THE ELIXIR OF FREEDOM

My earliest interest in flying machines was in 1939. I never saw those behemoths — the airships — that preceded the flying boats in ferrying passengers across the Atlantic. But in 1939, when silver machines were spotted in the sky in our airspace in County Tipperary, everyone was excited and stopped to gaze heavenward. The adults' excitement was contagious; and we, little kids, ran around with our arms extended, yelling "Yankee Clipper! Yankee Clipper!" For that was what our mentors had identified the object in the sky to be. You might think "cute, but not a powerful story." However, remember that scarcely a generation earlier, the idea of a silver machine flying through the air could only have occurred in Greek mythology.

In a short time, make-believe Yankee Clipper gave way to exploring our rural surroundings. I remember my brother Brendon organized an expedition to An Cnoc. This was a hill from which we were promised to see parts of seven counties "on a clear day." It was an all-day trek, so we started early. Armed with stout sticks and with our commander reconnoitering the route we, budding Roald Amundsens, strode through fields, walked carefully around fairy forts, hurried past paddocks that might have dangerous bulls, gave wide berth to farmers' houses with their inevitable watchdogs, and paused to pick blackberries and whorts (whortleberries) as the opportunities arose. By midday, we were ascending the final steep climb to the summit. Triumphant and seated in that commanding position, we, with some misgivings, hungrily downed our lunch rations purloined from the kitchen. The misgivings arose because it had been thought in the morning that adequate rations for the trip included some of Auntie Maie's raisins. It must be remembered that this was war time and any imported goods, such as raisins, were an extreme rarity. I will never know how Auntie Maie got them, but I know she planned a scrumptious and rare cake.

At the summit, my knowledge of geography and terrestrial science did not permit me to identify for sure the terra firma of seven counties. Nevertheless, it was a satisfying experience. The return journey was tough and we were tired when we reached home. I expected dire consequences from Auntie Maie. She brought up the subject and Brendon shouldered full responsibility for the irreplaceable raisins. He pleaded necessity. She was a gentle lady and, to my continued amazement, she accepted my brother's plea, without admitting to his military necessity part. We were experiencing how the distaff side of the house primed boys to be men!

On the long days of summer vacation, my brother, Terry, and I worked as a team, savoring the pleasure of fishing in streams too tiny to have a name. We would bring home our catch of trout that was six inches or bigger. Our prize catch was a marvelous eighteen-inch specimen, taken from the head springs of the river closest to us. After the heads were cut off and they were gutted, Mama pan fried them. Those fish had a deliciousness never again, in my experience, to be equaled. Although we did fish with rod and line — using worms for bait, and a hook crudely fashioned from Mama's sewing supplies — it was the elemental nature of hand fishing that made it our much-loved challenge. The contemplative experience of sitting on the river bank waiting for a fish to bite faded in comparison to removing boots and socks, wading into the stream, and attempting to outwit the wily fish.

The crowning experience for "The Young Lads of the River" was the legendary trout of Kyle that got away. Kyle was a place about a mile beyond the village and there, hidden in a sheltered ravine, was a small year- round unnamed river. We discovered the enormous trout that inhabited an impregnable pool in that river. We thought of him in the singular, though he was undoubtedly just one of many. Here was a challenge we could not refuse! On a hot day, we entered the overgrown ravine and headed upstream through the dappled sunlight. In less than a half mile we arrived at the pool; it was at the base of a waterfall. The glinting waters at the top of the falls plummeting ten or twelve feet had sculpted out a very deep pool at the base. The aerated water at the base flowed out into a progressively shallower, dark, limpid pool for about thirty or forty feet before the river returned to an ankle-depth, burbling stream among the rocks.

So we devised our plan of attack. We knew the secret of hand fishing — the hands must be placed motionless in the water until the fish approaches close enough that it cannot escape. The slightest movement alerts the fish to danger and he darts away; in this case upstream into the inaccessible deep. So, we rolled up our shorts and waded in above knee height into the shockingly cold water. The shaded pool water was close to ground temperature, definitely less than fifty degrees. Facing toward the shallows, we hold our hands steady in the water, and wait for him to appear. We did not last very long, and gave up as hands and legs became painfully numb, and a deep blue color from the icy cold water. However, we did not surrender easily. We returned a number of times to the contest, but the quarry always managed to elude us and flee to his mysterious sanctuary.

In competitive games, I liked handball and practiced my skills endlessly against any convenient gable wall. Running held great interest for all of us and we secretly envisioned, if it were humanly possible, our being the first to run the four-minute mile. Remember, it was to be 1954 before this worldwide interest in the sub-four-minute mile was resolved by Roger Bannister. We were also inspired by the performance of John Joe Barry (The Ballincurry Hare) of Kyle, who actually — not to our surprise — went on to hold many world-class records for running.

We committed ourselves to investigating beyond the horizon, beyond the visible more distant features of the landscape — Slievenamon and the Devils Bit. We were not going to set any limits to our horizons. The silver machine in the sky was the sign of another even more exciting dimension of the world awaiting exploration. We would venture into the stratosphere. Indeed our youthful spirits were fired up with the excitement, not just for geographic...