Raggle Taggle Traveller: 2

Part Two

Banjaxed: an Irish slang term meaning broken, ruined, or completely messed up. It can refer to physical objects, situations, or even people. It’s a colorful way to say something is well and truly busted!

Graft: Hard Work (Common Usage in Ireland and the UK):
Meaning: Honest, hard, and diligent work.
Example: It took a lot of graft to get the farm up and running again.

Piebald: Having patches of black and white or of other colors; parti-colored. Synonyms: mottled, dappled.

Jacks: Slang for the boy’s or men’s toilet or bathroom in Ireland.
Example: “Hold on, I need to nip to the jacks before we leave.”

Side-Eye: Skeptical or Judgmental Look (Informal Slang):Meaning: A sideways glance that conveys suspicion, disapproval, or judgment without words.

Tinker: Historically, a tinker referred to an itinerant tradesperson, often part of the Traveller community, who repaired pots, pans, and other household items.

Vardo: A vardo is a traditional wagon or caravan used by Irish Travellers or Romani people as a mobile home. These wagons are often ornately decorated and were originally horse-drawn. They served as both living spaces and symbols of culture, reflecting the craftsmanship and artistic traditions of the Traveller or Romani communities.Origin: The word comes from the Romani language, where vardo means “cart” or “wagon.”

The Raggle Taggle Traveller

After a long day’s graft, no matter if the sun was splittin’ the stones or the frost was cuttin’ to the bone, I’d curl up under my wagon to catch some shut-eye. animals’d often come to me as I lay down for the night under my wagon. Sometimes they’d crawl under my blanket to keep warm. Other nights, I’d wake to find my clothes stuck fast to the ground, frozen solid like a stone. But sure, I’d just laugh it off, another tale for the road.

I’m a tinker by trade, so I am. Fixer o’ pots, master o’ tin and solder. I’d build a little clay dam, melt the solder down, and patch up a pot with quicksilver finesse. If it wasn’t a patch job, it was a good hammerin’ back into shape.

But tinkerin’ and peddlin’ weren’t all that I’m about. On my rounds, I’d find myself roped into all sorts—sometimes for a few extra bob, sometimes just ‘cause it needed doin’. There was the time I shot a rabid dog, another time I delivered a wee bairn into this world. I put out fires, pulled rotten teeth, and gave the odd man a haircut with my clippers. Once, I sold five gallons of hooch for a backwoods bootlegger named Potts. And there was the day I fished a drowned child from a creek—God rest the poor soul. There was nothing I wouldn’t do. 

I have a pine case strapped to my wagon, stained to look like fine walnut, though it was faker than a politician’s promises. Inside, I kept gold-plated earrings and pendants with stones that looked grand but were worth next to nothing. When the country wives saw these trinkets, their eyes lit up like the fires in their hearths—especially when their fellas were out choppin’ trees or ploughin’ the back fields.

Spring and fall are my best seasons. Fall, ‘cause folks are stockin’ up for the long, cold winter. Spring, ‘cause the roads have been snowed in for weeks, and by the time I rolled up, they were mad for supplies.

To Joseph, an odd sort livin’ way out in the sticks, I brought tobacco, needles, thread, twine, tea, and coffee. In return, Joseph handed me two rough-lookin’ carvings of animals and a fox fur, head still on, that stank worse than a week-old corpse. The carvings? One looked like a deer, the other… well, maybe a woodchuck or a groundhog. Hard to tell.

To get to Joseph’s place, I took the old Military Road, the one built by the Brits after the ‘98 Rebellion. From Rathfarnham in Dublin, I wind my way south through the Wicklow Mountains to Aughavannagh. I’d branch off to Enniskerry and make stops at the old barracks in Glencree, Laragh, and Glenmalure. Every bump of the wagon’s wheels on them rough roads told the tale of myself making my life between the settled and the wild, carving out a livin’ with my wits and a bit o’ charm.

I’m makin’ good time on the road to the Puck Fair in Killorglin when who should I bump into but my old mate Johnny, ploddin’ along with his wagon.

“I knew I’d find you on the road, Johnny,” I said, tipping me hat. “But I thought you’d be bound for the Buttevant Horse Fair. What’re you hawkin’ this time, and what’s catchin’ your eye?”

