Garmoyle Street

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A view down Garmoyle Street today

looking towards the dock gates

Some members of the Gault family from Garmoyle Street

On the street where I lived.

By Julie Gault

Garmoyle Street runs through the history of my family like a bloodline, much as it did as a High Street through the waterfront village that was Sailortown. Its existence was its importance in both cases.

It was the main artery, the thoroughfare, the shopping centre and the heart-line of an entire district. A highway that ferried seamen to ships, dockers to boats and millworkers to the daily grind. But, it was also a pupil’s pavement to the adventure of Earl Street School and a path of pilgrimage for massgoers to St Joseph’s, a highway to market for the stampede of pigs, cattle and sheep and the road to big city stardom when the circus came to town. Yes, Garmoyle Street, named after the basin in Belfast Lough, was arguably the oldest and best known of the Sailortown streets. It fetched and carried the hustle and bustle of the area and, thank God, some of it at least remains to kindle the memories of better times.

From 1912, when my grandfather Hugh Gault, later the first Lord Mayor of Sailortown, set up house with wife Nellie at number “52”, this street would be home to the Gaults for more than 60 years.

It mixture of the residential, commercial and industrial splashed colour across the city’s most exotic quarter and provided our place at the heart of the dockland hamlet.

The sight and sound of Hugh Gault’s horses, stabled in the back yard of “50”, Rosie the piebald was the children’s favourite, fascinated the folk of the inner city but the grand shop window of his huxter store would stay in memories for years to come.

Hugh and Nellie, the sister of Dockers’ Union man Dan Loughran, were blessed with 16 children of their own, some of whom would die tragically in infancy, others who would look sadly over their shoulders as they left Sailortown forever.

Those, who remained, included my uncles, Jimmy, Billy and Davey, and of course, my father, also Hugh but always known as “Shorty”,

Jimmy, who worked at the dock, died before the age of fifty after contracting pneumonia after an accident at work but his family remained some of the stalwarts of New Dock Street. Uncle Billy, referred to in the family as Pigeon-Billy because of his love for and success with racing pigeons, lived at “88” Corporation Street until his move to Rathcoole and remains one of the most steadfast of the congregation of St Joseph’s.

Meanwhile “Big Davey” became the first working class lad to achieve a Master’s ticket before making a new life as the superintendent of the San Francisco waterfront.

“Shorty” eventually married and moved house, just a few doors, to number “42” and the second chapter saw wife Bella bear him 11 children. All but one, baby David who died at childbirth, would tread the familiar paths to St Joseph’s chapel and Earl Street School. Shorty spent nearly 60 years as a boatman at the dock, living a hard-working life dictated by the tides.

Our house at number “42” was right beside Peter Maguire’s pub on the corner of Fleet Street and our neighbours in the next two houses were both McAllisters. They were not related to each other but friendship can be as strong as family.

By this time Granda’s old house had become Hugh Burns’ travel agency but Fisher’s bar remained, as it had for donkey’s years, at the junction of Ship Street and Garmoyle Street.

My earliest memories are of narrow pavements that hosted games of hopscotch and skipping and the waste ground, later the Esso garage, where “wee houses” were created from stones and mothers’ floor brushes swept away the dust of the day. Babby dishes of broken glass were our dowries in these imaginary homes and even the weeds were arranged as makeshift gardens. Wee schools occupied our spare time and a cow-walloping stick, courtesy of Jimmy Hastie, ensured all the discipline of the classroom.

Waste ground was a stupid name for that piece of land, not an inch was wasted by our vivid imaginings, and even under snow its slight incline became a toboggan run for our homemade sledges.

The street was black with people, some of them black, most of them a variety of colours sailing under the flags of a fleet of nations. The sparking clogs of Dutchmen and the singsong conversations of the coolies, but, even among strangers, there was no fear. Local men would gather on the corners every day to yarn and sleg and even sing, and their voices spoke of home. Their watchful eyes were a comfort to every child.

Saturday nights brought the tin bath and the present of a packet of Tayto crisps, the one with the blue bag, as the week was washed away and we prepared for Sunday Mass. Our early to bed left my mother, uncomplaining, with yet another batch of clothes to wash and dry over the fireguard.

