The One That Got Away

Holidays, when I was growing up, were often spent wherever my father was on location. We never saw much of him, unless it was raining. Often, there wasn’t enough room for us where he was staying and we would be billeted someplace else, meeting up for meals and occasional soggy walks on beaches. Sometimes, especially when he was working on his own documentaries, the locations would be rural and our accommodations miles apart. My mother, undaunted, would insist on a family holiday in the vicinity. One such place was a cottage on Coney Island.

Dad was working at the time in and around the county town of Sligo in the northwest of Ireland. His assistant, a bouncy young woman named Penny, was stuck with the task of finding digs for the family. We had acquired two cats and still had one dog so a pet-friendly establishment was a must. A cottage was found. School was finished for the summer; animals, kids, and the usual supplies were packed up in the car, and across Ireland we trundled.

Directions to this cottage were on the skimpy side. “It’s over there,” the assistant said, waving a hand at the Atlantic Ocean, “on that island. Pick up the key at the pub.” How to get there was the inevitable question. “Oh, you just wait until the tide is out.” So wait we did and in time the mist cleared somewhat and a sort of causeway appeared, marked by tall cement bollards. “Stay close to them and you’ll be fine. Just follow the road to the pub.”

Ocean FM

With some trepidation, Mum drove out onto the beach and we edged our way across the wet sand, following the markers until we made it to the other side, still following the road. Sure enough, it ended at Ward’s pub, which was also the general store.

Our cottage, it turned out, was right next door. Mum was greatly perturbed. Wouldn’t it be very noisy, with drunken revelry and general mayhem outside every night? Well, the Irish may have drunken revelry down to an art form but Coney Island in those days had very few permanent citizens and the summer visitors would only swell the population by a couple of dozen, most of whom kept to themselves and valued the peace and quiet. The joint only jumped at the weekends and then only to the extent of an occasional fiddle player and a few pints of the Dark.

Go Strandhill

Weather permitting, we spent our days walking to Carty’s Strand, exploring the Napoleonic fort, making wishes in St. Patrick’s wishing chair. The weather often didn’t permit and endless games of Monopoly and Careers got underway. The island had no telephone service and no electricity and so by nights we read by the soft hiss and glow of gas lights and paraffin lamps.

Supplies generally were a bit of a problem. While the general store/pub did have some of the basics, the prices, as you might expect, were through the roof. We were allowed to get the occasional treat, a bottle of bitter lemon and a bag of cheese and onion crisps, just to show willing but as they were already getting her hard-earned cash on the cottage rental, Mum felt she owed them no further loyalty. There was no way she was going to pay those kinds of prices for a loaf of bread or a pound of bacon. Needless to say, we were not all that popular as we made our weekly forays across the causeway to Sligo for groceries and the occasional visit with Dad. These excursions were often fraught with danger. My Mother was the worst timekeeper I have ever known and being at the beck and call of an incoming tide was beyond her capabilities. More than once she broke the land speed record as the incoming waters rose around us.

All things considered though, we dined like kings. We were on an island in the ocean and local fisherman delivered daily to our door. The big floury local potatoes with lashings of local butter were also right up there on the best ever list. But it was the lobster that we enjoyed the most. Mum learned and then became quite adept at boiling the poor things alive. Came the fateful day when a real beauty was delivered to the door. He was huge and feisty and my mother debated how to fit him into the pot. After some debate she decided that tail-first would be the best approach; then squash in the rest of him. The lobster, however, had other ideas. As soon as his tail hit the water, he leaped out of her hands; scuttled across the floor and was out the open half-door. The last we saw of him was a bright red tail, heading in the general direction of the beach.

After that, my brother and I declared ourselves heartily sick of lobster and refused to eat it again. I haven’t been back to Coney Island since but I like to think that somewhere off the west coast of Ireland there is a lobster with a bright red tail lurking in the depths, spinning tall tales to his great-grandchildren about the day he was the one that got away.

Irish Food Guide

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Clo Carey Feb/20

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