Johnny grinned, the lines of the road etched on his face. “Ah, sure, I’ve a bit of jewelry I picked up in a Carlow pawnshop. The settings were banjaxed, but I fixed ‘em up good as new. The broker couldn’t be bothered to mend ‘em himself, so he sets ‘em aside for me. In return, I pass him repaired bits or whatever catches his fancy. Handy enough arrangement.”

“And what’ll you be buyin’?” Paddy asked, giving the reins a flick.

“Oh, you know me,” Johnny said. “I’ll be after horses, sure. Some o’ these farmers don’t know what they’ve got with their colts, and I’m hopin’ to turn a tidy profit. Trade ‘em up for something better along the way. And yourself?”

Paddy chuckled. “I had a bit o’ luck, so I did. Found some agate on the banks of the Barrow and the Slaney. Lovely stones, they are. I’m hopin’ to polish ‘em up and maybe set ‘em before I hit the fair. I even picked up some in the quarries of the Killeshin Hills.”

I adjusted my hat, squinting into the sunlight. “Like yourself, I’ll be lookin’ for horses to trade, maybe shift ‘em along the road. Farmers always need a good horse for the plough or the cart. And if I’m lucky, I might pick up a bit o’ plantin’ work along the way. Truth be told, Johnny, I’m short of cash.”

Johnny nodded. “Aye, aren’t we all?”

Just then, I tilted me head, my ears catching something on the breeze. “Johnny, listen! Music, crowds cheerin’, and the lowin’ of cows. We’re close, lad!”

The colored pennants and ribbons danced in the wind as the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread wafted toward us. It was the kind of welcome only a fair could give. We pulled our wagons into a spot and set about settin’ up our wares.I rubbed my hands together. “First thing’s first—I’m famished. And after that, I’ll see if I can trade for a guitar or borrow one.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “And what’ll you be doin’ with a guitar, eh?”

“Ah, Johnny,” Paddy said, slapping him on the back. “If I can find one, how about you and me give the stage a go? Sing a tune or two, maybe dance a jig if there’s a bit of room. Pass the hat around, and we might walk away with a few shillings in our pocket.”

Johnny laughed. “Sure, why not? After a few swigs of whiskey or poteen I’ve nothin’ to lose but my pride—and that’s been gone long enough. Let’s give it a lash!”

With that, we set about our business, the hum of the fair around ua promising good craic, hard trade, and maybe a few unexpected adventures along the way. 

“Ah, Paddy, would ya get a whiff of that? Sausages fryin’, rashers sizzlin’, and roasties cookin’ away. Jaysus, I’ll make finer music with a belly full, won’t you? Sure, I even see a bit of cinder toffee on oat biscuits, just like me oul’ ma used to bake. A few bites of that and I’ll be singin’ like a blackbird. After we fill our faces, I’ll be havin’ a look for a guitar. There’s a fella in one of the booths back there tryin’ to play, but sweet Christ, it’s makin’ my ears bleed. I’m sure I’ve somethin’ he’d want more than that guitar. Wish me luck, lad.”

As I wander back toward the booth, the sound of a tin whistle cut through the air, bright and lively. It was playin’ ‘The Kerry Polka,’ and just as that finished, it switched to ‘The Kesh Jig.’ It set me feet tappin’, sure enough, and for a moment I could’ve sworn I was back at the fair in Carlow, dancin’ in the dust like I did when I was a young buck.

“Ah, hello there, young fella,” I said, comin’ up to him with a smile as wide as Galway Bay. “That’s a mighty fine guitar you’ve got there.” What could he say to that, eh? I was on me best behavior, butterin’ him up like a slice of fresh bread. Sure enough, I sat meself down, took the guitar from him gentle-like, and started strummin’. First, I gave them “The Boys of Wexford,” followed by “Father Murphy”, and finished it with “Kelly, the Boy from Killanne.” By the time I was done, the tears were flowin’ all around—from the crowd and, Jaysus, from meself too.

