My first real memory of Ireland was at Easter. I was seven and my family, never one to follow trends, had just moved back to Ireland from Toronto. It was all a great adventure. The brother and I were taken out of school before the holidays. Farewell parties were held and we were showered with gifts. Trunks were filled with new clothes. New supplies were bought to keep the pair of us occupied so that the Mother could spend the voyage snoozing in a deck chair. We boarded a massive ship in Halifax and off we went across the Atlantic to arrive on the shores of our new homeland, six days later.
It dawned on us quite quickly that this was a very strange place. For one thing, the cars drove on the wrong side of the road and the people talked with funny accents. Even worse, they laughed at us for the way we talked. They thought we were from America, and did we know their cousins in Boston or Detroit. Worse still, we didn’t know our times tables, were shaky on our catechisms and had not a word of Irish. People from Canada were clearly to be pitied.
We took up residence in a mouldering pile of a B & B in Killiney. The bedrooms were huge, and damp with open fireplaces and shabby drapes. The shared bathroom down the hall was so draughty waves formed on the water as you lay in the claw-foot tub. The wife of this establishment, purveyor of breakfast, and clean towels, saw us coming and took herself off to hospital; leaving her domestically challenged husband struggling with vacuums and frying pans. His efforts failed to make the right impression with the Mother who took over the running of the household with an ill grace. Never one for housework, she was not pleased to find herself starting her new life adventure back in a kitchen. The air was blue and the dinner was burnt but despite all, there was Easter to look forward to.
Easter Day itself dawned sunny and crisp, unlike the snowy slush of Toronto that we had left behind. There were daffodils on the lawn that we could see through the French doors in the dining room. An excellent place for an Easter egg hunt we thought, thrilling at the prospect. Alas it was not to be. The Easter Bunny, we were told, had stayed behind in Toronto and with him the luridly coloured fondant eggs of which I was extremely fond. The brother and I commiserated with each other long and loud. Why had we been forced to move to this awful, backward place?
Once we had finished our lumpy porridge, we sat waiting to be excused from the table. Ideas on how to get through the day were in rather short supply and always ended with a heartfelt sigh. The Da, who had left some minutes before with the excuse that he had to help in the kitchen but was more likely dumping his porridge in the nearest potted plant, sidled back into the room. He put a fancy green box held together with a lilac satin bow beside each of our places. What was this? After some effort we managed to untie the ribbon and ease off the lid; inside was nestled the biggest, the most magnificent egg. It was made entirely of chocolate; decorated with fancy icing flowers and piped chocolate embellishments around the middle. We had never seen anything so gorgeous in our lives. The Da told us to eat the piping first but he didn’t explain why. I didn’t want to touch mine and the Brother wanted to nibble the iced roses but we did as we were told. Piping disposed of; the Da reached over and lifted the top off one of the eggs. Wonder of wonders, this egg had hidden depths. A treasure trove of rich, creamy chocolates lay within just waiting to be savoured.
Through the years in Dublin, Easter came to mean many things: From hot cross buns with lashings of butter to endless hours in church; history lessons on the Easter Rising to widely felt disgust at the sectarian violence that inevitably increased around the anniversary. Sometimes it meant trips across to England to stay with cousins or friends. I learned to love it all and in time forgot about egg hunts and lurid fondant eggs but, heathen that I am, my best Easter memories will always be the delicious demolition of Bewley’s chocolate eggs.
*Note – image 1 is from Betty’s & Taylor’s in Harrowgate (definitely on my bucket list) https://www.bettys.co.uk/easter/easter-eggs
image 2 is from Bernard Callebaut https://www.bernardcallebaut.com which I have been lucky enough to sample.
These are the closest I could find to the eggs of my childhood.
South Shore Scribes NS @www.emilybowers.ca @https://chasscribbless.blogspot.com @https://contentinretirement.blogspot.com @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #chocolateggs #Easter #amwritingmemoir
Teetering on the Edge 