Ode to Ravensdale

“The Collins/McGivern homes in Ravensdale, Douglas.”

In 1805 the Besnards commenced,

Building from scratch a mill to scutch hemp,

Part of their empire in Douglas weaving Linen.

An industry imported by these Huguenots refugees.

A tranquil hamlet,

Just off the west village.

A homely location to set down our roots,

Submerged in an array of beautiful wild flora,

Complete with a river laden with trout.

Ravensdale residents the Lawton’s and McGivern's,

Overrun by us blow in’s, the multitudinous Collins’s.

Like Cuckoos we arrived in the early 1900s,

Our family spreading, contraception free.

Engulfing the Lawton’s, the poor McGiverns we besieged.

My siblings and cousins endlessly exploring,

Bagging for eels or building a dam.

Playing soccer or rounders marked out on “Connie’s Lane.”

Picking wild berries to make blacka jam,

Homemade by Nora, Nana Coll or Mam.

Ballybrack Woods for Tip Release,

Along with a swarm of our neighbour’s offspring.

Running, shouting screaming joyfully or,

The “Lawn Field” for tumbling,

Knocking “chessies” in Autumn from its majestic old trees.

Waking in winter you could see your own breath.

The old house full of character and mysticism.

Formerly a home for the old and “bewildered.”

Tragically, accidentally, patients poisoned with Hemlock.

Terrified at night we imagined ghosts seeking vengeance.

Many now scattered to different locations.

Locked in our hearts these rose-tinted reflections.

Raised in the bosom of our loving tribe,

Our ancestors laid a granite foundation,

Allowing their descendants to bloom and flourish.

By John Twohig

Twitter john_twohig