Week ending July 31st 2012
It was third time lucky with regards to travelling to Saint MacDara’s Island for the annual pattern or patron saint’s day as far as I was concerned. Having failed last year as well as on my very first day in Carna the previous year because of inclement weather, it was getting close to hell or high water time. It was going to be sink or swim as far as my reputation for holiness was concerned. It was beginning to look as if MacDara didn’t want me, and if a saint held in such high regard locally was giving me the wet shoulder, if not the cold one, I was in serious trouble. I wondered could my name be the problem as Saints MacDara and Patrick were apparently not best buddies, but there were other Patricks here before me, Fathers Paddy Delaney and Padraic Audley and they could virtually walk on water as far as getting to the island was concerned. It was with great relief that I announced to the assembled multitude at the beginning of Mass that I might as well have gone looking for my cards if I had failed to reach the island for the third time in a row. I suggested that the Archbishop’s Secretary, Fr. Fintan Monahan, who was there for the occasion, probably had my cards in the pocket of his soutane. Otherwise he was probably there to check were we saying Mass in our wellington boots. In fact I was, as, whatever about getting cold feet that morning, I certainly did not want to get wet ones. I spent enough of my life on islands to know that wet feet lead to contrary clergyman. Fr. Fintan was there in fact in his capacity as editor of the new diocesan magazine, “New Dawn” which has recently sold out its first edition, so watch out for MacDara’s Island photos in the next edition in a couple of month’s time.
I mentioned the ’assembled multitude’ in the last paragraph and multitude it certainly was, not just of Carna and Kilkerrin people but of people from various parts of Ireland and abroad who joined in the day’s pilgrimage. Local boatmen carried people free of charge in everything from currachs to half-decker fishing boats, and it was wonderful to see all those boats as well as a flotilla of Galway hookers recently returned from the Volvo Ocean Race celebrations in Galway anchored in the lee of the island while the Mass was taking place. The chief celebrant was newly ordained Father Shane Sullivan, and the Chicago/Minnesota man whose father, Bart, is from Cill Chiaráin gave a fine sermon in Irish. He had escaped from his new appointment in Tuam overnight to honour the ancestral saint of Conamara.
Another Carna man, Father Éamonn, or Eddie Bheartla Ó Conghaile, now in Tir An Fhia in the parish of An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) was among the concelebrants, a man who probably knows more about Saint MacDara and parish folklore than anyone alive. His songs are very regularly featured on Mid West Radio. Former Parish Priest of Rosmuc, Father Pádraic Ó Consaindín joined us too, more sprightly than most of us, which says a lot for retirement. Leenane Parish Priest, Father Ciarán De Búrca came from the land of the Fjord and the hills to concelebrate, and the way he walked the land left me wondering has he his eye on South Conamara. Of course I am not paranoid – I just need to watch my back. Next big day-out in this part of the country will be the Máméan pilgrimage, the Sunday after Croagh Patrick, but as I have a wedding that day I will have to make my own pilgrimage quietly on another occasion.
I mentioned the ’assembled multitude’ in the last paragraph and multitude it certainly was, not just of Carna and Kilkerrin people but of people from various parts of Ireland and abroad who joined in the day’s pilgrimage. Local boatmen carried people free of charge in everything from currachs to half-decker fishing boats, and it was wonderful to see all those boats as well as a flotilla of Galway hookers recently returned from the Volvo Ocean Race celebrations in Galway anchored in the lee of the island while the Mass was taking place. The chief celebrant was newly ordained Father Shane Sullivan, and the Chicago/Minnesota man whose father, Bart, is from Cill Chiaráin gave a fine sermon in Irish. He had escaped from his new appointment in Tuam overnight to honour the ancestral saint of Conamara.
Another Carna man, Father Éamonn, or Eddie Bheartla Ó Conghaile, now in Tir An Fhia in the parish of An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) was among the concelebrants, a man who probably knows more about Saint MacDara and parish folklore than anyone alive. His songs are very regularly featured on Mid West Radio. Former Parish Priest of Rosmuc, Father Pádraic Ó Consaindín joined us too, more sprightly than most of us, which says a lot for retirement. Leenane Parish Priest, Father Ciarán De Búrca came from the land of the Fjord and the hills to concelebrate, and the way he walked the land left me wondering has he his eye on South Conamara. Of course I am not paranoid – I just need to watch my back. Next big day-out in this part of the country will be the Máméan pilgrimage, the Sunday after Croagh Patrick, but as I have a wedding that day I will have to make my own pilgrimage quietly on another occasion.
