By Oliver Corbett

Passing by a shop window in Cashel, something bright and colourful captures my attention. It’s a circus poster. For a brief moment I am a child again anticipating the annual visit of the circus.

I’m in my grandparents house, full of anticipation, rushing up the stairs, two steps at a time, shouting, “Is it in?” I reach the landing. Looking out through the open window, I see below me, on what was yesterday a bare green field, that the circus has really arrived.

The beautiful horses and ponies are grazing contentedly on the grass. The strange motley of colourful vehicles and the magnificent living wagons of the artistes are all there.

The two tall kingpoles are already in position. Tentmen are busily lacing the sections of the tent together. With a distinctive “cling clang” the iron stakes are driven into the ground, two men to each stake. With shouts of “one, two, heave” from the tentmaster, the tent rises slowly and majestically to the top of the
poles, and soon it’s in position. With a clatter of board upon board the wooden seating planks are unloaded and assembled inside the tent. The bandstand is rolled in, and the ring is placed in position. Finally the tent wallings are added, and a quietness descends.

It’s time for the circus to rest.

It’s almost showtime. I’m standing in the queue with all the other youngsters, my one shilling a three pence held tightly in my hand, listening to the gentle purr of the generator. The distinctive smell of the circus, a mixture of trampled grass, canvas and horses invades my nostrils.

I buy my ticket and step inside the translucent green big top. I’m briefly disoriented, until I see the ring, and rush towards it to sit with all the other children on the low seats. The adults are sitting further back on the high seats.

The musicians take up their positions on the bandstand. Suddenly the generator is louder and the five big arc lamps light up the ring to a mighty cheer from the young audience. A whistle blows and the band strikes up a lively brassy tune that sends shivers of excitement up and down my neck. The show has
begun.

In awe I watch the acrobats, the juggler, the tightrope walker, the clowns and the liberty horses.

There’s the clever little pony that can answer any question asked with a nod or a shake of its head, and count out the number of days in the week by pawing the ground.

All too soon the performance is over. I leave the big top, walk out into the sunlight, re-imagining the many wonders that I have seen.

Next morning I rush up the stairs again, hoping that the circus might still be there. I look down from the window, but of course it’s gone. There’s nothing left except a round carpet of sawdust where the ring had been. Maybe it wasn’t the best circus in the world, but to me it was truly magical.

Looking at that poster again in the shop window, I read that this year’s programme will be “bigger and better than ever”. I think I’ll go.