Raggle Taggle Traveller 5

   Part Five 

Definition: Romanichals; Romany gypsies trace their ancestry back to northern India.

The Appleby Horse Fair awaited, and with it, the hope of findin’ answers to me family’s mysteries. We thanked the judge for our freedom and asked his advice concerning me parents. He led us to the local registry office and introduced us to a professional genealogist who owed the judge a favor and agreed to help for free. I was overjoyed.

“Ellie, I want ye to meet Paddy Turlough,” says the judge, his voice carryin’ the kind of weight that can turn a bad day around. “He’s been parted from his folks near all his life, and he’s desperate to track ‘em down. I’ll let him fill ye in on the details.”

“Much obliged, Judge Thompson,” she says, turnin’ to me with a warm smile. “Hello, Paddy. I’m Dr. Eleanor Winslow, but ye can call me Ellie. Have a seat, lad, and tell me what ye know about yer folks.”

“Ah, thank ye kindly, Ellie,” says I, settlin’ meself. “Where do I even start?” I rub me chin, gatherin’ me thoughts. “Me family’s from Carlow Town. It’s a long and twisted tale, but here goes—”

Before I could launch in, Ellie’s brows lifted. “Paddy, sorry for interruptin’, but I’m from Wicklow Town meself. At one time, we were near neighbors! Small world, eh?”

I chuckled, noddin’. “Well now, isn’t that somethin’? Maybe fate had a hand in this.”

I took a deep breath and got into it.

“See, it all started with me grandda—Paddy Turlough, same as meself. A horseman through and through. One day, he traded a fine-lookin’ beast to Eoghan McHugh, but a month later, the horse dropped dead.

“Now, Eoghan swore blind, me grandda had offloaded a sick nag on him, demandin’ his money back. But Grandda wasn’t havin’ it—stood by his word, sayin’ the horse was sound when he sold it. And just like that, a feud was born—one that’s been burnin’ hotter than a tinker’s forge ever since.

“Fast forward a generation, and me da—also Paddy Turlough—went and fell head over boots for Eileen McHugh, Eoghan’s own daughter. She was just as smitten, and before long, they were closer than two hounds in a winter den. Too close, as it turned out—Eileen ended up in the family way.

“Eoghan lost the run of himself, swore he’d kill me da for ‘defilin’ his daughter,’ as he put it. And as if that wasn’t enough, her hot-headed brother, Tommy McHugh, took it upon himself to settle the score at the Mohill Horse Fair.

“Tommy came at me da all fists and fury. But me da, he wasn’t lookin’ for trouble—just defended himself, landed a fair hit. Problem was, Tommy fell bad, cracked his skull on a rock, and that was the end of him.

“After that, Eoghan was out for blood—me da’s and mine. Since he lost a son, he figured me da should lose one too. And here I am, the lad he wanted gone.

“Me folks had no choice—they fled the country, left me behind with me Auntie Maire. And that was the last I ever saw of ‘em.

“Word has it they settled in England, but beyond that, I’m graspin’ at straws.”

Ellie let out a low whistle, shakin’ her head. “Jaysus, Paddy, that’s a tale and a half. But don’t be losin’ heart. I’ve got a few tricks up me sleeve. There’s a rake of places we can start—church records, local archives, oral histories, horse registries, just to name a few.

“Most of me best tools are back at me other office, Winslow Heritage Consultancy. Write this down: 3 Rosewood Lane, Kendal, Cumbria. Now, to get there, ye take the main road west toward Kendal—’bout a 40-minute drive. Once ye reach Kendal, keep an eye out for Rosewood Lane, a quiet cobblestone street near the town center. Me office is a red-brick buildin’ with a brass plaque over the door and window boxes spillin’ over with flowers. If ye get turned ‘round, just ask anyone—I’m well known in Kendal.”

She gave me a firm nod. “Leave it with me, lad. Give me a ring in a week, and I’ll tell ye what I’ve found.”

 

The Appleby Horse Fair

The fair was everythin’ we’d imagined and more. The streets, riverbanks, and fields were teemin’ with horses, wagons, and tents. The River Eden was central to the fair, with horses led into the water for washin’ and showin’ off their strength and beauty. The air buzzed with music, storytelling, and the clatter of trades bein’ made.

Johnny and I were goin’ about our business—Johnny repairin’ a harness and me touchin’ up the paint on Esmeralda. It caught the eye of a couple of English Travelers who stopped by for a chat.

“Good mornin’ to ye gents. Me name’s Charlie Boswell, and this here is me mate Alfie Gaskin. We were just admirin’ yer work. Would ye mind chattin’ about it with us?”

