Willie McHugh
People were his forte. He was happiest immersed amongst them. The more the merrier. And that’s how he departed. Walking down the aisle of St John’s Church, The Neale with Margaret by his side. This was the encore of a walk they took sixty years earlier in the same church when they set out together on their journey through life. He’d have a mighty story to tell St Peter about how the choir were singing ‘I saw the light’ to give him a lovely send-off that afternoon. It was typical of Des. If ever a man was destined for going out the same way he came in it was surely him. Smiling and joking right to the end. From first to last whistle he got full value from the game of life.
His funeral brought the town to a standstill. They queued late into the night under a dark November sky. They came from the four points of the compass to pay their final respects. He was known in every nook and cranny. He was part of an Ireland and the old fair days that are now confined to the annals of folklore. And more importantly he was an integral cog in the wheels the same Ireland turned on long before the cheques, the subsidies and the bailouts came from Europe.
Because without the McGreals, the Clarkes, the Concannons, the Cruises, the Webbs, John Petty, the Conroys, the Hessions and other buyers there would not have been any fairs worth talking about. It was early dark mornings and piping hot mugs of tea at Peter McHugh’s canteen. Cattle corralled along streets and approach roads to towns where the dealing took place. Driving hard bargains, hand claps, dividing and luck money. Hard work and long hours came as part of the territory. Round trips deep in the night to southern towns like Abbeyfeale or Kilmallock in cold trucks to buy calves. No wonder they became legends of the road.
And nobody could regale a gathering about those times better than Des when he plied them with lovely anecdotes of bygone days. Little gems from the town and villages of Connacht and beyond where his journey took him. He was a raconteur par excellence. He had all the traits of a good storyteller. The impish grin and the twinkle in the eye. And most yarns spun were told against himself. Tales about cows with good memories, taking a leaf out of a book and so on.
He loved the simple things in life. The game of cards and the chats between the deals. Going astray in the count was a common occurrence because Des had another tale to tell. He loved time on the lake with the grandchildren. What matter if the fishing was bad and the trout of Lough Mask refused to take the bait. For Des it was always more than landing a good catch. Showing a younger generation the value of whiling away a few idle hours was more important. To him there was no generation gap. He was at ease in any gathering. Full of humour and living for the moment because tomorrow was another day.
The fairs are over now but as long as cattle are bought and sold the spirit of Des McGreal and others who travelled the highways and byways to buy and sell, wheel and deal and strike up a bargain will live on.
Margaret will miss him and feel the pain his sudden parting leaves. Ever the lady her gentle and endearing manner was the perfect antidote to Des’s jizz and joie de verve. They complemented each other so well.
He walked her down the aisle once more before he went. Two smiling faces said it all. And they surrounded by family and friends who stepped life’s journey with them. That’s how Des McGreal would have wanted it. As happy endings go this was surely it.
“To Meath of the pastures,
From wet hills by the sea,
Through Leitrim and Longford
Go my cattle and me.”
