. (It might be interesting for some of the ordinary inhabitants of the Farnham area to look at these portraits, and see how frequently the features reproduced could be discerned amongst their ordinary neighbours.)