‘Bell!” my father bellowed for the umpteenth time — taking up his new, self-appointed position as Bicycle Bell Inspector on the National Famine Way. The startled cyclists waved their apology for whizzing by us unannounced along the Royal Canal.
People have had many strange and varied reactions to Covid and lockdown, though I suspect my Dad’s response, like most of what he does, was at the extreme end of the scale. At 86 years of age, he announced he was going to walk the National Famine Way with me — all 165km of it, from Strokestown, Co Roscommon, to the Dublin docklands.
I looked pleadingly at my mother. She rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders. We all knew how determined he was when he took ‘a notion’.
Thinking back now, this wasn’t just his response to having been ‘locked up’ and extremely fearful during Covid, but something he had at the back of his mind for a long time. My father, Jim Calleary, was the founder of the National Famine Museum, which opened at Strokestown Park in 1994. Two decades ago, he had sailed to Canada on the Jeanie Johnston replica famine ship, spending over 50 days at sea.
Today, I sit on the board of the Irish Heritage Trust, which now operates the museum, and was heavily involved in setting up the 165km trail. Dad had walked part of it with me before, a 16km stretch to Clondra in hard leather shoes. His feet were in bits and blistered for weeks.
The Famine Way mainly follows the Royal Canal Greenway
Now at 86, already having one hip replaced and with the second giving ‘jib’, along with occasional shoulder and knee complaints, he fixed his courage to the sticking place and announced he was going to try the whole thing.
“You won’t be racing me to Dublin,” he warned on numerous occasions. I reassured him that we would go at his chosen pace, and found myself embarking on the journey with a mix of excited anticipation and terror that my siblings would never forgive me if anything happened to him on ‘my watch’.
My backpack was a small pharmacy. We had no idea how far we would get, if some body joint or other would whinge, creak or give up, or some blistered foot would become insufferable. I was acutely aware that if he was in pain, Dad — like most men — would not make a very bearable companion. But all ailments aside, Dad is fit for his age, a regular swimmer and walker who came from a farming background, so is well used to traversing terrain. Who knew what lay ahead?
So we set off quietly this summer, on our own. From the get-go, on the first stretch of country lanes, his amazing knowledge and natural curiosity came to the fore. Surprised by the lack of water hens, ducks and other waterfowl, he blamed a member of the weasel family.
Map of the National Famine Way which extends from Roscommon to Dublin
“The mink are swimmers while the pine martens are climbers,” he explained. “So the martens get the eggs from tree nests while the mink get the water nests and baby chicks”. Heartbreaking. On one occasion we stopped to listen to a cuckoo across a bog, the latest in the season he had ever heard one. Swans and herons were plentiful.
The National Famine Way follows in the footsteps of 1,490 emigrants who made their way to the coffin ships on Custom House Quay in 1847, and we passed the 32 bronze shoe sculptures which chart their story along the way.
I also became fascinated with vernacular architecture I had rarely noticed before. Dad pointed out beehive cottages from the 1930s and the 1950s, for examples — dwellings he remembered cost £1,200 to build.
Slowly but steadily, we were clocking between 12km and 20km a day, trekking through the rural heartlands of Roscommon, Longford, Westmeath, Meath, Kildare and urban Dublin. We stayed at hotels and guesthouses along the way, where daily foot inspections became the thing. Especially after I discovered him wearing almost threadbare socks on day one, which had resulted in a small blister — Compeed plasters to the rescue!
Each morning after breakfast he plonked his feet up for inspection and I massaged the moisturiser in and surreptitiously checked for any sign of a blister or a wince as I applied pressure. I think it was the blisters he feared most, though surprisingly none developed.
Our weather concerns too proved unfounded — we were drizzled on only once. It was cloudy but warm and sometimes slightly windy; we couldn’t have asked for better.
Strolling through pastoral settings, with the sound of the wind through the reeds and the trees and the breeze brushing lightly on our faces, watching the ripple on the water, absorbing the purples, yellows, whites and greens of the lush vegetation all round us, my heart broke when I thought of the 1,490. Then it swelled as I fell behind Dad and watched him conquer his ambition step by step.
