Week ending 31st August 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
Apparently the signs were there for a long time that I was going to changed from Tourmakeady to Cárna this summer. I wasn’t able to read the signs myself because I am not big in the psychic department. More psycho than psychic, I suppose. Anyway the experts tell me now that it was all written in the stars and in the teacups long before I came to realise it. The real clincher seems to be that I bought a secondhand maroon Ford Fiesta with a ‘G’ registration all of two years ago. A sure sign that subconsciously, subliminally, psychologically I was preparing to return to County Galway after fifteen years in Mayo.
As I drive around Conamara (The Gaeltacht part is spelt in this way compared to the English speaking area’s Connemara) I realise that there was something I had missed for many years. I had forgotten the purple and gold in the landscape at this time of the year, and I am revelling in seeing it again. When I look at articles I wrote in Irish after moving from Conamara to Inis Meain in the Aran Islands in 1987 I find references to those colours and how much I missed them in the limestone grey islands. Don’t get me wrong. The islands have their own beauty, and I often stood for hours watching giant waves thundering against the cliffs. But Conamara has its own breath-taking beauty particularly at this time of the year.
Some months ago I used the line ‘Look thy last on all things lovely’ as I prepared to leave that then rhododendrened landscape, in which the fuchsia is now in full bloom. I realise once again how lucky I have been in the places in which I have lived as a priest, each with its particular beauty of sea or lake, mountain or forest. The real beauty is in the people, but the landscape helps. Wise word from the psalms come to mind: ‘I lift up my eyes to the mountains,’ or ‘Near restful waters he leads me, to revive my drooping spirit.’ The spirit seldom droops when surrounded by beautiful scenery.
Someone will surely remind me that: ‘You can’t eat scenery’ but it has helped put a few euro into pockets around the west this year. Tourist figures may be down but they are still ticking over, particularly in places where people get value for money. Many have chosen to holiday at home and have been surprised and delighted to discover or rediscover the beauty of our own country. As I mentioned earlier about forgetting the beauty of Conamara after many years away from it, we tend to find our eyes opened even when we see and old vista that we may have taken for granted in the past, from a new angle.
The light in the west has drawn artists and painters for many years, Paul Henry to Achill, Charles Lamb to Carraroe, Sean Keating to Aran, Brian Bourke to Connemara Evie Hone, and many others. Those of us who live here take it for granted most of the time, but there are days when our eyes are opened, days in which skies are big and blue and horizons stretch forever. Dank damp foggy days are usually followed by such epiphanies, in which for a while at least, all is well with the world and we wonder will the next one be half as good.
As I drive around Conamara (The Gaeltacht part is spelt in this way compared to the English speaking area’s Connemara) I realise that there was something I had missed for many years. I had forgotten the purple and gold in the landscape at this time of the year, and I am revelling in seeing it again. When I look at articles I wrote in Irish after moving from Conamara to Inis Meain in the Aran Islands in 1987 I find references to those colours and how much I missed them in the limestone grey islands. Don’t get me wrong. The islands have their own beauty, and I often stood for hours watching giant waves thundering against the cliffs. But Conamara has its own breath-taking beauty particularly at this time of the year.
Some months ago I used the line ‘Look thy last on all things lovely’ as I prepared to leave that then rhododendrened landscape, in which the fuchsia is now in full bloom. I realise once again how lucky I have been in the places in which I have lived as a priest, each with its particular beauty of sea or lake, mountain or forest. The real beauty is in the people, but the landscape helps. Wise word from the psalms come to mind: ‘I lift up my eyes to the mountains,’ or ‘Near restful waters he leads me, to revive my drooping spirit.’ The spirit seldom droops when surrounded by beautiful scenery.
Someone will surely remind me that: ‘You can’t eat scenery’ but it has helped put a few euro into pockets around the west this year. Tourist figures may be down but they are still ticking over, particularly in places where people get value for money. Many have chosen to holiday at home and have been surprised and delighted to discover or rediscover the beauty of our own country. As I mentioned earlier about forgetting the beauty of Conamara after many years away from it, we tend to find our eyes opened even when we see and old vista that we may have taken for granted in the past, from a new angle.
