When I was in fourth year in school I wrote a project on “the big house” – Garryricken House in Kilkenny – for a competition run by the Kilkenny Archaeological Society. My grandmother, Bridget Luttrell, grew up in Garryricken House and we were regaled as children with its stories. My sister and I often ran through the fields to find this place of mystery, with its walled orchard, ballroom and majestic staircase.

When I look back on things now, some of the dates don’t exactly tally with the stories but that has never taken away from them. One of these stories in particular (and I don’t care if it is true or not) has really stuck with me.

The story went that a flying-column man was shot on the farm and my great grandfather had the body brought into the basement of the big house. This was to hide the body from the Black and Tans, who were searching for the rebels, until such time as a proper Catholic burial could be arranged for the man. Each night one of the children would sit with the body to ensure that the rats did not interfere with it.

But one night my grandmother fell asleep during her shift and awoke to find the face of this poor man in a bad state of disrepair.

With nothing else for it, and afraid of the reaction of her father, she took out her sewing kit, stitched the wound closed, turned his face to the side and hoped to avoid the cane. Days later the man was buried and my grandfather was none the wiser. This story validates why my grandmother, my mother and I all sew.

As children we stood on tables with wedding dresses billowing around us, arms in the air, afraid to move in case a pin would skewer us. Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to have been taught this craft and occasionally I am reminded by a kind comment: “I heard you made this”... “Well I started it, my mother really made it”.

I was invited to the Laois IFA Farm Family Committee meeting last week and we were discussing what they would like to see more of in Irish Country Living. Crafts were a definite request – needlework, patchwork, knitting or crochet. We are working on this and I hope to get a craft in the paper soon.

Borris Lace.

With this in mind, I went down to Borris House on Sunday last where the Borris Lacemakers meet. I had previously met one of the group, which now has over 20 regular members, at the Irish Countrywomens Association (ICA) stand at the Ploughing where they were showcasing some of the work that they have completed. This is a semi-lost skill and it is great to see it revived in Borris, where the craft originated and thereafter contributed to the area as a cottage industry during the famine years.

The relatively short distance from Borris to Tullow takes you to another great craft business, Johnson Tailors, who are undoubtedly one of very few traditional tailors remaining. You can read how they dressed the President and how a suit of theirs will last you for eight years on page 8-9. The pictures remind me of the huge heavy machine in my sewing room, operated now by an electric motor which replaced the foot pedal many years ago. My mother was given this machine following the death of its owner, The Tailor Hawe, who came to our house to fix clothes for the family. This was long before fast fashion.

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