October 1966 witnessed the beginning of a long winter of discontent, disruption and remarkable determination on the part of Irish farmers. It began with small groups of farmers starting out from their home counties to carry out a march that would take them, on foot, to Merrion Square, headquarters of the Department of Agriculture, for a meeting with the minister, Charlie Haughey, that never took place. The leaders progressed to the door of the department, knocked politely and were told Haughey wasn’t available.
Their leader, Rickard Deasy, said “Very well then, we’ll wait.” They sat down on the pavement and wait they did – for 21 days and nights, right into the miserable and bitterly cold weather of November. Their fortitude and patience put a national spotlight on the conditions farmers worked under. Their situation had not been as unrewarding since the Economic War of the 1930s.
The sit-down protest brought about a greater understanding of farming to the attention of a usually disinterested public, but results in terms of economic benefit were skimpy, to say the least. More action had to be considered. It came in the form of thousands of farmers turning out to blockade most of our bridges with cars and tractors and bring the country close to a standstill.
0 of 5
Now, 50 years later, there are still questions that deserve answers. Why did 1966, in particular, turn out to be such a significant year for farmers? What were the catalysts that drove farmers to the point where they would step out of character to cause so much disruption? How were the various events organised? When the dust settled, what was the eventual pay-off for so much effort?
The people involved were members of the National Farmers’ Association (later the IFA). Their organisation had reached a reasonable degree of maturity from its foundation in 1955. They had unity and strength on their side. They had carefully nurtured independence. They had excellent leadership. So they were ready to take action should the need arise.
Growing tensions
The Farmers Journal had played a major role in the formation of the NFA and had an observer's seat at all council meetings of the growing organisation. I occupied that seat for most of the 1960s, so I was a first-hand witness to the increasing tensions of the summer months as their representatives kept knocking on doors to seek action on – or even discussion of – their concerns.
Of a plethora of farmer’s organisations operating separately in the 1950s and into the 1960s, only the Irish Creamery Milk Suppliers Association, based in Limerick, remained in (rather bitter) competition for farmer loyalty. The legend of the time was that big farmers joined the NFA and small farmers joined the ICMSA. Also, that big farmers voted Fine Gael and small farmers Fianna Fáil. Like any legend, these could be taken with a large dose of salt; nobody ever actually counted. But Éamon de Valera was engaged in a presidential election campaign and a Fianna Fáil government was not going to test its supporters.
Seán Lemass was taoiseach and he was very busily and productively engaged – with a lot of help from the genius of the day, civil servant TK Whitaker – in encouraging the Irish version of industrial revolution. This was where government support and investment was directed, and the taoiseach had never shown evidence of having much interest in farming. The relevant minister had done a lot of very good work in his early years in the role, but his resources seemed to dry up in the mid-1960s. His relationship with farmers took a tumble and the annual review was cancelled. Neil Blaney, minister for local government, was waiting in the wings (more about him later).
The price of milk
In practical and political terms, it was time for the NFA to approach the government for a rise in the price of milk. They were told bluntly that there was nothing left in the pot. Then, just a couple of weeks later, the ICMSA made a similar approach and, as if by magic, a price rise of two pence a gallon emerged.
The NFA council, made up of elected delegates from every county, had sharp differences of opinion. One side, the Young Turks, wanted action and demanded it in forceful terms, often expressed by David Dolan from Westmeath. Another side, among them Neville Chance from Donegal and Meath man Joseph Bruton – the highly respected father of John and Richard – firmly believed in negotiation and were sometimes referred to as armchair farmers. There were even mutterings of dissatisfaction with Rickard Deasy’s leadership and suggestions that he was too cosy with Haughey.
