Touring West Ireland twelve years ago, we chanced upon a sign to the Museum of Irish Life. We drove through narrow lanes and silent villages to a fence and gate that appeared deserted, though a small plaque confirmed it was the museum Then a family turned up.
The man embraced me tightly, almost in tears, “you won’t regret it - this is really something special – just give me a moment to set it up – perhaps you’ll care to go and have a drop yourselves while you’re waiting – there’s a place of refreshment just across the way (the pub) – here, take these with you,” and he thrust a tray of rolls, still with balloons and ribbons attached, into the car, clearly the remains of a child’s birthday tea he’d brought back.
The museum was his home and he showed every item proudly with a full description, while introducing each member of his family with wonderful tales of their past and their links to the land, with many references to the English occupation; even his wife and children, two sons and a girl with the softest, long, red silken hair, he’d dressed in ancient clothes from the family chest, himself wearing a suit, remnant from a family funeral. Then his neighbours and the priest traipsed through, as though summoned by a hidden bell, each giving a passible imitation of an Irish rustic life of fifty years ago, reminiscing over old black and white photos, then tea and cakes were supplied: the refreshments.
They were in desperate poverty, and so grateful for the few coins they demanded for the entrance fee. “You see, Mary,” he turned to his wife, “I knew they’d be interested; it’s a living history museum. Now, you’ll be sure to write up about us, won’t you,” he pleaded. I have just found the note I made at the time, so belatedly I am keeping that promise: but to be factual, Ann has no recollection of this visit, so perhaps it was a dream I wrote down on waking.
