Ballinasloe

by Ian Sherry of Rostrevor, N. Ireland
photos by Stasia Sherry

I’ve never been much of a traveller and in recent years I’ve been doing even less. Covid in one way has been a blessing – an excuse for me to go nowhere at all. So whatever came over me last weekend I decided to go (where in my terms is the far ends of the earth) to Ballinasloe.

I have in a way close links with Ballinasloe. In the 1950’s Travellers (from there) still camped on wide verges along the side of the road. Often we’d buy a young horse from them, and always utensils made from tin. Cans to carry tea to the field or water from the well, and mugs to scoop buttermilk from the churn. Over the years I’ve bought foals from my neighbour Davy Caulfield; Davy buys scores of them each year at the ‘Great Fair.’ The cob I have now I picked from Davy’s herd.

It’s a daunting 150 cross country miles for me to get to Ballinasloe horse fair; however (with Stasia’s support) early in the morning of Monday 3rd October off we went. A lovely calm overcast morning through pastoral Ireland – ‘Beef to the heels like a Mullingar heifer’ – an old fashioned quip I was reminded of as I approached that town. Then there’s the ancient settlement of Athlone. Geographically central to the island, its dark stone presence straddles the River Shannon.

A further 30 miles takes us to Ballinasloe. Here, the horse Napoleon rode in the battle of Austerlitz in 1805 was bought; and ‘Leapy Lad,’ one of the three Irish horses on the United States team competing at The Royal Dublin Horse Show in 1986 had been (six years before) a purchase at the fair.

I had expected this to be one of the quieter days in the ten day celebration over the two weekends. And it was to begin with; a gentle uphill stroll along a comfortably crowded street lined with stalls. Leading to the lifesized statue of a man leading a horse that highlights the centre of the town. Further along the main street becomes increasingly busy with stalls on both sides. Showmen auctioneering everything from a bridle to a britchen, riding boots to collar and hems. Even this early in the day there was a ceili* in the pubs. A group of Guards* (there were a lot of Guards) directed me to the horses in a field – adjacent to a fun fare and parades of Travellers motorhomes – still central to the town.

Confronted with ‘The Fair Green’ I was astonished. All the old men I had known in my youth were there; and so were their horses. Men who had ploughed steep stony fields on Mournes mountain farms; who had with the same horses jarveyed with a jaunting car. These men were there. Released from the tedium of Heaven to have a day at the fair. It was all true.

Everything I had ever heard: the atmosphere, the variety of horses, the women and men, the lorrys and pens of foals. Foals with the makings of great shiltys* of about fourteen hands. It brought me back to Hilltown Fair; Warrenpoint Fair; gatherings where we hill farmers sold a dozen lambs, a bullock or two and occasionally a horse.

But this was on a different scale. Truly international, where top quality young horses were bought and exported abroad. I never pretended to be anything but a tourist yet I was surprised how many recognised me as one of their own. Come to think of it, there were no tourists. The unwary could easily get knocked down by a horse flashed*: bare backed; under saddle or in a cart.

Back on the street to the bustle of amusements; stalls and auctions; I wanted to get some postcards. Better than that I wanted them to be cards of the fair and posted from Ballinasloe. I wanted to record our holiday to friends who send us cards from Ibiza, Rome, Florida and other locations abroad. I asked a Guard. He told me there was no Festival Office and to his knowledge no cards. Only then did I realize that with the overwhelming street market many of the shops were closed.

A girl in a photography business at the bottom of the town was kind enough to suggest we make our own postcard. She duly printed out a few photographs from ones just took. Then not to be outdone the girls in the Post Office conjured up a few envelopes for us and ‘for fear that wasn’t enough’ franked the stamp on the envelope with the Ballinasloe mark. God knows when they’ll arrive in America but our friend in Dublin got his record of our ‘holiday’ the next day.

On the way back down to the carpark there was to be one last treat for me. A tinsmith with a hammer and last – his ancient craft now art, conjuring familiar artefacts; cans and mugs and such – on stage, at Ballinasloe.

*Shilty: A horse pleasing to the eye.
*Guard: Police.
*Ceili: Music and song.
*Flashed: Paraded with vigour.