Market days brought the Garmoyle Street chaos of livestock and the ever present manure. Oh what flowers we could have grown if we had had gardens. Christmas brought dollies for me and my sisters and wooden toys for the boys made by my father. Every day meant the trips to the shop, either Granny O’Rawe’s for soup veg or Mrs Martin’s or Minnie Thompson’s. Granny O’Rawe would appear with a machete in hand, but it was only to halve the free apple she would give me.

The characters linger still. The fighters who made a boxing square of our “waste ground, the drunks who would sing in a strangled choir, Mickey Rogers with his rendition of “Nellie Dean”, Molly Seaton with her air of mystery.

Garmoyle Street saw their procession from one weekend to the next but, each May, the Blessed Virgin would bless our street as she was carried shoulder-high on her tour of Sailortown. She floated on a carpet of flowers and a sea of devotion and her intercession was asked and received. She is revered to this day and her walk with God through our streets continues to this day.

Television cameras made a bee-line for the “waste ground” when a Queen Bee attracted thousands of others to form strange moving mural at the pebble-dashed gable wall and I had my photograph taken with World boxing Champion Sonny Liston when he visited Mr Gerry McAllister in Dock Street.

The accessories were many, from the blue confirmation dress that I paraded behind our statue to the first pair of high-heels that clip-clopped all the way from Dolcis in one High Street to our own High Street at the dock.

I wish I could walk that yellow brick road again. A street of dreams, excitement and adventures that gave a child its first steps and its lasting treasures.

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A day in Garmoyle Street

I once dreamed of a day in Garmoyle St.

And the wind whipping in from the dock

We were playing at being married

To the chimes of the Townhall Clock

You were dressed like a golden dancer

And the sun made a band for your hair

In a Sailortown Summer of laughter

That tomorrow would help us to share.

When we met by St Joseph’s chapel

I could tell from your first hello

That the fire in your eyes was forever

And I would follow wherever you’d go

With a skip you were up like Nelson

Down North Thomas and back New Andrew’s

Showing a clean pair of heels to the Alley

In a pair of new back to school shoes

But too soon your were gone with the twilight

When a voice called from house “42”

And alone by Maguire’s with my memories

I watched darkness fall over the view

Then by chance more than 30 years later

A call took you straight to my side

And we met not a mile from our playground

Where the seagulls had skipped on the tide.

And your eyes had the fire I’d remembered

And your voice was as soft as ice cream

And I realised that day in Garmoyle Street

Was the start of our own special dream.

Mrs Nellie Baker and a neighbour outside the family home in Garmoyle St.

A MEMORY OF GARMOYLE STREET

by Sean Baker

Well here I am back in Garmoyle St after being away for almost 20 years my god what have they done they’ve stripped it to the bone, all in the name of progress this desecration has been done to a once great community who were born, lived their lives and passed away in this beautiful area. I know most people would have said it was a slum but it was our slum we could have rebuilt it just like most of the other places in Belfast have successfully done but the men with money decided that we were of no importance and didn’t belong so they scattered us to the four corners of the city and the world.

There are some people who have a lot to answer for as they sold us down the river, local politicians, business barons, local clergy and supposed to be Sailortown people who for their own selfish gain took the money and ran, but the worm has turned they are being investigated and will be found out and the people of Sailortown will know the truth once and for all.

Ah as I look along the street the sight that hits you is all the redevelopment that has taken place, the ugly buildings that have taken the place of the terraced houses that were the hub of Sailortown and the motorway that cut straight through its heart, maybe someday we will get a radical city planner that will see the devastation that was done here and make amends for the sins of the city fathers (DINOSAURS) of the past and knock down these white elephants and rebuild our community.

You try squeezing your eyes together and look at the three remaining houses and the Stella Maris and believe nothing has changed and then the memories come flooding back. Sailortown was known as the Village to a lot of the older generation then Garmoyle St would have been the main street. I remember first thing in the morning the Horns going of and as if by magic the street would come alive, the hustle and bustle would start, men and women hurrying of in every direction to get to work, fetching the morning papers or just of to mass, what was really amazing is that everybody seemed to know each other and always had time for a chat or some scandal mongering.

Then the barking of Rebel Mc Veigh would disturb your thoughts I really don’t know what age he was at least 300 years that’s what it seemed like he was always around, you’d see him riding on the back of motorbikes he even joined the navy and travelled abroad. Big Alec another feature of this street, you miss this gentle giant gone but not forgotten.