The light in the west has drawn artists and painters for many years, Paul Henry to Achill, Charles Lamb to Carraroe, Sean Keating to Aran, Brian Bourke to Connemara Evie Hone, and many others. Those of us who live here take it for granted most of the time, but there are days when our eyes are opened, days in which skies are big and blue and horizons stretch forever. Dank damp foggy days are usually followed by such epiphanies, in which for a while at least, all is well with the world and we wonder will the next one be half as good.
Week ending 24th August 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
Mention ‘blackberry’ nowadays and many people think of mobile phone accoutrements. I still think of juicy berries, ‘free to air’ as they say in TV programming circles. I think of the jams, jellies, additions to sauces and desserts that those berries can produce, not to speak of blackberry wine. Even in recessionary straitened circumstances it is great to find something that is free and healthy growing wild by the roadsides and hedgerows. No matter how many berries we pick, there are still plenty left over for birds and other creatures.
I am not sure if blackberries ripen quicker by the seacoast, but I think this was the first year that I had a few pots of blackberry jelly in the fridge in the early days of August. Admittedly I had to go a long way to collect the makings of three jars, but the second round a week later was much easier, as there were fistfuls of berries close together. Observers are probably saying that the poor priest that has come down from Mayo must be hungrier than he looks, seeing that he has to feed himself with the fruits of the briar. The sympathy vote will do me no harm at all.
It took me a while to get back to swimming in the sea, as the weather in July and early August was not great. I had been given a present of a wetsuit and eventually I decided to try it out. It was like putting on a new skin, made even more difficult by my trying in my ignorance to put it on back to front. Still it helped get me into the sea on one of the magnificent beaches around Cárna. I had visions of being able to swim in the wetsuit all year round, but I doubt if I will have the courage to brave the elements once September is out.
There is a little lake full of waterlillies within thirty feet of my backdoor, which is like a bird sanctuary, with ducks and water hens swimming about regularly. I waved an orange at the ducks one day, but I don’t think they got the joke. It was a joke, as I have no intention of killing, plucking or cleaning any of them.. As a cousin from town once said when she saw a hen laying an egg: “We will only eat eggs from the shop anymore.” Similarly I will only eat duck from the supermarket or the Chinese takeaway. That way you don’t have to look the poor creatures in the eyes or have a guilt-trip every time you see one in the lake.
The presbytery has walls that are even thicker than myself. I do not know when it was built, but it is a neat bungalow that housed the curates who served the area before priests became scarce. A fine nursing home that can cater for fifty people now stands on the site of what was once the Parish Priest’s house. A former PP here, (Fr. Paddy Delaney) served as curate in Castlebar in the 1960’s while his predecessor, Fr. John Philbin, who is buried in Castlebar cemetery had a reputation as a healer, with people coming from far and wide seeking cures. I’m told that people regularly visit his grave for that reason, after nearly forty years.
I am still finding my way around, trying to work out where one village ends and another begins. First Friday holy communion calls helped greatly as I had to find houses and villages, and had the opportunity of meeting many people who had lived here all their lives, who shared their memories and opinions. Christenings, weddings, funerals, blessing of boats and other occasions help in getting to know people, so there is more to life than blackberries, mechanical or fruity.
I am not sure if blackberries ripen quicker by the seacoast, but I think this was the first year that I had a few pots of blackberry jelly in the fridge in the early days of August. Admittedly I had to go a long way to collect the makings of three jars, but the second round a week later was much easier, as there were fistfuls of berries close together. Observers are probably saying that the poor priest that has come down from Mayo must be hungrier than he looks, seeing that he has to feed himself with the fruits of the briar. The sympathy vote will do me no harm at all.
It took me a while to get back to swimming in the sea, as the weather in July and early August was not great. I had been given a present of a wetsuit and eventually I decided to try it out. It was like putting on a new skin, made even more difficult by my trying in my ignorance to put it on back to front. Still it helped get me into the sea on one of the magnificent beaches around Cárna. I had visions of being able to swim in the wetsuit all year round, but I doubt if I will have the courage to brave the elements once September is out.
