Sam’s Cross is between Clonakilty and Rosscarbery, inland and uphill. Surrounded by farms, the crossroad hamlet is a short walk from Michael Collins’ family home, a secular pilgrimage site. Everyone who knows Irish history visits the family home, says a prayer for the soul of Michael Collins, and heads for “The Four Alls,” the pub at Sams Cross. Sure if you’re going to pray for a fella in Purgatory, you should wet your throat in his memory too.
The “Threshing” at Sam’s Cross is an annual horse fair and traditional fall festival. The Four Alls, is still owned by relatives of The Big Fella. For The Threshing the pub features live traditional music all day, performers of all ages doing the old songs well and adding to the canon. The little place was crowded by with smiling faces, children underfoot, young folks puttin’ on the style, and ol’ wans savoring the moment.
Ms. Raleigh and I came by the back road from Rosscarbery and rolled in to minor applause from friends who’d arrived before us. “Here comes Preacher Frank on his push bike!” It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, almost hot, and we sat outside and talked about the weather, the upcoming winter, and, of course, horses. I met an old guy who told me he’s once turned down an offer to sell him a nearby cottage and acre of land for 90 Irish “Punt” (Pounds). Another old guy, “Joe” came with the two old women who are his perennial companions. He calls them his girlfriends and there was considerable speculation about that family’s domestic arrangements after Joe left. Joe isn’t clear about his age, but knows he’s well past 90, a figure confirmed by other adults there. Joe was born not far from Sam’s Cross, worked in Birmingham for 50 years, and came home. His doctor has forbidden “the black stuff” (Guinness Stout), and Joe complies, though God knows why. He just comes along for the good crack and to give the ladies an outing. When I walked up to pay my respects, Joe reached out with his right hand and said “Welcome back home.” We shook hands and chatted about his life and mine.
Sam’s Cross is a farming community and nobody paid any attention while a stallion mounted a mare just outside the patio. The pre-teen boys holding both horses by halters were too busy talking about their own stuff to bother noticing the horses. The horses, of course, could care less. People were more interested in their conversation and the music. Still, city boy that I am, I wanted to stand up and applaud. Life rolls on in Sam’s Cross.
Ms. Raleigh and I left The Four Alls reluctantly, but the sun was low on the horizon and we needed to get home in daylight. Because of the hour, we decided to take the most direct route home and came across a group of road bowlers enjoying West Cork’s own favorite sport. Contestants bowl between villages, each rolling a steel ball about the size of a Navel Orange. The person who makes the tour with the fewest tosses is the winner. There are, of course, songs celebrating the prowess of road bowlers who defended the honor of their own village pub. The group I encountered was quite young, so the old game is in no jeopardy of slipping into memory. Ms. Raleigh and I waited respectfully at the side of the road while they bowled through in high spirits.
Home in Rosscarbery, I cleaned Ms. Raleigh and kipped in with book. Life is good. Life rolls on.
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