economic benefits to the surrounding area through the presence of a large workforce. Among the many projects that made up this major building programme were construction of barrack accommodation blocks, stabling, married quarters, stores, cook houses, guard rooms, a prison, gymnasium, messes, a women’s wash-house, mobilization stores, a water tower and fire station and a large hospital. The many red bricks required caused the brickyards at Ballysax, Athy and Newbridge to work at full output for a considerable period. Brick buildings meant permanency and permanency meant community with a self-contained town boasting its own unique atmosphere and character with churches, libraries, sports facilities (including a swimming pool), shops, post office and schools all catering for a permanent population of 4,000. The Curragh Camp had always had plenty of activity associated with it, but now it had a ‘life’ as well. With the rebuilding, a community was born, and a special spirit was awakened.
Life and Death in the Curragh
While the Curragh Camp became more established with the construction programme and the sense of community grew, life was not easy for all those whose lives were inextricably linked with its military pulse. On 16 September 1884 an officer based in the Curragh, writing in The Irish Times, drew attention to the pitiful circumstances of a local ‘Waterloo woman’, Ann Griffin. Her husband had fought with the 51st Light Infantry in the Peninsular War and at Waterloo, where he was twice wounded; four of her sons had also enlisted in the same regiment. Aged 86, she had never benefited from any kind of state support; increasingly infirm, she was totally dependent on charity.
The social problems of the Curragh were not confined to elderly women like Ann Griffin. There were, at times, many unsavoury aspects to life at the camp, including an increase in crime, difficult family situations and an influx of undesirable camp followers. The plight of some younger women was also so extreme that they fell into prostitution. In September 1867 James Greenwood wrote in London’s Pall Mall Gazette about the ‘Curragh Wrens’, prostitutes who lived in makeshift ‘nests’ among the furze bushes on the outskirts of the camp on the Curragh plain. He found ten ‘nests’ in all which accommodated about sixty women aged between seventeen and thirty-five, some of whom had been there for nine years. Each ‘nest’ consisted of a cramped shelter made of sods and gorse. With a low door, no window or chimney and an earthen floor, its furniture comprised a shelf to hold crockery, a candle and other meagre possessions. In summer, the ‘nests’ gave barely adequate shelter to up to 100 women and in winter the wind whistled through them freely. The women were all Irish and came from all parts of the country, some seeking out the camp and others ending up there by chance. They lived, gave birth and in some cases died in the ‘nests’. In the evenings when the younger women went to meet the soldiers, the older women remained behind to mind the children and prepare food. All the takings of the ‘nests’ were pooled. The camp was out of bounds but the ‘wrens’ sometimes ignored this. Venereal disease was a serious problem for the army and many troops were treated for it annually. The camp hospital catered for the soldiers but it wasn’t until 1869 that a ‘lock hospital’ (an institution for treating venereal disease) was opened in Kildare town and the ‘wrens’ could receive proper medical treatment over the twenty years which followed. The presence of these ‘unfortunates’ sometimes caused public outrage, their existence in a rural setting being more obvious than in a town or urban area. Over the years, the enforcement of the Curragh bye-laws for trespass, along with the passing of the Contagious Diseases Act in 1886, caused the problem to become less visible and extensive and, on some occasions, efforts went beyond expressions of strong disapproval and attempts at reforming some of the ‘fallen women’ met with success. The ‘wrens’, however, remained and the presence of prostitutes on the plain did not cease.
The Commander-in-Chief’s Headquarter Block circa turn of the twentieth century (courtesy of the National Library of Ireland).
A soldier’s lot at the Curragh was not always a wholeheartedly happy one. There was much to complain of: the dreariness and isolation of the camp, leaks in the wooden accommodation, dampness in the concrete huts, strenuous duties and training, little money, strict discipline – all underlined by periods of unending routine punctuated by boredom; it was little wonder that drunkenness and the company of prostitutes were so attractive, especially among some rank and file who did not have the highest moral standards to begin with.
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