Week ending July 24th 2012
Are you as worked up about Higgs-boson as I am? For those not at the cutting edge of science and technology this is the so-callel “God particle” which helps explain the Big Bang theory about the formation of our universe. The theory was tested in a tunnel through the mountains of Switzerland fairly recently which, it is claimed, proved it in practice. I am delighted for those involved in such a clever and expensive trial, but I am not personally convinced. My problem is not with the theory or the practice. The result has no effect on my faith or view of life. I don’t care if the particle turns out to be the bite Eve took from the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil before handing it to Adam in the Old Testament parable. I just have an instinct that this has come too easily. It is almost too good to be true, too much like winning the lotto with your first quick-pick. I have to admit that my instincts are not always correct. I have an instinct a couple of times a week that I am about to win the lotto, which has so far proved to be incorrect.
The yearly Mayo instinct that the County Senior Football team will win the All Ireland has also proved to be untrue until now. So Higgs-boson stands a chance despite my reservations. This should come as a great consolation to the scientific community, of which I am not a member. When I had my chance fifty years ago to choose between science and Greek as a subject for the Leaving Cert, I choose Greek for the lazy reason that it seemed to give me a better chance of gaining good marks. I have never been good at picking winners. Half a century later science is on a high, while Greece is in the doldrums, but at least that language helps me understand that word.
I would hate if Higgs-boson turned out to be just Higgedly-Piggeldy. I, of course, have my own theory about “the particle.” In fact I would suggest that it is the turfcutter’s revenge for being prevented from culling peat on Irish bogs. The “particle” in question is an Irish midge, míoltóg in this part of the country, which has managed to infiltrate the sophisticated equipment put together by CERN, the scientific organisation which created the experiment reputed to have found the mythical “God particle.” If such a midge can insinuate itself into my ear while weeding my carrots of an evening, and tickle me pink for the rest of the night, there is no doubting its ability to insert itself into CERN’s equipment, and put their experiment into an even bigger spin than it was in already.
As anyone who ever cut or footed turf can tell the scientists, there are ways and means of smoking out the midge. It has driven thousands to the cigarettes over the years, as the smoke emanating from lung and mouth at least gave a few moments respite from being eaten alive. A man remarked to me in a cematery recently, as a grave was being closed in fairly boggy ground, that hell did not consist of fire, but of the midges that were driving us crazy.at the time. Could CERN have missed the point, that Higgs-boson is not the “God-particle” but the “devil’s bit?”
The yearly Mayo instinct that the County Senior Football team will win the All Ireland has also proved to be untrue until now. So Higgs-boson stands a chance despite my reservations. This should come as a great consolation to the scientific community, of which I am not a member. When I had my chance fifty years ago to choose between science and Greek as a subject for the Leaving Cert, I choose Greek for the lazy reason that it seemed to give me a better chance of gaining good marks. I have never been good at picking winners. Half a century later science is on a high, while Greece is in the doldrums, but at least that language helps me understand that word.
I would hate if Higgs-boson turned out to be just Higgedly-Piggeldy. I, of course, have my own theory about “the particle.” In fact I would suggest that it is the turfcutter’s revenge for being prevented from culling peat on Irish bogs. The “particle” in question is an Irish midge, míoltóg in this part of the country, which has managed to infiltrate the sophisticated equipment put together by CERN, the scientific organisation which created the experiment reputed to have found the mythical “God particle.” If such a midge can insinuate itself into my ear while weeding my carrots of an evening, and tickle me pink for the rest of the night, there is no doubting its ability to insert itself into CERN’s equipment, and put their experiment into an even bigger spin than it was in already.
As anyone who ever cut or footed turf can tell the scientists, there are ways and means of smoking out the midge. It has driven thousands to the cigarettes over the years, as the smoke emanating from lung and mouth at least gave a few moments respite from being eaten alive. A man remarked to me in a cematery recently, as a grave was being closed in fairly boggy ground, that hell did not consist of fire, but of the midges that were driving us crazy.at the time. Could CERN have missed the point, that Higgs-boson is not the “God-particle” but the “devil’s bit?”
