Local history with Monica McGill: The air boomed and the ground rumbled as the Mill chimney fell

It was a balmy, sunny afternoon. I strolled with my baby in her buggy down Tower Road, Clondalkin.  People were coming together below at the corner of Nangor Road.

Inquisitive, I asked someone going faster than me in the same direction, “What’s going on?”  “The chimney!” was all I heard. The chimney?

As I approached Nangor Road, my gaze was pulled to the left. People were standing silently along the boundary wall of what had been Clondalkin Paper Mill. Sadly, the Mill was now mostly flattened.

What were the people looking at? In the distance only the skeletons of a few large sheds remained.

The tall red-brick chimney stood alone, the last entire bastion of what had been Clondalkin’s main local industry.

Like a giant, old, redwood tree it was, its branches amputated. Majestic and straight, rising into the blue, clear, sky.  As strong as the day it was built, brick upon brick so many years ago.

There’s something significant about a crowd of people standing, mostly silent, all looking towards the one thing.

Some whispered, their heads inclined towards each other, catching each word. I found a vacant spot along the wall.  Beside me, a man with a camera.

Finally, I saw workmen stack lengths of timber on top of crumpled paper in piles around the chimney’s base. I saw them sprinkling liquid on the piles.

Then one guy lit the paper in each pile in turn, as slowly and carefully as the server lights the candles before Mass. From the lit paper, wisps of smoke arose from insignificant flames. Workmen carefully placed more timber here and there, or added more crumpled paper.  This paper, had it been made in the Mill?

There was a familiar crackle, as you’d hear from the fire in the hearth at home. The first of the timbers caught light. The crowd exhaled a small, despairing “Oh!” in unison.  People were standing 3-deep behind us now.  Someone said “Ah Jaysus!” in disgust.  Another asked “Weren’t they meant to leave it standing?” A third beyond answered “Yeah, but who of them gives a s**t?

Those b*****ds do what they like, rules or no rules.”

I was glad my baby was asleep.  General assent from the onlookers. Much tight-lipped nodding of heads, shared meaningful glances.  Whispers about brown envelopes, who-you-know, skullduggery.

The timber against the chimney had caught fire now.

Now the smoke billowed, drifting off towards the Canal.  The man beside me was fiddling with his camera, checking the dials, focusing the lens.

He leaned towards me, to get a better angle for his photo.  “Sorry,” he apologised, taking his eye from the view-finder, looking at me. “Not at all,” said I, “do you want to change places?”

“No thanks,” he replied, “I just want to get….”.  He lent across me, using the wall to steady the camera he was holding.

He put his eye to the view-finder. I stood back, and found I could observe him without causing offence.

He clicked the shutter and rolled the camera’s mechanism to the next frame.

The tiny lever made a zizz sound as he rolled the film on.  He was a bulky man; they’d say “Well built” down the country.

Much taller than me, wide shoulders, with a military air and gentlemanly demeanour.  Soft spoken.

Grey hair, longish but still cut short. A beard and moustache, all neatly trimmed.  He kept photographing the goings-on around the chimney.  Click.  Zizz.  Click.  Zizz.  He resumed his original place.  “Thanks,” he said.

“Hi Joe,” someone behind us said, “Sad day.”  The man with the camera looked around, to see who’d addressed him.  “Yes,” he said, “sad.  A pity to see it go.”  “Ah Joe,” a woman pleaded, “Is there nothing can be done?”

Joe shrugged his shoulders, shook his head. It was a fait accompli,  too late.

He had tears in his eyes, or maybe it was the wisps of smoke affecting them.

Hundreds of people, standing together, feeling useless and angry. Nothing to do but watch. And remember.

Now, more timber was brought to the pyre around the chimney.

Workmen added more and more as their Gaffer instructed.  Some workmen smoked cigarettes, off to one side.

They seemed ashamed of themselves, their heads bowed, looking at the ground.  Incapable of anything except to follow instructions.

Nobody in the crowd talked to them. Didn’t they knew one another? Clondalkin’s a small village.

Everyone knows everyone else – or someone related, or at least some friend in common.  No conversation between the viewers and the doers.

Someone said “Look!” and pointed upwards. And we all did.  Smoke was coming out of the chimney-top. “Thar she blows!” yelled a wag, laughing, and then fell silent, realising no-one else was joining in the joke.

The full meaning of what he’d just said sank into his soul, and ours.

You don’t mock a local monument, the kind everyone knows for miles around, the kind that’s been part of everyone’s life for so many years you’ve forgotten its importance.

Wasn’t the Mill chimney always there? Wouldn’t it always be there?

Hadn’t the authorities ordained that the chimney was to be saved from demolition when the Mill got planning permission for development into – what? A shopping centre?

The sudden loud bang nearby shocked us. This wasn’t the noise of timber cracking.

This was the chimney itself.  The split in the venerable brick-work started at the base nearest us, widened and climbed, without mercy, ever higher.

The beginning of the end. A gasp from the crowd.

Then silence.

Other splits heard from the far side of the chimney. Joe taking photos as fast as he could. The upper part of the chimney began to lean over.  Tiny puffs of brick dust.

Until now, my baby had been sleeping in her buggy.  The sudden noise woke her and she cried.

I realised that the chimney falling would create clouds of dust. Not a place for a baby’s lungs. Quickly, I turned away: “Sorry, sorry, excuse me, excuse me please.”

The crowd kindly parted.  I pushed the buggy through the gap. No-one else was running away from the execution.

Half way up Orchard Road, the air boomed and the ground rumbled as the chimney fell.  I looked back.

Pyroclastic billows of brick-dust buffeted towards us as I ran, pushing the buggy with my baby uphill as quickly as I could.

My baby cried. I cried.

The tall Mill’s chimney, a local giant was gone, but unwittingly I had met another – I realised later that the man with the camera was the renowned local historian, Joe Williams.