Raggle Taggle Traveller

Chiseller: A slang term for a young child or toddler, particularly in Dublin. It can also imply someone who’s cheeky or mischievous.
Example: “That little chiseller’s been runnin’ around all day!” 

Knackers: A derogatory term often used to refer to Irish Travellers, though it’s also used more broadly as slang for someone perceived as rough or uncouth. It originally refers to individuals involved in the disposal of dead animals (knacker’s yard). It’s important to use this term with caution, as it can be offensive.

Traveller: Refers to members of the Irish Traveller community, a traditionally itinerant ethnic group with their own distinct culture, language (Shelta), and traditions. Travellers are skilled in trades such as horse dealing, metalwork, and crafts. They are recognized as a distinct ethnic minority in Ireland and the United Kingdom.

The Battle of Vinegar Hill (June 21, 1798) was a pivotal and final stronghold for Irish rebels during the Wexford uprising in the Irish Rebellion of 1798. Around 20,000 rebels and their families camped on the hill, but they were surrounded by 13,000 British troops and artillery. The British launched a massive assault, bombarding the rebels with overwhelming firepower.

The vastly outnumbered rebels were forced to retreat, suffering significant casualties. The battle’s defeat marked the beginning of the rebellion’s end in Wexford. British forces responded with brutal suppression, including mass executions and reprisals.

The Raggle Taggle Traveller

The old “vardo” creaked and groaned like an old man’s knees as it clattered down the battered cow path, the wheels gouging divots into the muck. A thick, damp mist lay heavy over the countryside—thicker than a pint of porter and just as stubborn—smudging the fields and hedgerows into some kind of half-dream. The air was full of the smell of wet clay, smoky turf, and the damp wood of the wagon itself—a smell that couldn’t be more Irish if it tried.

Paddy Turlough perched on the driver’s bench, hunched against the cold like a man who knew too well the bite of the road. His face was a map of furrows and stubble, his flat wool cap pulled low over grey-streaked hair. The coat on his back had seen more patches than a farmer’s field, but still, it wasn’t worth a curse against the mist that seeped into his very bones.

“Jaysus, Carlow,” he muttered under his breath as the piebald horse plodded along, ears drooping like it was sick of the world. “Haven’t clapped eyes on you in donkey’s years.” He wasn’t one for getting misty-eyed about places long left behind—sure, there wasn’t room for sentiment when you lived your life on the road. But Carlow wasn’t just any old town, was it? There were ghost Travellers there, waiting for him like uninvited guests at a wake.

Just up ahead, ambling along the path, was his old mate, Johnny waving his hands. Paddy stopped horse and asked, “Where’re you off to, Johnny?”

“Off?” Johnny said, throwing his hands up.  “Nowhere at all, Paddy. The axle on me wagon’s knackered. I was hopin’ you might lend a hand with it.”

“That axle’ll keep,” Paddy said with a grin. “I’m headin’ to Tully’s. Come on for a pint. Sure, I don’t like drinkin’ on me own, and us knackers ought to stick together. Could get rough.”

Johnny scratched the back of his neck, considering. “Sounds better than fixin’ that oul’ thing. You’ve your guitar in back, haven’t ya? Might make us a bit more popular.”

“It’s always in the back,” Paddy replied, flicking the reins.

The horse let out a loud snort, misting the cold air with its breath as they clattered over an old stone bridge. The sound of hooves echoed back at them, and Paddy’s thoughts wandered again, as they always did when the road stretched ahead. Carlow was just beyond the bend, but it was never just the destination for him, was it? It was the weight of what he dragged behind and the itch of not knowing what was up ahead.

By the time they rolled into town, Tully’s, with its red-painted front and yellow trim, stood out like a beacon—a sight for sore eyes, but what kind of reception they’d get inside was anyone’s guess. They tied the horse to a post outside, and the animal seemed happy enough to rest. 

Inside, the place was a madhouse, full of shouting, clinking glasses, and laughter. Paddy tipped his cap to a few lads, walked straight for the corner where the small stage stood, and strapped on his guitar. Without much ceremony, he struck up a rousing chorus of “The Wild Rover”, followed by “Whisky in the Jar” and then “The Croppy Boy”. By the time he finished, he figured they’d earned their pints and a bit of peace.