Week ending July 17th 2012
I first saw tennis played on television during the Wimbledon finals of 1970. I must confess that I am no more interested now than I was then, but every glimpse of Wimbledon I get nowadays reminds me of my time as a deacon in Fulham fortytwo years ago. I remember sitting in front of the black and white TV with a couple of priests in the lounge of the parish house on a summer Sunday sipping a gin and Martini cocktail before lunch. The fact that there were children to be baptised an hour later did not take away from the lovely drink, and I hope it did not take away from the baptisms. There are probably still fortytwo year olds out there who are wondering what the smell from the deacon’s breath was as he poured on the baptismal water. It was not a problem John the Baptist had, as ‘he drank no wine or strong drink.’
I remember the contrasts in the parish of Fulham from the highrise flats named after Labour politicians to the well to do rows of houses in other parts of the area as well as in nearby Chelsea. What impressed me most was the help available from parishioners to the local clergy in the practicalities of parish life such as counting collections or looking after parish property. Many of those involved were Irish, and I wondered would they do the same at home. They probably would if they were asked or invited. Then as now I enjoyed most of all visiting those who were sick or housebound, or in some cases liftbound in their multistoried flats. Like most people we visit on such occasions those with most to complain about complained the least, and it was a pleasure to sit down with them and hear their stories.
Little did I think then or for many years afterwards that Wimbledon would be available live on an Irish language TV station based in Conamara. TG4 also carries the Tour De France at this time of year, niche sports that would not attract a national audience, but it is good to have them available to those who are interested, even if many viewers do not understand the language of the commentators. They have eyes to see. The same station fills many other niches, in Gaelic football (Ladies football in particular) rugby, soccer, etc. The idea that GAA club County finals would be regularly broadcast on a national TV station would have virtually been laughable twenty years ago, but it is a regular occurance now, There no language hangups – if a manager or player has no Irish, he or she is interviewed in English, but the main thrust of programming is in Irish.
I heard at a meeting some time ago that there are up to six hundred people involved in the communications industry west of Galway city, in Conamara basically. This is more than are involved in the fishing or tourism industries. It encompasses TG4, Radió na Gaeltachta, as well as companies involved in independent productions such as ‘Ros na Rún.’ There are others involved in dubbing Welsh and other language programmes – Dora can speak Irish as well as she can speak Spanish. Children’s programmes are a priority, while the publication of books and CDs by such as Cló Iar-Chonnacht for both young and old can also be included. Twentynine years ago when my first book was published it was a source of wonder for one reviewer that the book was ‘written, published and printed in the Gaeltacht.’ This is of no wonder to anyone any more.
I remember the contrasts in the parish of Fulham from the highrise flats named after Labour politicians to the well to do rows of houses in other parts of the area as well as in nearby Chelsea. What impressed me most was the help available from parishioners to the local clergy in the practicalities of parish life such as counting collections or looking after parish property. Many of those involved were Irish, and I wondered would they do the same at home. They probably would if they were asked or invited. Then as now I enjoyed most of all visiting those who were sick or housebound, or in some cases liftbound in their multistoried flats. Like most people we visit on such occasions those with most to complain about complained the least, and it was a pleasure to sit down with them and hear their stories.
Little did I think then or for many years afterwards that Wimbledon would be available live on an Irish language TV station based in Conamara. TG4 also carries the Tour De France at this time of year, niche sports that would not attract a national audience, but it is good to have them available to those who are interested, even if many viewers do not understand the language of the commentators. They have eyes to see. The same station fills many other niches, in Gaelic football (Ladies football in particular) rugby, soccer, etc. The idea that GAA club County finals would be regularly broadcast on a national TV station would have virtually been laughable twenty years ago, but it is a regular occurance now, There no language hangups – if a manager or player has no Irish, he or she is interviewed in English, but the main thrust of programming is in Irish.
I heard at a meeting some time ago that there are up to six hundred people involved in the communications industry west of Galway city, in Conamara basically. This is more than are involved in the fishing or tourism industries. It encompasses TG4, Radió na Gaeltachta, as well as companies involved in independent productions such as ‘Ros na Rún.’ There are others involved in dubbing Welsh and other language programmes – Dora can speak Irish as well as she can speak Spanish. Children’s programmes are a priority, while the publication of books and CDs by such as Cló Iar-Chonnacht for both young and old can also be included. Twentynine years ago when my first book was published it was a source of wonder for one reviewer that the book was ‘written, published and printed in the Gaeltacht.’ This is of no wonder to anyone any more.
