Epilogue
Seaghán O Briain recalls the life of Lightkeepers and their
families in the early years of the century.
THE last Lighthouse Keeper has completed his last watch and
has signed off. The Baily is unmanned, and a way of life which
lasted over a hundred and fifty years, with its many traditions,
has died. All around the coast of Ireland the lighthouses will
continue to flash; but they are now lifeless. Save for the seabirds
that still circle them they are lonelier than ever.
In the second half of this century conditions in the Lighthouse Service changed dramatically, with rock-to-shore telephone, radio, deep-freeze, the helicopter, the month on and month off, and the closing down of the shore dwellings. These changes were a tremendous improvement. They produced a completely different way of life and a greatly changed social order within the Service.
I was born into the Service in 1912 when my father was stationed at the Beeves Rock on the Shannon. He was part of a long tradition, for both my grandfather and great grandfather were Lighthouse Keepers.
Lighthouse Keepers of that period, and particularly of the preceding half century, were tough men. They had to be, for it was a tough job. The main qualification for becoming a Lighthouse Keeper was to have your Seaman's Ticket or to be the son of a Lighthouse Keeper, and many candidates met both requirements. My father went to sea at the age of fourteen, spent most of his time on square-riggers, and returned home at twenty-five to join the Service.
By the beginning of this century conditions had started to improve. Most of the families had been brought ashore from the rocks and islands and provided with comfortable, convenient housing ashore; but prior to that the women and children shared the hardship of the rocks and islands with the men. My grandmother was born in Belmullet and at the age of six weeks was brought out to Eagle Island, where she was hoisted onto the island in a basket. She was five years old when she next came ashore to Blacksod. She told me she jumped off the sidecar in terror at the sight of a tree in Bingamstown.
My mother was the eldest of a large family living on Rathlin O'Birne, where my grandfather was Principal Keeper. When she was aged eighteen she met my father who had been sent to Rathlin O'Birne on appointment as an Assistant Keeper. I am the product of that island romance.
Many stations such as Roancarrig and Rockabill, with regular reliefs and comfortable, conveniently located shore dwellings, were pleasant places at which to work and live. But there were others, particularly on the west coast, where stamina and courage above the average were needed to survive.
Take for instance the Tearaght, where the Keeper going out on relief from Valentia would be summoned early on a cold, wet, and windy winter morning by John Flynn, officer in charge of the fishing smack Deidre which did duty for a tender. Putting on his heavy overcoat and oilskins he would clamber aboard and seek some shelter in the lee of the small wheelhouse, for no accommodation was provided. With luck he might arrive, cold and miserable, three hours later, to be hoisted up on the fall - a bosun's chair slung on a cable, winched up by the men above. He had to wait for a big wave and then jump from the boat on to the chair; then, buffeted by wind, rain and spray, be slowly winched to the top. No job that for a softy - and remember, he was lucky if his relief was less than a month late; in some instances it was three.
In those days the quality of the reliefs was extremely poor. The Deidre, a good enough seaboat but with definite limitations, serviced the south west coast. She was followed by the Nabro - an uglier and worse seaboat it would be hard to imagine. Next came the Valonia, which would have looked well on the Cumbrian lakes but was not suited to the toughest coast off Europe. It was only with the stationing of the Ierne at Castletownbere that things really improved.
The hardships were many, the worst being the isolation and loneliness which were part of the job. Claustrophobic living conditions at stations such as the Fastnet, Blackrock Sligo, and Haulbowline were also a problem. Poor and irregular relief services were dreaded by both the Keepers and their families. Stations with explosive fog signals were to be avoided, if at all possible.
There were quite a number of one-Keeper lighthouses to which Keepers and their wives were often sent prior to retirement. Many of these were comfortable and conveniently located such as Greenore, Howth East Pier, Duncannon, Youghal and many more. Others such as Straw Island and Samphire Island, where elderly Keepers and their wives lived in isolation, were grim indeed.
The foregoing would seem to indicate that lighthouse-keeping was an unattractive vocation, but this was not so. There were may attractions such as a permanent, pensionable job at a time when such were hard to find; good accommodation at most stations, with ample supplies of coal and household equipment; and annual leave with pay, a perk which few workers enjoyed in those days.
There was, too, the social advantage of families in close contact who provided support and help in times of sickness and stress. My memories are of a happy childhood, of good friends, and that feeling of belonging. All in all I am glad that I was born into the Lighthouse Service and its tradition.
What of the men themselves? They were mostly hardy, quiet spoken, and philosophical; and many were great story tellers with an ability which arose from their circumstances. Some, like my father, had gone to sea at an early age, mostly on the square-riggers, and had sailed the seven seas. My father had traded in the Baltic, the Mediterranean, the Black Sea, and the Caribbean. Their travels, together with a vivid imagination, provided the background to their stories which, in a world of isolation without radio, telephone, or TV, helped to while away the lonely days and nights. I remember as a young man sitting around the fire with two of my uncles - Martin and Anthony Kennedy - and Bill Roche, listening to them exchange stories, marvelling at their imagination, and wishing I had some means of recording such tales.
I remember, too, sometime in the 1960s, calling on Father McDyer in Glen-colmcille and his greeting me with 'You will be sorry to hear we have lost you old friend Charlie McNellis. He will be greatly missed here in the Glen. He was a beautiful liar'. I remembered then nights spent listening to his tales. God rest him; he was one of the last of a great tradition.