“Certainly, gents,” I said, noddin’. “I’m Paddy Turlough, and this here is Johnny O’Reilly. We’re from Carlow, Ireland. Folks tell us our accents give us away, though back home we’re told we’ve none at all.”

“Would ye care for a taste of Irish whiskey? Talk always flows better with a wee dram. Of course, too many drams can lead to all sorts of trouble.”

Charlie grinned. “That’s mighty kind of ye, Paddy. I’ve never had the chance to taste Irish whiskey, though I’ve gotten meself into enough trouble with English brands.”

I pulled out a couple of bottles of Jameson and poured four shots into glasses. “Now taste that, gents. It’s the nectar of the gods. Let’s toast to new friends.”

Charlie and Alfie raised their glasses and nodded their approval. “Magnificent, Paddy. I’m ashamed to say our English distilleries are nearly nonexistent. But I’ve got a bottle of Johnnie Walker from Scotland. Would ye like a taste?”

“Why not?” Johnny said, with a wink. “Pour us a shot.”

There was a lot of swirlin’ and sippin’, and we agreed it wasn’t bad for scotch. But as for loyalty, I stuck with me Jameson.

“Whiskey is whiskey, after all,” I said, “but I’ll take Irish brands every time.”

Meeting the Romanichals

“Charlie, Johnny and I’d be interested in meetin’ some of yer friends.”

“Sure thing. Follow me. They’re not far off.”

It wasn’t long before we reached the Romanichal wagons. One of the lads was shoein’ a horse, and we heard the familiar clinks of tinkerin’. Others were workin’ on woven baskets or carvin’ wooden spoons. It wasn’t much different from what our Irish Travellers would be doin’.

Charlie called out, “Freddie, I’ve got a couple of Irish friends for ye to meet. This is Paddy Turlough and Johnny O’Reilly. Gents, this is Freddie Lee.”

“Freddie, I’ve been told yer a master farrier.”

“Aye,” Freddie said, wipin’ his hands on his apron. “That’s what they call me. I’ve been about horses me whole life. Truth be told, I prefer horses to people. They’re like brothers and sisters to me, and I’m the same to them.”

I grinned. “I’m the same, Freddie. I’m sure we’ll have plenty to talk about.”

Freddie pointed toward a fire. “That’s me wife, Delilah, over there. She’s cookin’ up somethin’ for lunch. Ye’re welcome to join us.”

“Thanks, Freddie,” I said. “Johnny and I could use a bite to eat.”

Later, we met more of the Romanichals, and at each camp, I asked about me parents. Some recalled meetin’ Turloughs but couldn’t place where. So, the hunt continues.

Johnny and I brought Esmeralda closer to the group and got to work. I played me guitar, and soon enough, other musicians joined in until we had a proper orchestra with plenty of singers. I went through me repertoire and even picked up a few new tunes along the way. Johnny and I were havin’ a grand time.

Charlie and Alfie came up to us. “How about joinin’ us at The Crown and Cushion Inn? We can have a proper chinwag there. Don’t worry about yer wagon. There’s plenty here to keep an eye on it, and they’ll make sure Major is fed, watered, and shaded.”

“What do ye say, Johnny? Are ye up for a few drinks at the local pub?”

Johnny grinned. “When have I ever said no to a pub invitation?”

The Crown and Cushion Inn

The Crown and Cushion Inn was a whitewashed buildin’ with black trim around the windows. Above the door hung a swingin’ sign of a red and gold crown sittin’ atop a blue cushion. From the windows, ye could see the River Eden flowin’ by.

Once seated, Alfie said, “This isn’t the fanciest place in town, but it suits us. No hassles, decent folk, good service. What more could ye ask for?”

“Seems grand, Alfie,” I said, lookin’ about. “Reminds me of some of the pubs back home in Carlow.”

“Aye, just like home,” added Johnny.

“Paddy,” said Alfie, “I’ve been askin’ around about yer da. Freddie here has somethin’ to share.”

Freddie leaned forward. “From what I hear, there’s a long-standin’ feud between the Turloughs and the McHughs. Is that right?”

“Aye, what have ye heard?”

Freddie nodded solemnly. “The McHughs are powerful here in England, too. Rumor has it there was a hundred-pound reward offered for yer da. A Romanichal mate of mine worked in a stable and spoke to an Irishman there who seemed to know too much about Travellers for comfort. When the name McHugh came up, the man went pale. He didn’t call himself Turlough, but my mate thinks he’s connected. If I find out more, I’ll let ye know.”

I sat in shock. Me father, livin’ in hiding, with a price on his head. I thought to meself, What name does me father go by now?