There is a little lake full of waterlillies within thirty feet of my backdoor, which is like a bird sanctuary, with ducks and water hens swimming about regularly. I waved an orange at the ducks one day, but I don’t think they got the joke. It was a joke, as I have no intention of killing, plucking or cleaning any of them.. As a cousin from town once said when she saw a hen laying an egg: “We will only eat eggs from the shop anymore.” Similarly I will only eat duck from the supermarket or the Chinese takeaway. That way you don’t have to look the poor creatures in the eyes or have a guilt-trip every time you see one in the lake.
The presbytery has walls that are even thicker than myself. I do not know when it was built, but it is a neat bungalow that housed the curates who served the area before priests became scarce. A fine nursing home that can cater for fifty people now stands on the site of what was once the Parish Priest’s house. A former PP here, (Fr. Paddy Delaney) served as curate in Castlebar in the 1960’s while his predecessor, Fr. John Philbin, who is buried in Castlebar cemetery had a reputation as a healer, with people coming from far and wide seeking cures. I’m told that people regularly visit his grave for that reason, after nearly forty years.
I am still finding my way around, trying to work out where one village ends and another begins. First Friday holy communion calls helped greatly as I had to find houses and villages, and had the opportunity of meeting many people who had lived here all their lives, who shared their memories and opinions. Christenings, weddings, funerals, blessing of boats and other occasions help in getting to know people, so there is more to life than blackberries, mechanical or fruity.
Week ending 17th August 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
I got my first sniff of County Mayo after a couple of weeks in Co. Galway on the day of the Maméan pilgrimage in the Maamturk mountains. The shrine is high in the hills close to the Galway/Mayo border, about half way between Recess on the south and the Maam Valley to the north, with access on rugged pathways from both sides. It was a beautiful day, so I passed up on the Roscommon/Cork and Meath/Kildare games on television to take the mountain air and join in the ceremonies. It is some consolation to find that my new county has been little more succesful than my old one on the playing fields, so nobody in one county can crow too loudly at the expense of the other.
The Maméan pilgrimage was revived mainly by Jesuit priest, Father Micheál McGréil just over thirty years ago. Stations of the cross, a Mass rock and small chapel, Cillín Phádraig were constructed at the shrine. A limestone statue of Saint Patrick, carved by Clíodhna Cussen was erected there in 1986. As statues go, it probably has the best scenic view in Ireland, the great sweep of Conamara, south to Galway Bay. The Twelve Pens, and the Maamturk mountains surround it, the same view basically that Saint Patrick himself had when he visited in 441, blessed the well (Tobar Phádraig) slept on the ledge of a rock (leaba Phádraig) and imparted his blessing on the people of Connemara.
A Mayo priest I knew put his own spin on that story as he ‘had a go’ at our Galway neighbours. He claimed that Saint Patrick went as far south as Maméan, looked out over the great expanse of lake and bogland beneath him and said: ‘I’ve seen enough,’ before he imparted his blessing and turned back to Mayo. It was his answer to the ‘Mayo God help us, Galway glad to get us’ jibe. They are usually glad to get us in Pearse Stadium or in Tuam to try and give us a bit of a hammering, but as I have mentioned already, neither has much to boast about this year. Despite all the slagging there is a great affection between the people of both counties.
I spent twenty four years in County Galway before returning to Mayo in 1995. I enjoyed my different spells in the Aran Islands and in An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) and got to know some wonderful people in both places. A few people have even said: “Welcome ‘home’ to Conamara” since I reached Cárna a couple of weeks ago, but the more usual greeting is: “Fáilte go Cárna.” It is a place with its own proud history and tradition in music, song and story, a tradition evident in the excellent music and singing provided by ‘Ceoltóirí Óga Chárna’ (Carna’s Young Musicians) at the Maméan pilgrimage, as well as the sean-nós singing of Mary’s lament (Caoineadh na dTrí Muire) during the Stations of The Cross.