All around the coast of Ireland the lights will continue to flash; but the humanity, the comradeship, the sense of duty, the vocation are gone forever. In a few short years, when we too are gone, they will be forgotten. As Thomás Ó Criomhthain from the Great Blasket Island said 'Our like will not be seen again'.
© Seaghán O Briain, 1996.
In the second half of this century conditions in the Lighthouse Service changed dramatically, with rock-to-shore telephone, radio, deep-freeze, the helicopter, the month on and month off, and the closing down of the shore dwellings. These changes were a tremendous improvement. They produced a completely different way of life and a greatly changed social order within the Service.
I was born into the Service in 1912 when my father was stationed at the Beeves Rock on the Shannon. He was part of a long tradition, for both my grandfather and great grandfather were Lighthouse Keepers.
Lighthouse Keepers of that period, and particularly of the preceding half century, were tough men. They had to be, for it was a tough job. The main qualification for becoming a Lighthouse Keeper was to have your Seaman's Ticket or to be the son of a Lighthouse Keeper, and many candidates met both requirements. My father went to sea at the age of fourteen, spent most of his time on square-riggers, and returned home at twenty-five to join the Service.
By the beginning of this century conditions had started to improve. Most of the families had been brought ashore from the rocks and islands and provided with comfortable, convenient housing ashore; but prior to that the women and children shared the hardship of the rocks and islands with the men. My grandmother was born in Belmullet and at the age of six weeks was brought out to Eagle Island, where she was hoisted onto the island in a basket. She was five years old when she next came ashore to Blacksod. She told me she jumped off the sidecar in terror at the sight of a tree in Bingamstown.
My mother was the eldest of a large family living on Rathlin O'Birne, where my grandfather was Principal Keeper. When she was aged eighteen she met my father who had been sent to Rathlin O'Birne on appointment as an Assistant Keeper. I am the product of that island romance.
Many stations such as Roancarrig and Rockabill, with regular reliefs and comfortable, conveniently located shore dwellings, were pleasant places at which to work and live. But there were others, particularly on the west coast, where stamina and courage above the average were needed to survive.
Take for instance the Tearaght, where the Keeper going out on relief from Valentia would be summoned early on a cold, wet, and windy winter morning by John Flynn, officer in charge of the fishing smack Deidre which did duty for a tender. Putting on his heavy overcoat and oilskins he would clamber aboard and seek some shelter in the lee of the small wheelhouse, for no accommodation was provided. With luck he might arrive, cold and miserable, three hours later, to be hoisted up on the fall - a bosun's chair slung on a cable, winched up by the men above. He had to wait for a big wave and then jump from the boat on to the chair; then, buffeted by wind, rain and spray, be slowly winched to the top. No job that for a softy - and remember, he was lucky if his relief was less than a month late; in some instances it was three.
In those days the quality of the reliefs was extremely poor. The Deidre, a good enough seaboat but with definite limitations, serviced the south west coast. She was followed by the Nabro - an uglier and worse seaboat it would be hard to imagine. Next came the Valonia, which would have looked well on the Cumbrian lakes but was not suited to the toughest coast off Europe. It was only with the stationing of the Ierne at Castletownbere that things really improved.
The hardships were many, the worst being the isolation and loneliness which were part of the job. Claustrophobic living conditions at stations such as the Fastnet, Blackrock Sligo, and Haulbowline were also a problem. Poor and irregular relief services were dreaded by both the Keepers and their families. Stations with explosive fog signals were to be avoided, if at all possible.
There were quite a number of one-Keeper lighthouses to which Keepers and their wives were often sent prior to retirement. Many of these were comfortable and conveniently located such as Greenore, Howth East Pier, Duncannon, Youghal and many more. Others such as Straw Island and Samphire Island, where elderly Keepers and their wives lived in isolation, were grim indeed.
The foregoing would seem to indicate that lighthouse-keeping was an unattractive vocation, but this was not so. There were may attractions such as a permanent, pensionable job at a time when such were hard to find; good accommodation at most stations, with ample supplies of coal and household equipment; and annual leave with pay, a perk which few workers enjoyed in those days.
There was, too, the social advantage of families in close contact who provided support and help in times of sickness and stress. My memories are of a happy childhood, of good friends, and that feeling of belonging. All in all I am glad that I was born into the Lighthouse Service and its tradition.
What of the men themselves? They were mostly hardy, quiet spoken, and philosophical; and many were great story tellers with an ability which arose from their circumstances. Some, like my father, had gone to sea at an early age, mostly on the square-riggers, and had sailed the seven seas. My father had traded in the Baltic, the Mediterranean, the Black Sea, and the Caribbean. Their travels, together with a vivid imagination, provided the background to their stories which, in a world of isolation without radio, telephone, or TV, helped to while away the lonely days and nights. I remember as a young man sitting around the fire with two of my uncles - Martin and Anthony Kennedy - and Bill Roche, listening to them exchange stories, marvelling at their imagination, and wishing I had some means of recording such tales.
I remember, too, sometime in the 1960s, calling on Father McDyer in Glen-colmcille and his greeting me with 'You will be sorry to hear we have lost you old friend Charlie McNellis. He will be greatly missed here in the Glen. He was a beautiful liar'. I remembered then nights spent listening to his tales. God rest him; he was one of the last of a great tradition.
All around the coast of Ireland the lights will continue to flash; but the humanity, the comradeship, the sense of duty, the vocation are gone forever. In a few short years, when we too are gone, they will be forgotten. As Thomás Ó Criomhthain from the Great Blasket Island said 'Our like will not be seen again'.
© Seaghán O Briain, 1996.