The Stick Of Sweet Rock. Maide Carraige Milis

When I see sticks of rock nowadays, I am immediately transported back into a long-lost part of my life. My taste buds are instantly activated, and the memory section of my cranial department goes into overdrive with thoughts and memories of rock.

 I remember images of holiday times of my youth, day trips to Ballybunion and relations coming home from England and America. The English folk always seemed to come with Blackpool Rock while the American cousins brought candy cane to us when they visited. I can clearly remember the unbridled excitement of tearing off the wrapping and revealing the glorious spearmint flavoured stick of boiled sugar. I recall the dire warnings from my mother about damaging my teeth as we busily tried to bury our molars into the rock-hard piece of confectionery.

My memory tape plays on and I am now at Puck Fair in Killorglin in the glorious month of August. We crossed over the Laune Bridge and parked our bikes in Foleys yard where they were chained and padlocked and safe for the day. As we were emerging our nostrils picked up the scent of fish and chips and crubeens or pig’s feet. It was traditional to eat them and who was I to break the custom. We gorged on the greasy messy fat laden pigs’ trotters and having devoured them we plodded on to the first chip wagon where we ate round two of greasy lunch, all washed down with a bottle of Nash’s red lemonade followed by the bar of Cadbury’s chocolate for dessert. Then we left it to our overworked digestive system to look after that mixture.

Now that the gourmet dining was finished and appetites were satisfied, we headed up the hill to view King Puck who was crowned king and safely ensconced in his regal perch above the citizens of Killorglin, where he reigned for three days. There were hurdy gurdies, hucksters de gach sort, three card trick people, horse dealers, manure, and smells everywhere. You never in all your days saw such an array of loose sweets, rocks, loose biscuits on sale everywhere. They were filled into paper tóisíns [cone shaped paper containers]and handled by people who had never sanitised or washed their hands or wore plastic gloves in their lives. We ate them all and survived to tell the tale. On the way home we had to buy the souvenir rock from puck.

And then there was the annual pilgrimage to Knock Shrine. Pilgrims travelled by bus and train from all over the country to the shrine. I remember my father coming home exhausted after the trip. They recited constant rosaries, with each decade interspersed by an exhortation to Mary followed by passionate singing of hymns in praise of Mary like Queen of the May. Then there was the mass in the shrine followed by the Stations of the cross and benediction. The day wasn’t complete without a trip to the stalls, purchasing miraculous medals, scapulars, small bottles of holy water, rosary beads and the stick of rock from Knock for the children. All the religious paraphernalia were blessed, but I am not too sure about the blessed rock from Knock.

Years later when I was teaching in Arklow town there was one Tommy from Knock teaching there, and we shared digs. Tommy left school every Friday evening when there was a major pilgrimage group in Knock because he had a stall there. He travelled back early Monday morning and always looked very tired and dishevelled after his weekend of selling religious objects to the throngs of people who flocked from north, south, east, and west looking for some miraculous cure. I remember getting a lift down to school on one wet Monday morning from Tommy. He told me to clear the front seat. It was full of rosary beads, scapulars, medals and on the floor were two boxes of Knock Rock which he said were his best sellers as they had a special dental blessing. I believed him but thousands would not.

So, whether its spearmint, Neapolitan, peppermint, or green and gold sticks of boiled sugar stickiness you’re into let’s all move on and eat our rock if you can still buy them. Rock on.