In my time in secondary school, I had some pure sadists teaching me. Perhaps they had intended to work as educators for a short time and the hoped-for move to something else hadn’t come off or perhaps they just didn’t care. In slight mitigation, it was a time before the realisation that “one size didn’t fit all”, but, even so, encouragement tended to be in short supply.

“Razor” Ryan was among the worst. “A village somewhere is being deprived of its idiot,” was his sole comment after a particularly poor mock exam, while the extent of the guidance doled out to one friend of mine was: “If you were any thicker, you’d be set.”

Razor had a rival in Mr Young, who we reckoned was named ironically. When Brian Mooney asked him how he would go about getting enough points for commerce in UCD, he looked witheringly at him and said, “Don’t ask me, for I can’t put in what God left out.”

My own propensity for smart remarks meant I drew fire on occasion, too.

“I’ve cheese at home that’s more mature than you,” I was told by Young after another interjection too many and, even on the day of my final Leaving Cert exam, Razor couldn’t summon some warmth.

“I hear you’re heading to Edinburgh for college,” he said, leading me to expect his best wishes. “Well, I’m sure that Ireland’s loss will also be Scotland’s loss,” he said before turning and walking off. It was all a far cry from primary school – perhaps we were spoiled by the care and attention of Séamus Doheny.

The Master

It’s coming up on the first anniversary of his death and it can’t be far off 20 years since he retired as principal of the local national school. Yet still when concerns are raised regarding the education of the parish’s children, it’s quite common to hear the comment: “This wouldn’t have happened in the Master’s time.”

He wasn’t a native, hailing from the other end of the county, but he landed here straight out of St Pat’s in Drumcondra and stayed for the guts of 60 years. He was ahead of his time; he saw his vocation as developing people rather than lecturing them and his example benefitted the school, community and, of course, the GAA club.

It should be noted that the teams he managed were rarely successful but that was down to him giving game time to all of the players on a panel rather than focusing on silverware. The good players would be fine, he reasoned, but it was important to keep as many as possible for the future.

“An U12 medal is nice,” he’d say, “but it won’t cut the pitches or sit on a committee.”

Life skills

It was the same in an education sense. He knew that not every child who passed through the school was academically minded but he was willing to stay on after hours for what he termed “life skills” classes for children in fifth and sixth.

“A fish asked to climb a tree will soon begin to think he or she is stupid,” was a favoured catchphrase, while he was fond of somewhat cryptic advice that made us think but also made us appreciate being spoken to like adults.

The day after the club had lost a county final – in part due to star player Dessie O’Shea being sent off for retaliating to rough treatment – the Master said to us: “Fighting fire with fire can be a valid approach in some situations, but it wouldn’t do much for your job prospects as a fireman or firewoman.”

That gender-balance wasn’t an affectation, either. For instance, he preferred to use the word “altra” rather than “banaltra” as the Irish for nurse, telling us that there was nothing wrong with a man becoming one.

Similarly, when a local restaurant was getting a new cooker, he secured the old one for the school and we always enjoyed the break from the books to be allowed to collectively bake brown bread or cook spaghetti bolognese or a fish pie. He would hold a draw to see who got to take the produce home and it wasn’t until years later I realised that these draws were always won by those on the less-affluent end of the scale.

As he saw it, rules could be bent for the common good. Way before sensory gardens were a thing, he had applied to the Department of Education for a grant for a fountain, having read that it would help children to relax. He was rebuffed, of course, but when the new school building was being constructed, he asked for a grant for paint and then used that money for a fountain – elevated, to ward off ambitious swimmers – and a wildflower garden.

And that’s why the internal walls of the school are made of unpainted breeze blocks.