Every Boxing Day when we called up around Armagh direction
with relatives in Keady, Markethill, Caledon, Tynan, Killylea we entered a
strange border territory that was almost foreign to us. Down long endless lanes to farms we
found doors flung open and hoards of relatives would fill rooms eager to learn
your news and share theirs. The yearly
pilgrimage coincided with the Killylea hunt on Boxing Day and I was fascinated
with the huge steaming horses prancing around Main Street. My eldest brother felt differently and
referred to them as big smelly animals that could fart from both ends. Years passed and my attitude hardened. I disliked these fancy folk on their steeds
who took perverse pleasure from hunting wildlife to death. Deep inside, I have to confess it was their
‘Hurrah Henry’ accents, crisp riding outfits and tilt of their heads that got
up my nose even more than their hunting proclivities. To me they represented
the landed gentry, rich folk that were the polar opposite to my ‘poor pig
farming’ background. In contrast to the
hunting fraternity, my relatives like Uncle Archie were genuinely impressive;
he intrigued us children, by having a conversation with us each year consisting
solely of farts. Auntie Sally fed her
grandchildren with huge lambing coke bottles with a teat on the end and the babies were all huge beaming Buddas on her lap. Auntie
Eve winded her babies by holding their bare bottoms to the fiery range and we
were intrigued by the engine ‘put, put’ sound they made. Their earthy good humour had us in stitches of
laughter.
The welcome at each farm remained as warm as ever each year
and it always shocked me how the bloodline of family breaks down all social
barriers. Every Boxing Day when we
travelled down from Dungiven, high in the northern Sperrins, I felt embraced by
a clan I hardly knew but one that claimed me as their own. Chunky chickens (a name for particularly fat
birds) were smuggled into our boot along with boxes of biscuits and
sweets. It was akin to a family hunting
party on a raid. There were strict
rules that needed to be abided by. If
we called into a warm kitchen bathed in heat from a massive Aga and failed to
consume a good tea – ham, salad, beetroot with lashings of hot tea, followed by
freshly baked cakes my father would be scolded solemnly at the door as we left.
“Sure, this doesn't count as a visit, son! You hardly had a crumb. Now, mind you, it wasn't a proper call at
all. You'll have to call again and have
a real tea.”
The scolding was intense and serious with deep
disappointment that the social niceties had not been adhered to. My father would bow his head and admit he’d
failed his hosts and duly promise to return for an extra call before next
Boxing Day. Given that we called at
half a dozen farmhouses on Boxing Day our appetites were phenomenal. You couldn't get out off a meal by saying
that Auntie Annie had already fed you to the gills. That wouldn't do at all.
So, we learned to develop appetites that consumed all that was presented
on plates. My brothers and I became
skilled at clearing table after table.
Only when our bellies ached, bloated beyond bearing did we call a
halt. Dreading the terrible scolding
our father would endure, if we were rude enough to leave with only a cup of tea
in us. It was part of our cultural
identity to eat meal after meal with gusto.
If only eating had been an Olympic sport we three would have been
contenders. I was, years later, at a
Christmas ‘work do’ and had consumed a huge plateful of food. My colleague next to me was feeling
indisposed and could not touch their equally enormous pile of turkey and
stuffing etc. It was second nature to
immediately consume their dinner and desert straight after my own. Their appalled expression said it all. Training and endurance, I called it. Sure, hadn’t we as a family eaten our way
across Co Armagh for decades? A
powerful appetite is the only proper response to a generous host. Sure, any kith or kin of mine knows that!