Well I lived at 23 with a few of my family, there was the the head of our clan granny Rosie Gorman, Marryanne Dodds, Agnes Gorman Nellie Baker my mum, Johnny Dodds, Sammy Dodds,then there was Joe , Liam, Sammy, Maura, Patricia, Paul, myself and of course my dad Sam. We even had a cockle town guy living with us Paddy O Rourke a great guy even for a blow in, hope your keeping an eye on us down here Roko, there was also a few cousins thrown in just for good luck, like I said it was just a few, I think that’s why most of the men went to sea to make room for the next generation although my uncle Johnny took it a bit too far he headed of to Australia to get a bit of leg room. If your reading this uncle John say hello to all the family out their in Melbourne,

Next door there was the Goodalls, then the Hillocks and the Donnelly’s the other side was the Mulldoons and the Mc Veighs who were beside O Rourkes pub.They say that John O Rourke was one of the best publicans around well I can’t vouch for that to us kids he was just a grumpy oul git.

As you will discover it wasn’t a very big street mostly large buildings J P Corrys and the like and the Esso garage a real life saver to our football matches when the ball burst, no going out and buying a new one they must have been repaired at least 20 times with the red hot poker the water barrel and pump.Across the road was Magees house between Jimmy Lenards barber shop and the Stella Maris I know there were other buildings before that namely Rita Waters shop the gateway where pigs were kept and the Majestic bar but I can only tell you what I remember some older residents can fill in the gaps for you. Towards Whitla St you had the Gaults and the Mc Allisters and at the other end you had the Mc Culloughs and Thomas’s shop along with Pat Kings which acted as our local supermarket and then of course there was the famous Granny O Rawes an Aladdin's cave to me for every time I got sent for the spuds or turnips there was always a treat in store some apples or goosegabs even some dulce I can still smell the fruit and vegetables, yes those were the days.

There were some very shifty looking characters that loitered around this street but I suppose this was mainly due to the fact that there were so many pubs dotted along this highway a pub in every corner as they say and some in between as well. From O Rourkes to the Dufferin Arms then there was Bennys(later to be destroyed by a bomb with tragic circumstances may they rest in peace)next was Peter Maguires then on down to the London House (Harry Morgans) ,the Majestic was gone by this time so you went to the Bunch Of Grapes (Liam Mc Mahons) and then over to the MAGIC BAR which was to become my watering hole in years to come, and where the first streaker took of his clothes namely big Meatball god what a sight he put us of our drinks all of thirty seconds. Beside the Magic the was one of the great mysteries of Garmoyle street an entry with four houses there is a great debate going on as to what name it was known by we used to call it Little's entry but I have met an old woman who lived there and she says the name was Garmoyle Court so I’m sticking to this until somebody proves me different.

Some places I forgot about like Hugh Burns, the vinegar store and McKee's bookies which is now Eastwood's and the debris where we had hours of fun or so it seemed at the time, that’s where I had my first puff of a fag with big Gerry Mc Veigh, we were about ten or eleven at the time I coughed my ring up then, still am as a matter of fact.

You would look up the street and see the endless procession of horse and carts making their way with their goods to and from the docks or heading for the nearest café with all the horses heads deep in their nosebags and the drivers wolfing down a huge Ulster fry. No matter how hard we tried, whooping and shouting and slaps on the rear we could never get those beasts to budge an inch they never even took their heads out of the bags.

But the one thing you always looked forward to was the cows and sheep that came along our street, we would walk along behind them with our sticks herding them down to the boat and just hoping one would break free or go up someone’s hall then it was pandemonium, you’d hear them screaming all over Sailortown. The real pleasure was when the drovers got to know and trust you and let you lead the cattle down the street, boy were we proud, thinking we were Rowdy Yates of Rawhide.

“May” was also another very important date in our calendar ,that’s when the whole parish got decorated for the procession to Our Lady, whose statue was carried around the streets by the dockers and followed by the whole of Sailortown and many more, we even had Goanese sailors who marched proudly with us. St Peters Brass band used to lead us around sadly today they don’t seem to be able to accommodate us.

Then your eyes start to clear again and your back in reality to look angrily at the concrete jungle they have replaced our village with dear old SAILORTOWN may God forgive them for I can’t.

Sean Baker