There was plenty of heated argument, which was brought to a halt when Benny Donohoe, a Cavan delegate, stood up and said “We’ve had enough of this talk. It’s time to raise blood blisters on our feet.” He hit exactly the right note, even if he didn’t realise then that he was also hinting at the right action. Sean Healy, general secretary of the NFA, sealed it when he said words to the effect of: “Maybe we should follow the example of the black people of the southern states of the United States, and their leader Martin Luther King, and get out to march for our rights and to attract public attention to our situation.”
Deasy obliterated any question of weak leadership when he vowed: “All right, so you want to get out and march. I will put my foot as far as who goes farthest.”
A dignified march
The council was unanimous and enthusiastic. A small committee was established to draft plans for the march, and all counties were ready to roll. Some of the more impulsive members wanted to turn out big numbers from every county but Healy was adamant that the march be manageable and dignified. Each county should select a small number of representatives and be prepared to service their needs along the way. A figure of 14 per county was agreed. Each contingent would start out as a trickle, then become a stream as they joined up with their neighbouring counties. As they progressed towards Dublin these streams would become tributaries and finally a powerful river of humanity flowing to the target destination.
The county with the distinction of “putting their feet the farthest” was Cork, and as they set out from Bantry, their contingent was led by the striking figure of Deasy, with green jersey, black beret , walking stick and distinctive military bearing. He would set a tone of dignity throughout the journey. I met the Cork men in Listowel, where I had spent the previous evening in the warm, motivational company of John B Keane.
As we waited for take-off in the Square, the Kerry contingent trickled in by degrees and Keane carried out a good-humoured inspection of his troops. He wasn’t marching, but he had a concern for the welfare of those who were and he pulled out two men for unsuitable footwear. He brought one young man, who had more enthusiasm than sense, into a shop and bought him a pair of light boots to replace a pair of shiny, pointy-toed shoes. The boots were all right, but the feet weren’t. So John’s generous gesture was in vain. After just a few miles the young man had the boots off and was in his stockinged feet. A short time later he put discretion before good intentions and thumbed a lift back to Listowel. He had learned a lesson and had also taught others that this challenge was not going to be easy.
The Kerry caravan
As the Kerry group neared completion, there was a ripple of excitement when a car pulled into the square and discharged an elderly man, who was all dressed up and ready to go. He was Bob Stack, part of the history of Kerry football for his exploits in a powerful team captained by the great John Joe Sheehy. He was a living example of the rivalry that existed between the NFA and the ICMSA. Friends tried to dissuade him from taking on the journey but he stubbornly insisted and said “I’ll start and I’ll walk through Rathkeale [headquarters of the ICMSA] with my head high, even if I have to get a donkey to pull me”. Stack’s spirit set a tone for the marchers, even after he had been persuaded to travel in one of the accompanying caravans.
When we arrived at the first overnight stop, after about 15 miles, our caravans were waiting in the carpark of a pub on Devon Road. There was evidence of the goodwill that would be encountered every step of the way. Up to a dozen cars, driven by local farmers or their wives or daughters, were waiting to take the marchers home to dinner. Some of them were kept overnight and others, me included, were delivered back to the caravans.
I spent the night in a caravan with four Kerry men. One of them was very uneasy, and he went out the door at about 2am. After half an hour I followed and found him leaning against a gate, contemplating. He told me this was the first night in his life to be away from his own home. He had left his wife and three children behind and he felt he was really out of his depth.
Donegal discipline
At the other end of the country the men with the second-longest trek had set out from Donegal. Their leader was Maj Neville Chance, and he quickly imposed military discipline on his group. Tom Llewllyn, who was then a national organiser for the NFA, was in charge of services for these men and he told me, very recently, about how some of the Donegal men had attempted to set off at a cracking pace. The major quickly reined them in and explained that their pace wasn’t sustainable. They had to do 15 miles a day for more than a week and they would never reach Dublin if they didn’t take heed of their own capabilities, he said. He carried out a compulsory foot inspection at every overnight stop and prescribed suitable treatment. He extended his discipline to contingents from Cavan, Monaghan and Louth as they joined in. He led them all to Dublin without any casualties.