After I’d tugged at all the heartstrings I could, I took him back to me wagon and opened it up for him to have a browse. Turns out the poor eejit was sweet on a girl and was hopin’ to impress her. Well, I dug around and showed him some fine necklaces, brooches, and rings, bits and pieces I’d picked up along the way. His eyes lit up like a fire under a pot, and before I knew it, we’d struck a deal. He was delighted with the shiny trinkets, and I was delighted with the guitar. Sure, I thought to meself, That went down nicely. If only it’d stayed that way.

I climbed up onto the stage, grinnin’ like a fool, and just as I was about to play a tune, a deep voice boomed from the crowd:
“That’s me son’s guitar! You’ve cheated him! It’s worth more than the cheap paste jewelry you gave him. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! I’m takin’ it back to me boy—he’s the one who deserves it!”

Before I had time to think, the big man was marchin’ up to the stage. I knew then I was in trouble, so with the guitar in hand, I did what any smart man would do—I legged it. I jumped off the stage and bolted like me arse was on fire, the big fella tearin’ after me like a bull who’d spotted red.

Lucky for me, Johnny saw the whole thing unfold. And being the loyal rogue that he is, he stuck out his foot just as the big man ran past, sendin’ him flyin’ face-first into the dust. The sound of him hittin’ the ground was sweeter than a fiddle tune.

We didn’t hang about for long after that. Johnny and I legged it back to the wagon, hearts poundin’, and poured ourselves a couple of slugs of the good whiskey to settle the nerves. We sat there for a bit, laughin’ and shakin’ our heads at the whole carry-on.

We hadn’t traded a thing that day but the guitar, but sure, wasn’t it eventful enough? The two of us agreed it was time to hit the road. It was safer that way. No doubt the big man had a few local friends who’d love to take a swing at a couple of tinkers, and we weren’t stickin’ around to find out.

I stirred awake before the sun and gave Johnny a rough shake.“Rise up, ya lazy tinker! The horse fair’s waitin’, and we’ve got work to do!”

Johnny groaned, pulling the blanket over his head. “Ah, Jaysus, Paddy, leave off! Me head’s like a drum someone’s been batterin’ with hammers. Feels like I’ve been kicked by the bloody horse we’re off to replace.”

As the wagon rumbled down the road, Johnny winced with every bump and clutched his head like a man on his last legs.

“Will ya quit yer moanin’, Johnny?” Paddy barked. “I’ve a plan. We’ll stop into Dick Mack’s for a bit of breakfast. They say there’s always a bit of talk there, and I’d like to keep me ears open. There’s no better place to find out which horse dealers to trust and who’s got the best nags. I need a strong horse to pull the wagon—me old lad’s not long for this work, I reckon. I’ll soon be sendin’ him off to greener pastures.”

We pulled our wagons into town and tethered the horses near Dick Mack’s, a favorite spot for fairgoers.

Johnny rubbed his bleary eyes and sighed.“Alright, Paddy, I’m up for a bite, but keep it simple. Me stomach’s still doin’ somersaults. I’ll take a bowl of porridge and maybe a Guinness to settle meself. I couldn’t face a fry-up this early.”

I gave him a withering look. “Guinness, is it? Typical knacker cure for a sore head. Have ya ever tried raw eggs in whiskey or milk? Does wonders for the head.”

Johnny gagged dramatically. “The thought alone is enough to turn me stomach inside out. I’ll stick with the porridge, thanks very much.”

“Suit yourself,” said I, grinning. “I’m goin’ for the full fry-up—rashers, sausages, black pudding, white pudding, fried eggs, potato farls, and soda bread slathered in butter. Cook it all in bacon fat and I’m in heaven. It’s about time for a proper feed—sick to death of the scraps I’ve been eatin’ out of the wagon since Carlow.”

“Are we goin’ in or what?” Johnny asked, dragging his feet.

“Lead the way, lad,” said Paddy.

Inside Dick Mack’s, the air was thick with chatter, clinking cups of strong tea, and the smell of frying bacon. me and Johnny slid into a corner table and tuned our ears to the talk around us. Farmers, traders, and horse buyers were everywhere, sharing stories and passing judgment on who could be trusted.

“I’d never touch a horse from the O’Sullivans,” said a burly man nearby. “The whole lot of ‘em are as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. I’ve heard they drug the horses to keep ‘em lookin’ healthy before the fair. By the time the drugs wear off, the poor beast is as good as lame.”