Father Micheál McGréil SJ gave a powerfully political as well as spiritual sermon on the mountainside at Maméan as he prayed for the unemployed. It sounded like a Marxist analysis as he pointed out that work and labour bear little connection with pay and reward. It was not the employed or the workers that brought the country to its knees, but money being sent out to make more money. I am probably not doing Micheál McGréil justice, but it was a message that I hope reaches a larger audience. Karl Marx is no longer anyone’s flavour of the month, but he did tell some home truths about labour and its rewards or lack of them. I’m sure that he and Saint Patrick exchanged a wink of appreciation across the halls of Heaven.
The Maméan pilgrimage was revived mainly by Jesuit priest, Father Micheál McGréil just over thirty years ago. Stations of the cross, a Mass rock and small chapel, Cillín Phádraig were constructed at the shrine. A limestone statue of Saint Patrick, carved by Clíodhna Cussen was erected there in 1986. As statues go, it probably has the best scenic view in Ireland, the great sweep of Conamara, south to Galway Bay. The Twelve Pens, and the Maamturk mountains surround it, the same view basically that Saint Patrick himself had when he visited in 441, blessed the well (Tobar Phádraig) slept on the ledge of a rock (leaba Phádraig) and imparted his blessing on the people of Connemara.
A Mayo priest I knew put his own spin on that story as he ‘had a go’ at our Galway neighbours. He claimed that Saint Patrick went as far south as Maméan, looked out over the great expanse of lake and bogland beneath him and said: ‘I’ve seen enough,’ before he imparted his blessing and turned back to Mayo. It was his answer to the ‘Mayo God help us, Galway glad to get us’ jibe. They are usually glad to get us in Pearse Stadium or in Tuam to try and give us a bit of a hammering, but as I have mentioned already, neither has much to boast about this year. Despite all the slagging there is a great affection between the people of both counties.
I spent twenty four years in County Galway before returning to Mayo in 1995. I enjoyed my different spells in the Aran Islands and in An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) and got to know some wonderful people in both places. A few people have even said: “Welcome ‘home’ to Conamara” since I reached Cárna a couple of weeks ago, but the more usual greeting is: “Fáilte go Cárna.” It is a place with its own proud history and tradition in music, song and story, a tradition evident in the excellent music and singing provided by ‘Ceoltóirí Óga Chárna’ (Carna’s Young Musicians) at the Maméan pilgrimage, as well as the sean-nós singing of Mary’s lament (Caoineadh na dTrí Muire) during the Stations of The Cross.
Father Micheál McGréil SJ gave a powerfully political as well as spiritual sermon on the mountainside at Maméan as he prayed for the unemployed. It sounded like a Marxist analysis as he pointed out that work and labour bear little connection with pay and reward. It was not the employed or the workers that brought the country to its knees, but money being sent out to make more money. I am probably not doing Micheál McGréil justice, but it was a message that I hope reaches a larger audience. Karl Marx is no longer anyone’s flavour of the month, but he did tell some home truths about labour and its rewards or lack of them. I’m sure that he and Saint Patrick exchanged a wink of appreciation across the halls of Heaven.
Week ending 10th August 2010
The ‘Would You Believe’ special: ‘Faith in Crisis’ shown on a recent Sunday night on RTÉ, after much hype beforehand, disappointed many. A woman I met on the street summed it up well with the words: ‘It was all over the place.’ There was a genuine effort to hear as many voices as possible, but this led to too many people being cut off in mid sentence, or not allowed to finish an interesting point they were making. There seemed to be far too much emphasis on the intellectual and the theological than on the solid faith held by so many people despite the scandals and upheavels in the Roman Catholic Church in recent times.
This contrasted strongly with the images shown on the RTÉ News just beforehand of people of all ages struggling through the mist on Croagh Patrick, many of them barefoot, all enthusiastic, full of faith and hope. Archbishop Michael Neary on the mountainside seemed a million miles away from his fellow bishops, John McAreavey, John Kirby and Willie Walsh who were admittedly given the impossible task of justifying where the hierarchy are at in recent times. Their role on the programme was more that of whipping boys and scapegoats than leaders of their flocks. We seem to have gone from too much respect to too little in a very short time.