It is estimated that 20,000-30,000 farmers turned out in Dublin to welcome the 300 marchers. They stood behind steel barriers at the corner of Merrion Square while their leaders went in to meet the minister. When word came back that they had been rebuffed, there was an angry growl from the crowd. A few radicals were urging them to go over the barriers and “get the guards”. But control held fast, probably helped by the fact that every guard inside the barrier had a few brothers or cousins outside.
When the farmers were told that there was nothing more they could do, and that their leaders would carry on the protest, they reluctantly dispersed. One of them, Danny McCarthy, had marched from Bantry, and when I asked how he felt, he said: “When I started out I had 10 toes. Now eight of them have bandages on them and I have blisters on top of blisters. But I still have 10 toes. So it could be worse.”
The leaders waited for 21 days outside the department and won a lot of sympathy, including from city people who came around to deliver sandwiches and apple tarts. Eventually, as the nights grew colder, the taoiseach yielded to the force of public pressure and decided that the farmers and the two caravans they had later moved into had to be removed from the street. Since Haughey had been central to the whole affair, it was thought that a reshuffle might have the right effect. He was promoted to minister for finance and the farmers were persuaded to pack up and move.
Many people saw this as a moral victory for farmer protest. They didn’t get price rises or other benefits, but their organisation had gained a dramatic change of stature. They would never again be treated lightly when it came to negotiations. But they were wrong in another sense. When it came to appointing a new minister for agriculture, the taoiseach was also wrong. He chose Neil Blaney, who quickly let it be known that his key mission would be to dismantle the NFA. He had his hands full as the blockade of roads and bridges by farmers tractors went on to prove.
THE BLOCKADES: A SEQUEL TO THE FARMERS' MARCH
The cabinet shuffle that ended the farmers' march was supposed to improve relationships between organised farmers and government, but it had the opposite effect. The new minister for agriculture, Neil Blaney, was determined to put the NFA back in its box. The farmers were equally determined to exercise their new-found strength. The result was an unhealthy period of minor protests scattered across the country. For example, occasionally convoys of tractors would drive at a snail's pace to disrupt traffic. As long as they kept moving they weren't breaking the law, but neither were they having much real effect.
They decided to escalate their activity and selected January 19th, 1967, as the day for a nationwide blockade of roads and bridges designed to bring the country to a virtual standstill. This time they had the desired effect, but they were also breaking the law and the police were out in force to issue charges. About 100 farmers would subsequently spend time in jail when they refused to pay fines for obstruction.
Donal Murphy, from Kilmallock, Co Limerick, recalls the day with some satisfaction: “I missed out on the march but I wasn’t going to miss the next stage. I helped to block the main bridge in Limerick”. But Murphy didn’t go to jail, because “there were a lot of reasonable guards around here. They even came and had cups of tea with us to show their sympathy.”
The branch from Dunboyne, Co Meath, supplied a strong contingent of blockaders, and no fewer than eight of them went to Mountjoy Prison. Eamonn Walsh recalls the experience. “It wasn’t a happy one but we had to do it. You could tolerate it if you kept yourself busy. I did a lot of grass-cutting and general gardening inside and got on well with everyone. I had plenty of friends there, and we got the result we wanted – recognition as serious people.”
His friend Willie Lynskey is now in his 90s and looking forward to their 50th annual reunion in January. He did two stints in prison, one in Mountjoy and one in Portlaois, for refusing to pay the fine and for refusing to sign a bond of no further obstruction.
After a month or more the government had had enough of the whole business and granted a general amnesty. Before he resigned from office, Seán Lemass made a statement of great significance at that time. He said that he recognised the NFA as a serious and legitimate lobbying body.
The farmers could get back to their business.
Larry Sheedy started a long career in communications in 1952 and spent most of the first 21 years as deputy editor of the Irish Farmers Journal. He then moved into public relations, specialising in agriculture and food. He retired in 1998
