How times change.

In 1920, Irish rebel leader Michael Collins ordered the murder of police inspector Swanzy in Lisburn, Northern Ireland as they received intelligence that he was passing information regarding natonalists over to the army and, in particular, the Black and Tans.

Swanzy was shot dead outside church on August 22nd 1920. My grandmother was preganant with my dad but, outside the church were five of her kids who all witnessed the murder. One ran home telling her that she had seen the police chief being killed and his “puddings” were all spilling out.

Riots followed and many catholic houses were ransacked or burnt out as well as over thirty bars in the small town. Most catholics were sacked and could only return to work of any kind if they signed an allegiance to the crown. The whole time became famously known as the Lisburn burnings.

My grandad lived on Canal Street. The canal ran by the road end and every house but his was ransacked and the belongings thrown into the canal. As they reached his house someone shouted “George Campbell lives there and he fought in the war” The house was spared. A day or two later they were paid a visit by the local IRA. They said they knew why his home was untouched but there were rumblings from others and he had better be careful. He had, of course, also lost his job.

The same day, he saw an advert for Mill workers in Vierzon Forges in France in the local press. He took himself off to France, not speaking any French, got a job, came back and, Grandma, Granddad and six kids all moved to France.

There are a legion of stories that followed that would fill a book but the best one for me involves my dad. There is a famous hotel in Corneville in Normandy, where they had moved to (they moved many times) by the time he was five or six. This would be around 1926. My dad and a friend used to fish trout from the two local rivers and sell them to the chef at the hotel.

One day they were outside the hotel and a car pulled up. They were lucky if they saw one car a day. My dad heard the couple talking and realised they were English. The man got out of the car and asked my dad, in broken French, for directions. My dad answered him (he was of course a fluent french speaker) in English, with an Irish accent. The man just stood and stared back in astonishment, not understanding why some scruffy french street urchin had spoken to him in English. He scratched his head and drove off with a bewildered look on his face.

This generation is the last of its kind. When the last one is gone, they will be sorely missed