To find me parents Johnny and I hatched a plan to pose as buyers lookin’ for a horse. That way, we’d get a chance to snoop around and chat with the hands. There wasn’t much to go on, but I reckoned stables were a good start. Freddie offered to make a list of stables, and for the ones he didn’t know, he had mates who’d fill in the gaps. First on the list was Shamrock Hill Stables, run by Micheal O’Malley. The man was dead keen to show off his stock.

The days dragged, but when the week was up, I didn’t waste a second—I rang Ellie the first chance I got. The second she answered, I could hear the excitement in her voice.

“Paddy, get yerself to Kendal! I’ve got news, and ye’ll want to hear it in person.”

Didn’t need tellin’ twice. I hitched up Major, rolled out Esmeralda, and made for Kendal.

When I stepped through Ellie’s door, she was grinnin’ like a cat with a fishbone. “Paddy, this was no easy task,” she says, wavin’ a stack of papers. “Yer da wasn’t usin’ his real name, but I dug deep, and I found ‘im.”

Me breath caught in me throat. “Ye found me folks?”

She nodded, her eyes twinklin’. “Aye, and here’s how.

“First, I uncovered a marriage certificate—yer da, under a false name, weddin’ Eileen McHugh in Mohill, right before they disappeared. The witnesses? A few Traveller folk who remembered the McHugh feud. That told me they were still connected to the horse world.

“Then, I checked horse registries—and wouldn’t ye know, yer da’s alias popped up in connection with Appleby’s Horse Fair from over a decade ago. That narrowed me search to a small radius around Appleby.

“See, I specialize in trackin’ Travellers and displaced families, and I know the tricks they use to stay under the radar. So, I started visitin’ Traveller camps—askin’ about a fella good with horses, good with leatherwork, who might’ve gone by a different name.

“Took some time, but I hit paydirt. Yer da made an impression. Folk remembered him, not just for his leatherwork, but the way he handled horses—like he could talk to ‘em.

“So I dug deeper. Checked stables near and far—Murthwaite Green Trekking Centre, Stonetrail Riding Centre, Houghton Hall, and even stretched as far as Cumbrian Heavy Horses in Millom—50 miles out.

“And that’s where I got me first break. A stable hand there recalled a fella whose story matched yours, but the man had moved on. One of his old mates still had ties to him—sent me straight to the Appleby Riding School.

“It’s right in Appleby, a fine place for horse ridin’ lessons and a bit of countryside trekkin’. When I got there, I found a senior stable hand—tough as nails, keepin’ his cards close to his chest. But when I mentioned the McHughs, his face went white as a sheet.

“I pressed him, tellin’ him I was workin’ for Paddy Turlough’s son. And that’s when he broke.

“Turns out, he’s yer da.

“The man’s been hidin’ all these years, afraid the McHughs were still after him. But the second I told him his son was lookin’ for him, somethin’ in his eyes changed.

“I asked him straight: ‘Are ye ready to meet yer son?’

“And Paddy, he didn’t hesitate. He said:

Aye!

I drove to the address Ellie had given me, and ther was me da sitting on the front steps looking just like me

 

Shamrock Hill Stables

Johnny and I arrived in Esmeralda at a farm with a painted wooden sign hangin’ from a wrought-iron bracket. It read: Shamrock Hill Stables. The stable yard was tidy, with stone buildings surroundin’ it.

As we pulled up, Micheal himself came out to greet us. “Ah, there ye are, lads. Irish accents, eh? What county d’ye hail from?”

Johnny grinned. “Carlow, both town and county.”

“Well now, ye’ve come a fair way from home. Here for the Appleby Horse Show, are ye?

“That’s right,” I said. “And a fine show it is.”

Micheal chuckled. “So, what’s it ye’re after? A ridin’ horse or a workhorse?”

“A workhorse,” said Johnny, jerkin’ his thumb toward our wagon. “Big enough to pull Esmeralda there.”

Micheal nodded, eyein’ the wagon. “That’s a beauty, alright. A masterpiece. If any of me customers ask about wagons, I’ll send ‘em your way.”

Johnny beamed. “That’s all Paddy’s work. He’s a stickler for the details.”

 

Explor’n the Stables

The tack room smelled like leather and liniment, a familiar scent. Johnny smiled as he took it in. The stalls were neat, the horses groomed to a shine. One chestnut mare caught Johnny’s eye. He murmured soft words as he checked her teeth and hooves.

“She’s in good shape,” he said. “But I’d want to watch her gait to see her temperament.”

Micheal grinned. “Ye know yer horses, Johnny. If ye or Paddy ever need a job, it’s yours.”

Johnny tipped his cap. “Thanks, but we’ve our own work to mind. Say, Michael, any McHughs about?”

Micheal’s face darkened. “Not that I know. Why d’ye ask?”

“Bad blood,” I muttered. “We steer clear if we can help it.”