Week ending July 10th 2012
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” was once considered the ultimate in romantic compliments. In this day and age, and considering the weather in which I write this, it could lead to a complimentary ticket to the doghouse, as well as a riposte such as: “Do I look wet and windy?” or: “Am I really muggy and overcast? Take a good look at yourself.” At the same time a few good days can work wonders. By the time you read this you may well be asking: “What rain? What floods? Pass me the sunscreen and the parasol. We never died of summer yet.”
The last day of June is an important deadline for those who write in the Irish language, as it is the closing date for entries to the Oireachtas literary competitions. Standards are high and to win the occasional one is a bonus for any of us. The real benefit for many writers is that the competition judges give you an honest appraisal of your work in progress. A little encouragement for a first drafr hastily completed to meet the deadline gives a person confidence to continue, as well as useful guidelines to adhere to. The first of July comes with a sigh of relief that all you can do has been done, and in lotto logic – “If you’re not in you can’t win.”
It also gives a person time to deal with all the stuff that has been longfingered as you struggle with the literary and imaginative juices. That dust on the bookshelf was not there when last you looked. Than I remember that the second anniversary of my move to Carna takes place this week. Some of that dust is actually two years old, and is not meant to be conserved. As I flick the duster with wrist movements that would do credit to a Klkenny hurler I notice a slim volume with a green cover that has not been opened in a quarter of a century.
The opening page was signed on the 24/6/1987, a couple of weeks before I was changed from An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) to Inis Meáin in the Aran Islands. It is signed: “Le meas mór, Micheál Ó Ríordáin,” the then head of the Irish Communist Party. The book is the first known translation of “The Communist Manifesto” of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels (Clár na Comharsheilbhe - Forógra na gCumanach) My message is don’t ever back a horse in the Irish language - we just came to the Communist Manifesto a year or two before the Berlin Wall and the Iron Curtain dsintegrated.
Such a flippant comment does not take away from the sincerity of the vast majority of people who pinned their hopes on communism in the past century, hopes often cynically exploited by the likes of Joseph Stalin. The collapse of capitalism shows us the difficulty of finding the correct system to live by. I have heard the word ‘Communist’ thrown in recent times at President Barak Obama because of his efforts to introduce healthcare insurance for those without it in the United States, so it is still considered a potent insult. My memories of the launch of the Irish language version of the Communist Manifesto is of shaking the hands and chatting with kind and sincere men such as Micheál Ó Ríordáin, and the then retired Dr. Noel Browne, who was living locally near Rossaveal.
The last day of June is an important deadline for those who write in the Irish language, as it is the closing date for entries to the Oireachtas literary competitions. Standards are high and to win the occasional one is a bonus for any of us. The real benefit for many writers is that the competition judges give you an honest appraisal of your work in progress. A little encouragement for a first drafr hastily completed to meet the deadline gives a person confidence to continue, as well as useful guidelines to adhere to. The first of July comes with a sigh of relief that all you can do has been done, and in lotto logic – “If you’re not in you can’t win.”
It also gives a person time to deal with all the stuff that has been longfingered as you struggle with the literary and imaginative juices. That dust on the bookshelf was not there when last you looked. Than I remember that the second anniversary of my move to Carna takes place this week. Some of that dust is actually two years old, and is not meant to be conserved. As I flick the duster with wrist movements that would do credit to a Klkenny hurler I notice a slim volume with a green cover that has not been opened in a quarter of a century.
The opening page was signed on the 24/6/1987, a couple of weeks before I was changed from An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) to Inis Meáin in the Aran Islands. It is signed: “Le meas mór, Micheál Ó Ríordáin,” the then head of the Irish Communist Party. The book is the first known translation of “The Communist Manifesto” of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels (Clár na Comharsheilbhe - Forógra na gCumanach) My message is don’t ever back a horse in the Irish language - we just came to the Communist Manifesto a year or two before the Berlin Wall and the Iron Curtain dsintegrated.
