The Tyre in the Fire

Máirtín Ó Murchú lived with his mother,Bríd Josie,in Dooroy,about a mile from Clonbur.Their little house was built on a fork of the road.Carrowkeel to the right and Coalpark to the left.
Murchú's house became a meeting place for scorachs in the area.Young lads had no outlet for their energies at that time.There weren't any pastimes for penniless teenagers.So they would congregate in Murchús for a chat and were made welcome by Murchú and Bríd who were friendly old types.

When they were coming up from Clonbur they would usually jump into the little wood near the nurses house and drag a craobh with them to keep the fire going well up in Murchú's.
One night someone spotted an old tyre that Paddy Burke had taken off a lorry.Some smart boy figured it would make great firing material.They tried to cut it up with a bowsaw but to no avail.They attacked it with an axe but the tyre resisted all their efforts.Finally they said "feck it"and put the whole tyre into the fire.

In a short time the tyre began to splutter and burn and soon became a raging,roaring sheet of multicoloured flame.The kitchen got really hot and soon streams of yellow varnish were cascading down the mantelpiece and filthy rivulets of smoky blue paint were streaming down the dresser.
At this point everyone began to get frightened but couldn't think of anything constructive to relieve the situation.Poor old Bríd Josie was in the bedroom and they wondered could they get her out through the little window if the whole house went up in flames.

Two lads who had been to Clonbur stopped for a chat at the crossroads down on the main road and one of them saw sparks rising from Máirtín Ó Murchú's chimney.He remarked on this because the sparks were multicoloured and shooting high in the air on the gentle breeze.These boys were sure the house would be reduced to a pile of ashes.
But no! the house survived and the night of the burning tyre was a source of many a chat and laugh in the months to come.

When old Bríd died Máirtín lived on in that house alone until sad misfortune overtook him.One night there was a most ferocious storm and the gable end of the house came crashing down and killed poor Máirtín in his bed.
Go ndéanfaidh Dia trócaire ar a anam uasal.

All the scorachs who were there on the night of the blazing inferno are now gone ar shlí na fírinne and Paddy Burke's trucks are rusted and still.

Many of the present generation have never heard of Máirtín Ó Murchú or Bríd Josie and their little house has no stone on a stone.
The lush green grass covers all traces of their jolly little house where ghosts of former days still meet on their nightly vigil.