Some may be saying: ‘Give a man a parish and he will be defending the bishops he spent his life castigating in no time.’ I may have taken the shilling but that does not mean that I have swallowed the whole package, hook, line and sinker. My views on the church, on clerical celibacy, on women priests, on respect for those who are gay and on many other issues have not changed with the addition of ‘PP’ to my name. I have always believed in balance and fairness, and I think that should apply to bishops as much as to anyone else.
I refused parishes in the past, not from any disrespect for the people in those places, but because I thought it was the quickest way of reducing the age at which priests were appointed to parishes. That has all changed with the reduction in the number of priests. Priests are being appointed to parishes now in their late thirties or early forties, in their prime in other words. My other reason for remaining a curate was that I was not ready to accept certain pronouncements from the Vatican with regard to contraception, the opposition to the use of condoms even in the face of an AIDS epidemic, church opposition to civil divorce, the official attitude to homosexuality and other issues.
The people of God have made up their minds on those issues despite what Rome may say. The aftermath of the child sexual abuse crises has put everything into the melting pot. People are no longer willing to accept seafóid from me, from bishops, from Popes or from anyone else. The great strength of the church is that millions have retained their faith in God, in Jesus, in the Holy Spirit, in Mary, mother of God, despite the failures and shenanigans of its officials. We see that on Croagh Patrick. I saw it in the last few days in Máméan in the Maamturk mountains. I saw it in the Saint MacDara feastday in Cárna, in the cemetery masses before I left Tourmakeady. We will see more of it in Knock in the coming days. Faith is alive and well, but looking for leaders.
This contrasted strongly with the images shown on the RTÉ News just beforehand of people of all ages struggling through the mist on Croagh Patrick, many of them barefoot, all enthusiastic, full of faith and hope. Archbishop Michael Neary on the mountainside seemed a million miles away from his fellow bishops, John McAreavey, John Kirby and Willie Walsh who were admittedly given the impossible task of justifying where the hierarchy are at in recent times. Their role on the programme was more that of whipping boys and scapegoats than leaders of their flocks. We seem to have gone from too much respect to too little in a very short time.
Some may be saying: ‘Give a man a parish and he will be defending the bishops he spent his life castigating in no time.’ I may have taken the shilling but that does not mean that I have swallowed the whole package, hook, line and sinker. My views on the church, on clerical celibacy, on women priests, on respect for those who are gay and on many other issues have not changed with the addition of ‘PP’ to my name. I have always believed in balance and fairness, and I think that should apply to bishops as much as to anyone else.
I refused parishes in the past, not from any disrespect for the people in those places, but because I thought it was the quickest way of reducing the age at which priests were appointed to parishes. That has all changed with the reduction in the number of priests. Priests are being appointed to parishes now in their late thirties or early forties, in their prime in other words. My other reason for remaining a curate was that I was not ready to accept certain pronouncements from the Vatican with regard to contraception, the opposition to the use of condoms even in the face of an AIDS epidemic, church opposition to civil divorce, the official attitude to homosexuality and other issues.
The people of God have made up their minds on those issues despite what Rome may say. The aftermath of the child sexual abuse crises has put everything into the melting pot. People are no longer willing to accept seafóid from me, from bishops, from Popes or from anyone else. The great strength of the church is that millions have retained their faith in God, in Jesus, in the Holy Spirit, in Mary, mother of God, despite the failures and shenanigans of its officials. We see that on Croagh Patrick. I saw it in the last few days in Máméan in the Maamturk mountains. I saw it in the Saint MacDara feastday in Cárna, in the cemetery masses before I left Tourmakeady. We will see more of it in Knock in the coming days. Faith is alive and well, but looking for leaders.
Week ending 3rd August 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
“August Is A Wicked Month” is the title of an early novel by Clare born writer Edna O’Brien, some os whose books were banned by the Irish Censorship Board in the early sixties of the last century. I hope this August does not turn out to be wicked from a weather point of view, as July was a disappointment after a glorious June. I hate to mention it but back to school is only a month away, and children would enjoy a bit of sunshine before they return, rather than an Indian Summer when they are back in their classrooms.