I also pondered what an amazing machine the human body is. “I have never seen so many buttercups as this year,” he said, stopping and breaking into my thoughts. We gazed at endless golden meadows rolling out on either side of us.
Bronze Shoe Memorial dedicated to the 1,490 famine emigrants who walked from Strokestown to Dublin in 1847
He resisted listening to the Famine Way app, but finally gave in around Coolnahay Harbour as he really wanted to know the local history. So for the first time he used headphones with his rarely used iPhone. And immediately he was hooked and made me play each of the rich local histories, on and on, as we walked.
Midway happened to be Father’s Day, and we were joined by my mum, sister and my girls, who strolled along awhile with their pandemic puppies in tow. I gave him a Father’s Day card with the words ‘Love You Dad’ simply emblazoned on the front — something I would never have considered before and something I knew he would be embarrassed by and gauche about. Like many of his generation, he’s not the demonstrative type.
Day Nine was ‘Anxiety Day’. I sensed it as I got an unusually early call from him to come to his room. He is a poor sleeper but slept worse than usual and seemed concerned, but I couldn’t work out why. Maybe he was beginning to feel unwell? As we breakfasted and prepared to set off I was walking on eggshells.
For the first time, our day started out sombre and quiet. But it was a particularly beautiful rustic stretch and I could feel the stress melt away as we walked, listening to the baaing of sheep and mooing of calves. “Those calves are likely up from Kerry for fattening on Meath meadows,” he said, and I sensed he was on an even keel again.
I grew sure of it when, not long afterwards, he burst into a recital of Shelley and told me that as children they had an original copy of Dracula, but when his mother caught them reading it she burned it on the fire!
We finished the day laughing over a pint and his ‘medicinal’ single glass of red wine — which he has often looked for over breakfast, much to the surprise of waiting staff. He is not a drinker but relishes the few he has.
Along the way we bumped into many people he knew — an ex-bank manager, garage men, farmers he had dealt with over the years. Trips down memory lane; I watched him deep in conversation, throwing back his head with his deep ‘tut tut tut’ guffaw of laughter.
Over the final three days we were joined by some friends and colleagues. On the first of these, we covered 20km — our longest day. I fretted that we’d done too much and might fall at the last hurdle. He was noticeably tired and slower the next day. A blister had appeared.
Caroilín Callery and her father Jim were delighted to complete the 165km trek
On our final day, though, there was no holding him back. Met by family along the last stretch of our 165km, we had to employ my little niece to slow him up by distracting him with her instamatic camera. We didn’t want to arrive early at the trailhead — as my mum, sister, brother and others were stuck in traffic desperately trying to get there ahead of our arrival!
A man of few demonstrative words, the beaming grin from ear to ear spoke volumes as we arrived at the famine sculpture on Dublin’s quays. He couldn’t believe he had done it — that his body had stood up to it all.
My favourite saying of my father’s, which I often quote, is “a steady drip wears the stone”. I guess that is pretty akin to “slow and steady wins the race”. He lost his own father when he was just six years old, so had little opportunity for experiences with him bar a handful of early memories.
Our family had thankfully been gifted 80 years more. I don’t think I will ever walk the trail again without hearing him shout ‘Bell!’ as a bike approaches. You are some man for one man, Dad.
National Famine Way in focus
The National Famine Way is a 165km route from Strokestown, Co Roscommon to Custom House Quay in Dublin. It is topped and tailed by museums — the National Famine Museum at Strokestown Park, operated by the Irish Heritage Trust, and the Jeanie Johnston and EPIC The Irish Emigration Museum in Dublin.
The trail can be walked in sections, or all at once, along a mix of country lanes, towns, and mostly the restored towpaths of the Royal Canal Greenway. Download the National Famine Way app, or find out more at nationalfamineway.ie. Walker passports are also available, with stamps to collect.