“Same goes for the Moriartys,” chimed in his table mate. “Wouldn’t buy a goat off that lot, let alone a horse.”

Johnny gave me a knowing nod. “You see, Paddy? This is why we listen. A bit of talk can save us from a bad deal.”

After breakfast, we wandered down to the fields outside town, where the horses were tethered before being paraded through the streets. I stopped in my tracks and nudged Johnny. “Look there—what do you think of that one? He’s a fine-lookin’ beast.”

“Alright,” Johnny said, scratching his head. “Let’s go slow, though. Don’t want to spook him.”

We approached the horse cautiously, speaking softly as I reached out a hand. “Easy now, boy. Let’s have a look at ya.” 

Johnny gently lifted the horse’s lip to check the incisors. “Teeth look good. Permanent ones are in place, broad, straight, and with minimal wear. Puts him somewhere between six and ten years, I’d say. Prime condition for work. Misaligned teeth would cause trouble eating, but these are spot-on. I can tell this fella’s been well cared for. 

“How are his hooves, Paddy?

“Hooves are sound. Poor hooves are a curse for workhorses.” I ran my hands down the horse’s legs, checking for heat or swelling in the joints. “No swelling, no scars, and not a sign of lameness. Let’s see him move, Johnny. Get him walkin’ and trottin’ on flat ground.”

Johnny led the horse forward, watching closely as it moved. The strides were smooth and even, with no signs of stiffness or limping. I crossed my arms and grinned. “We might’ve found ourselves a winner, Johnny. Let’s find the owner and see what he’s askin’. If it’s more than £25, we’re walkin’ away. But if it’s fair, I’ll have a vet check him just in case.”

The owner must’ve been watching us, because he walked over just as Johnny brought the horse to a stop. “Fine day, gentlemen. I’m Sean O’Shey I see you’ve taken a shine to my horse. Beautiful animal, wouldn’t you say? What’s your offer?” I rubbed my chin, playing it cool. “He’s a fine beast, no doubt. I’d put him at £20. Anything more than that and I’d say you were takin’ us for fools.”

Seamus laughed, shaking his head. “£20? This horse is in his prime, lads—strong, healthy, and trained to pull carts and wagons for long distances. He’s worth every penny of £25.”

“£22,” I said firmly. “And not a penny more. Take it or leave it.”

Sean narrowed his eyes, but a grin crept onto his face. “Alright, you’re a hard man, Paddy Turlough but £22 it is. Let’s head to my farm and settle the deal.”

“No need for that,”  I replied.  “I’ve the money with me, and a good, honest handshake is enough to seal the deal.”

Seamus handed over the reins with a nod. “Fair play to you, Paddy Turlough. You’ve got yourself a great horse. Take care of him, and he’ll serve you well.”

I shook his hand and grinned. “Thank you, Seamus. A fair deal for a fine horse. Come on, “Johnny, let’s get him back to the wagon and raise a drop to our new four-legged pal,”  I said with a grin.

“Right enough, Paddy. But have you thought of a name? A horse without a name’s like a lad without a jacket—lost and out of place.”

“You’ve the right of it, Johnny,” I replied, rubbing my chin. “And it has to be a proper name, one with a bit of weight behind it. That’s why I’m thinking ‘Major.’ He’s a solid worker, no messin’ or fooling about with this one. Serious as a funeral, he is. I thought about callin’ him ‘General,’ but then I reckoned I couldn’t have him outrankin’ me, could I? No, no. ‘Major’ suits him just fine, and I’ll be the General givin’ the orders. A grand team, the two of us!”

“So, Paddy, what’s the craic now? You’ve got yourself a new horse, a new guitar—what’s next on the list?”

“Well, Johnny, I was thinkin’ we might head for the Tralee Horse and Pony Fair. It’s late April, which gives us plenty of time to sell a bit of tack and other odds and ends along the way. Plus, it’ll give Major some time to get used to my way of doin’ things. And,” I added with a sly grin, “I wouldn’t mind spendin’ some time in The Bar—got some grand memories from there, I do.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “Oh, aye? And I take it they don’t bar Travellers there or lay into us like some of the places we’ve had to scarper from?”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head, Johnny. It’s a good spot. A man can get a fine meal, sip a pint of Guinness or maybe a wee dram of Jameson, and swap a few tall tales with the locals. No trouble, just good company. Who knows, we might even belt out a song or two if the mood’s right.”

