Michael Collins was born in “Woodfield” near Sam’s Cross, Clonakilty, West Cork. The Collins family were evicted from their homes in Limerick in the latter part of the 17th Century. They were troublesome even then, and causing so many problems that the decision of the Magistrate was to banish this unruly and troublesome clan to the nether-most regions of the King’s Realm,- known as West Cork, where they and their descendants would never again cause any difficulty to his Majesty’s liege men and women. In this, they succeeded for a few hundred years, but after this lapse, Michael Collins made up for it!.
Collins’ father, that is my grandfather, was almost 60 years when he married, for he had to wait, as was normal in those days, until my great grandfather had died. He then took the land which was occupied by three brothers, Maurice, Thomas, and himself Michael John Collins. He married Mary Anne 0’ Brien of Sam’s Cross who was 34 years younger than him. They had a most wonderhul marriage, from which was born eight children, five girls and three boys. Early in 1877 their first child Margaret was born, to be followed by Johnny, (my father), Johanna (called Hannie) Mary, Helena (who later became a Nun), Patrick, Kathleen and finally Michael.

Grandfather Michael Collins and Mary Anne O’Brien could speak Greek and Latin fluently and also Irish, which they learned from the hedge schoolmasters at the time. Though there was a very large gap in years between them, their’s was a very close and fruitful relationship. Michael Collins was the youngest of the family of eight and was born in Woodfield on the 16th of October, 1890. He had a reverence from the time he was a very small boy for elderly people, and he had not an unusual but unique relationship with his father for the few years they shared together. My grandfather had a particular habit of once a week devoting twenty entire minutes to each of his children separately.

My father, Johnny, the eldest in the family, absorbed the knowledge of agriculture, horticulture and mariculture imparted to him by his father. Hannie, the eldest of the girls, absorbed his extraordinary knowledge of English literature, while Helena who later became a nun knew every constellation in the sky from her father’s teaching. She recalled to me how clearly he said to her one day when one of the comets was passing, -

“I haven’t had much time in my busy life, Helena, to get down on my knees and pray, - but when I’m out here like I am to-night and see the majesty of the Heavens I tell Him ‘I believe You made it, and I believe also that I am a tiny subject of Yours”. “You can do a lot of praying, Helena” he said “but you won’t get much closer to God than when you are under the creation of the stars”. Michael, at that young age of four, heard the poems of Kickham and Davis from this old man who was his father. My grandfather, Michael John Collins, had in his library every single work of Shakespeare, and the works of Thomas Hardy, and Sir Peter Barrie. He was an insatiable reader and to each of the children in turn he imparted his philosophy of life.

“I haven’t been over burdened with the wealth of this life, but I will give you three things which I hope will always stand to you in life, — namely a strong faith, a work ethic, and a love of education, for as you educate yourselves, you will, if it is within your potential, build yourselves into men and women who think for themselves.” “I will impart to you the love of my country which is one of my greatest gifts”. This was not the “pint inspired” love of Ireland. This was an old man giving to his children his love of the culture, of the heritage, of the real Irish tradition, the music of Ireland and the writings of men like Charles Kickham and Davis.

My grandfather, and Michael’s father, Michael John Collins senior was with the Fenians in 1867, and his grandfather was with Taigh O’Donovan in Clonakilty which was the only rising other then Emmet’s rising outside Wexford in 1798. My grandmother Mary Anne O’Brien made every stitch of clothing that they all wore. She was an extraordinary woman and gave to them also the very strong character that her husband also passed on. The young Michael Collins absorbed everything the old man told him and the relationship was extraordinary because Michael Collins died when the son who was called after him was only six years old. He had already sown the seeds of love of country in him and it’s a recorded fact, because I read it myself as it was written down by my aunt in 1896. “We gathered round Dada’s death bed and he said to us; ‘Take care of your youngest, for one day he may do great things for Ireland”.

After my grandfather Michael Collins died the young Collins transferred quite a degree of that love and affection to his eldest brother, my father Johnny, and he helped with the work on the family farm. He went to school as Lisavaird where the schoolmaster was Denis Lyons, an old Fenian. On his way home each day he passed the forge of James Santry. I mention these two men, for history will never say much about them. Denis Lyons was an extraordinary teacher and was only maintained in his position in the school because the British fortunately paid more heed to his educational abilities than to the Irish nationalism which burned within him.

Collins absorbed from Denis Lyons the love of these traditions I have mentioned earlier. Lyons saw in return, a young boy eager to learn and ask questions, and eager to use his God given intelligence. On the way home from school he would make the inevitable visit to the forge of James Santry. James had made the pikes for the 1867 rising and James’s grandfather was another who was with Taigh O’Donovan in the rising at Shannonvale outside Clonakilty in 1798. Michael Collins said one day to my father, “James Santry is one of the finest men that I have ever met”. “Why would you say that?” said my father. “I saw”, he said, “the spark from the anvil as he made the gates for all the farms around here, but I also got from him the spark he put into my heart of the love for Ireland”.

It was from those two men, and from the quiet national spirit at home, that Michael Collins set out, even at that very young age, to make himself a slave to the freedom of his country.

When he dragged in a bucket of potatoes from my grandmother’s garden in 1898 at the age of eight he asked my father who commended him for his extra work would he reward him by giving him truppence. My father, Johnny said “Of course I will, but what do you want it for?”. “Dad”, he said “I’ve been reading lately the works of a man called Arthur Griffith which I get from James Santry”. “He is beginning to speak” he said, “at the corners of Dublin streets and telling the growing numbers of his listeners that we must not be looking to France, and Spain or the red wine of the Pope any more. “Sinn Fein” he said, “Ourselves Alone, - that’s what we must depend on”.