She beckoned, rough and grey, like an old Belfast matriarch with goodness in her heart. Sparkling stones winking in the early morning sunlight, dark ash swirling, magically transformed into microscopic clouds of colours. Uneven, unpaved, unfinished but a safe haven for young feet in school shoes.                                                                                                          The Cinder Path, memories of childhood, positioned at the topmost end of Andersonstown Park West. A tiny portion as yet uncompleted, but a portion that was destined to become a milestone in the lives of the children in this West Belfast estate.

It led to what is now known as Kennedy Way but a lifetime ago was a warren of muddy paths, grass and weeds. Over the Cinder Path to school at five years old, over the Cinder Path, twice dressed in flowing gowns of pristine whiteness, Holy Communion and Confirmation, depicting childhood purity and innocence. Excited, glowing faces, chattering and giggling, preening and pirouetting, no interest whatsoever in their destination, only in their appearance and fashion. The boys were not so appreciative of their new restrictive garments, sulking and kicking at the cinder path, scuffed shoes and sullen looks. The only time I did not traverse the cinder path beautifully dressed in white was my wedding. Perhaps an omen for future disaster. Indeed!

The path was the children’s recreation area, unfortunately too close to one grumpy neighbour who complained of the noise and banished the revellers from her doorstep. But revenge is sweet and every Halloween saw justice done. Crunch! Crunch! Tiny feet approached the witch’s house, fireworks placed on her porch, then sounds of scattering scamps.

But time defeats us and plodding progress prepares us for the sanitised world we now live in. As I stand sadly gazing at the bland concrete slabs covering my cinder path thoughts of my father surface and I remember him. Bearing an uncanny resemblance to Christopher Lee, he was continually referred to as The Count by his motley, friendly crew of fellow bus employees. But proudly striding beside him down the cinder path caused me no fear, just a sense of security and safety. My idol, my hero, my father.

Before I leave my memories behind and the cinder path vanishes into the forgetfulness of old age, let me share with you a poignant, funny moment. Lagging behind our chaperoning mothers on one particular morning, my friend Esther and I were in no hurry to reach the school gates. Our minders gossiped and gabbled in front of us. Suddeny Mrs McGivern commenced to swivelling her hips like Elvis, rotating her rump in imitation of a comical belly dancer, every part of her jiggling with some sort of discomfort. To our utter amazement a large white garment slowly peeked from beneath the lady’s frock, sliding swiftly to the ground, a hastily unfurled flag of surrender. Her underwear had come adrift, causing no undue concern or embarrassment to herself. She simply stepped out of them, stuck them in her bag and the pair continued on their merry way, giggling like schoolgirls.

Those were the days of freedom and fun, dirty faces, hands and grubby clothes. No instant wipes to sterilise a child, just the Crunch! Crunch! of The Cinder Path at the topmost end of Andersonstown Park West.

 

 

I HOPE THAT SOME PEOPLE WILL REMEMBER THE CINDER PATH FROM CHILDHOOD.  IT IS NOT THERE NOW SADLY BUT THE MEMORIES OF IT WILL NEVER FADE.