“Well, thank the stars for that,” Johnny said, rubbing his chin. “I’m fair sick of gettin’ chucked out of pubs before I’ve had a fry-up or even a pint. I wouldn’t mind a peaceful sit-down for a change.”

The two of us rolled into Tralee just as the sun dipped behind the hills, casting long shadows across the streets. We parked our wagon alongside a row of other Traveller wagons, unhitched Major, and gave him a quick brush before setting off on foot to the bar.

The place was already buzzing when we stepped inside, the warm glow of the fire in the hearth and the hum of conversation wrapping around us like a well-worn coat. The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke, whiskey, and fried onions. Wooden beams ran across the low ceiling, and the bar itself gleamed from years of care and polish. We ordered our meal—me going for the full fry-up while Johnny settled for a bowl of stew—and two pints of Guinness to wash it down. The barman, a friendly-looking fella with a shock of red hair and a twinkle in his eye, brought our order over with a nod.

“Ah, this is grand,” Johnny said, stretching out in his chair. “This is how it should always be. No fightin’, no hassle. Just food, drink, and a bit of craic.”

As we waited for our meal, we couldn’t help but overhear the lively stories and lies being shared at the nearby tables.

A man sitting behind us leaned forward, his voice low but animated. “I tell ye, lads, this one’s true as the Bible. Do ye remember that white mare from last year’s fair? The one with the black star on her forehead? Word is, a fella from Listowel bought her, trained her for the races, and now she’s after winnin’ three big ones! Made himself a small fortune, so he has. But here’s the thing—they say she’s not an ordinary horse. Some swear she’s a fairy horse, blessed by the Good People. Mark my words, one of these days she’ll vanish back into the hills as quick as she came.”

Another voice chimed in from the same table. “Aye, and I’ve heard the same tale—except it wasn’t Listowel, it was a fella from Cork, and it wasn’t a fairy horse, it was a demon horse! They said the first time a man tried to ride her, she flung him clean off and broke his neck. The poor devil. Then, just as quick, the mare bolted and disappeared, leavin’ a trail of smoke behind her like she’d galloped back into Hell itself!”

At another table, a man raised his pint and let out a laugh. “Ah, ye’ve heard all that nonsense, but I’ll give ye somethin’ better—never trust a horse from the O’Sullivans! Last year, they sold a stallion lookin’ like the best worker ye’ve ever seen. But the poor thing was drugged to the gills, so it was. By the time the stuff wore off, the horse was so weak it could barely stand. Had a cough like an auld man with a pipe. I wouldn’t touch their lot if ye paid me to.”

“Too right,” another man said. “But fairs aren’t just for horses, lads. Matchmakin’ happens here too, and that’s where the real fun is. Last year, I saw a fella go down on one knee in the square to propose to his girl. Right romantic, ye’d think, until her da shouts out from the crowd, ‘Not him! His family owes me money from last Christmas!’ The poor eejit turned redder than a boiled lobster. She said yes anyway, but the two of ‘em had to leg it out of there like a pair of thieves.”

Meanwhile, from across the room, another voice caught our attention. “Did ye see the Traveller lad with the fiddle this morning? They say he’s got the music of the fairies in his hands. When he played the ‘Kesh Jig’ outside the square, the whole crowd just stopped to listen. I swear, that fiddle of his could make a man forget his troubles. If he’s in here tonight, we’ll have to get him to play a tune. Mark my words, ye won’t hear music like that anywhere else.”

The evening rolled on with laughing, toasting, and lie-telling, the smoke from pipes and cigars growing so thick you’d need a knife to cut through it. Me and Johnny leaned back in our chairs, sipping our pints and soaking in the atmosphere. “This is the life, Johnny,” I said with a sigh. “It is, Paddy,” Johnny agreed. “And not a single fist thrown. That’s a rare thing for us, isn’t it?”

We left the bar late, our steps unsteady but our spirits high. Back at the wagon, we rolled out a couple of blankets and lay down on the ground beneath the stars, drifting off to sleep almost instantly.