But sure enough, up staggered an old lad, face flushed red and voice wobbling. “What right have you to sing “The Croppy Boy”? Do ye even know the story, eh?” he bellowed. ‘They say they were called croppies because they had their hair cut short, but we know the truth. We were starvin’, we were. The only thing we could find to eat was the grain from the fields, and we filled our pockets with it. At Vinegar Hill, thousands of us were cut down—slaughtered like sheep. And from those graves came wheat, barley, and oats. From our deaths, life grew. D’ye know that?” He jabbed a shaking finger at me. 

“Were ye on our side, or were ye a sympathizer.”

Paddy sighed, rubbing his face. “I wasn’t even born when the Rebellion happened (1798), was I? But if I’d been alive, I’d have fought for Ireland, same as you. Though if I’d known how Travellers would be treated after, I might’ve thought twice.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Half the bar stood up, fists clenched, eyes blazing.

“So you’re defendin’ the ‘knackers’, are ye? Thievin’ ‘scuts’, the lot of ye, settin’ camp on land that’s not your own!”

Johnny muttered, “Ah, for feck’s sake.”

Like a storm rollin’ in, the lot of them came at Paddy and Johnny, slow at first, then all at once. The first casualty was Paddy’s guitar, smashed against a table. After that, the fists flew, and the whole bar erupted into a row fit to split the rafters.

Bruised, battered, and empty-handed, Paddy and Johnny crawled out the door, their pride as dented as their faces. Neither of them said a word as they slouched back to the wagon, except for Johnny, who muttered, “We didn’t even finish our pints.”

Paddy flicked the reins and steered them toward Scraggs Alley, where the crowd was quieter, and the drink flowed without trouble. They found a dark corner table, nursing their beers in silence.

After a while, Johnny spoke up. “You know, Paddy, you’re shite at pickin’ pubs.”

Paddy grunted, tipping his glass. “And you’re shite at fixin’ axles.” They clinked glasses, and the night rolled on, as nights on the road always did.

Early Days

I was born in a camp on the Cloonthua Road near Tuam, not far from town, in a spot the older Travellers called the Sally Bushes. Families used to set up their camps on both sides of the road, near the little river. It was a grand spot for pitching up, sure. I spent the first six years of me life livin’ in a barrel-top wagon, with the crackle of the fire outside and the sound of the river nearby.

But, it wasn’t long before the ‘cruelty men’ came sniffin’ about. That’s what we called the fellas from the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. They were the worst of their kind, and when they came for you, there was no arguin’ with them. They took me away from me family—pulled me from me mother’s arms—and stuck me in one of their bloody institutions. I was only a chiseller, and I ended up in St. Joseph’s Industrial School in Letterfrack, stuck out in the arse-end of nowhere, about fifty miles from the city.

These days, everyone’s heard the horrors about places like Letterfrack—the beatings, the torment, and the other things no one dares to name. It’s all come out now, hasn’t it? But back when I was a lad, sure, it was all swept under the rug. No one wanted to hear about it. The priests and the brothers had their hands on the reins of power, and we were left to rot in their care, so we were.

I’ve a bitterness in me belly that’s never gone away—not for what they did to just me, but to all of us. Irish society turned its back on us Travelers and on the kids they threw into those hellholes. The lads in Letterfrack were the poorest of the poor, or what they called ‘illegitimate’. Like we weren’t even proper people, just dirt on their shoes. Us Traveller kids, though, we were a different kettle of fish. I reckon they were half-afraid of us. Sure, when we got a bit older and stopped takin’ their shite, they didn’t know what to do with us.

Now, they’d try to tell us we were ‘lucky’. Lucky! Because we got three meals a day, they said. I’ll tell ya straight, there was no luck in it at all. What good’s a bit of food when they’re battering you black and blue, or doin’ worse to you in the dead of night?

Some of them brothers are still alive, livin’ their quiet little lives in Galway. And do you know what? We’re told to steer clear of them. Steer clear of them! As if we’re the dangerous ones. And maybe we are, because God forgive me, I’d have a go at one of them if I got the chance. One of the worst of the lot has himself a family now, a wife and kids, and he’s working at a church in town, all smiles and playin’ the holy man. I can’t bring meself to walk into that church. I’d lose me head, sure I would. What he did to us—and now they call him a good citizen? Jaysus, it’s enough to make your blood boil.