Edna O’Brien was somewhat of an iconic figure in the Ireland of nearly fifty years ago, with her shock of red hair, and her books which seem to have shocked the Irish Censorship Board more than anyone else. There was a mood of change in the country and outside it at the time. The Seán Lemass/Ken Whittaker axis in the Government and Civil Service was reaping rewards with an increase in employment and easing of emigration. Across the water the Beatles were beginning to weave their magic on Merseyside. A young American President, John F. Kennedy called over to visit his ancestral home in Wexford. The proverbial rising tide seemed to be lifting all boats, or maybe it’s just that we were young then.
It would seem that I was walking away from all this when I headed off to Maynooth, but that too was to become an exciting place in the years that followed as the influence of the Second Vatican Council came to be felt even in that venerable institution. Our English lecturer, Fr. Peter Connolly gained some national notoriety when he publicly praised the novels of Edna O’Brien. Shock/horror from those who had not read them and only knew of them by reputation, but Peter Connolly stuck to his guns, and the censorship laws were repealed fairly soon afterwards by Justice Minister, Brian Lenihan.
Another literary giant on the Irish scene at the time was to visit our college soon afterwards, even though he managed to slip under the radar of the authorities in order to do so. Permission was required in order to bring in high profile speakers to address the students on Sunday evenings. Frank O’Connor was a leading short story writer at the time who was often critical of church and clergy, despite writing sensitively about individual priests. Not very amny people were aware that ‘Frank O’Connor’ was the pen-name of Corkonian, Michael O’Donovan.
When the college authorities were asked for permission for one Michael O’Donovan to address the students, his name did not ring any alarm bells. Of coure they were less than pleased when they read in the following days newspapers that Frank O’Connor has addressed the students. They could not do very much about it without admitting ignorance of literary matters, the use of pen-names, etc. We had the benefit of hearing a thoughtful and thought provoking talk from one of Ireland’s truly great short story writers a fortnight before he died. I have no doubt that the names of further speakers were scrutinised pretty strictly after that.
Edna O’Brien was somewhat of an iconic figure in the Ireland of nearly fifty years ago, with her shock of red hair, and her books which seem to have shocked the Irish Censorship Board more than anyone else. There was a mood of change in the country and outside it at the time. The Seán Lemass/Ken Whittaker axis in the Government and Civil Service was reaping rewards with an increase in employment and easing of emigration. Across the water the Beatles were beginning to weave their magic on Merseyside. A young American President, John F. Kennedy called over to visit his ancestral home in Wexford. The proverbial rising tide seemed to be lifting all boats, or maybe it’s just that we were young then.
It would seem that I was walking away from all this when I headed off to Maynooth, but that too was to become an exciting place in the years that followed as the influence of the Second Vatican Council came to be felt even in that venerable institution. Our English lecturer, Fr. Peter Connolly gained some national notoriety when he publicly praised the novels of Edna O’Brien. Shock/horror from those who had not read them and only knew of them by reputation, but Peter Connolly stuck to his guns, and the censorship laws were repealed fairly soon afterwards by Justice Minister, Brian Lenihan.
Another literary giant on the Irish scene at the time was to visit our college soon afterwards, even though he managed to slip under the radar of the authorities in order to do so. Permission was required in order to bring in high profile speakers to address the students on Sunday evenings. Frank O’Connor was a leading short story writer at the time who was often critical of church and clergy, despite writing sensitively about individual priests. Not very amny people were aware that ‘Frank O’Connor’ was the pen-name of Corkonian, Michael O’Donovan.
When the college authorities were asked for permission for one Michael O’Donovan to address the students, his name did not ring any alarm bells. Of coure they were less than pleased when they read in the following days newspapers that Frank O’Connor has addressed the students. They could not do very much about it without admitting ignorance of literary matters, the use of pen-names, etc. We had the benefit of hearing a thoughtful and thought provoking talk from one of Ireland’s truly great short story writers a fortnight before he died. I have no doubt that the names of further speakers were scrutinised pretty strictly after that.