Such a flippant comment does not take away from the sincerity of the vast majority of people who pinned their hopes on communism in the past century, hopes often cynically exploited by the likes of Joseph Stalin. The collapse of capitalism shows us the difficulty of finding the correct system to live by. I have heard the word ‘Communist’ thrown in recent times at President Barak Obama because of his efforts to introduce healthcare insurance for those without it in the United States, so it is still considered a potent insult. My memories of the launch of the Irish language version of the Communist Manifesto is of shaking the hands and chatting with kind and sincere men such as Micheál Ó Ríordáin, and the then retired Dr. Noel Browne, who was living locally near Rossaveal.
Week ending July 3rd 2012
Strange as it may seem, the inter-continental transfer of a football player nay do more to raise the profile of Christianity in China than anything any Pope, Bishop or Cardinal could do. Dynamic Didier Drogba is moving from Chelsea to Shenua Shanghai at the age of thirty-four, to extend his career and to help the spread of soccer in China. He will also get well paid, an estimated 250,000 euro per week, though few would grudge him that, given the extent of his charity work in the Ivory Coast and other parts of Africa. He has helped to build hospitals and schools in his native country and is seen as a goodwill ambassador for all of Africa. He has terrorised defences in England for the past eight years and in France before that, but off the field he has done more than most footballers to help others less well off than himself.
I wonder what the young Chinese who watch his trademark sign of the cross after scoring a goal or some other successful passage of play. This was seen most clearly when he scored the winning goal in the penalty shootout that won the European Champion’s League for Chelsea a couple of months ago. That was after he had kept his club in the competition with a magnificent header near the end of the game. When he instinctively blesses himself in front of millions of Chinese after scoring a goal, will the young people there ask Daddy and Mammy what is that all about. Will Daddy and Mammy themselves wonder? Will young people imitate his blessing even as a goodwill gesture?.
It encourages some young people to see their heroes wear their faith on their sleeves in so far as they acknowledge the existence of a greater power or look on their gifts and skills as being God-given. It came as a surprise to many commentators earlier this year to find so many people praying for the recovery of Bolton player Fabrice Muamba who had a cardiac arrest on the field of play while playing against Tottenham in London. Some of the highly paid millionaires actually went on their knees on the pitch, a source of geat wonder to those who thought Britain was a completely secular society. Whole stadia had people wearing t-shirts which asked people to “pray for Muamba.”
The GAA is gradually distancing itself from the notion that it is a Roman Catholic Association, which is to be applauded. Gestures like that of Northern Ireland First Minister from the Democratic Unionist Party appearing with fellow First Minister Martin McGuinness of Sinn Féin at a GAA League match during the year helped in this regard. Gaelic football matches between the Garda and PSNI are a help too, though many PSNI members are now from the Catholic community.
I have heard fellow clergymen express disappointment at the appearance of Roman Catholic bishops in VIP lounges in Croke Park while clubs arrange training and matches with scant regard for the views of parents who want their children to be involved in sport while practising their faith as well. Some clubs do not see the irony in seeking space in parish newsletters while ignoring the views of such parents. The organisers of cycle races, marathons and car rallies close roads with no regard for those wishing to practice religion on a Sunday morning. It’a free country, they say, but the freedom to practice religion is part of that freedom.
I wonder what the young Chinese who watch his trademark sign of the cross after scoring a goal or some other successful passage of play. This was seen most clearly when he scored the winning goal in the penalty shootout that won the European Champion’s League for Chelsea a couple of months ago. That was after he had kept his club in the competition with a magnificent header near the end of the game. When he instinctively blesses himself in front of millions of Chinese after scoring a goal, will the young people there ask Daddy and Mammy what is that all about. Will Daddy and Mammy themselves wonder? Will young people imitate his blessing even as a goodwill gesture?.
It encourages some young people to see their heroes wear their faith on their sleeves in so far as they acknowledge the existence of a greater power or look on their gifts and skills as being God-given. It came as a surprise to many commentators earlier this year to find so many people praying for the recovery of Bolton player Fabrice Muamba who had a cardiac arrest on the field of play while playing against Tottenham in London. Some of the highly paid millionaires actually went on their knees on the pitch, a source of geat wonder to those who thought Britain was a completely secular society. Whole stadia had people wearing t-shirts which asked people to “pray for Muamba.”
The GAA is gradually distancing itself from the notion that it is a Roman Catholic Association, which is to be applauded. Gestures like that of Northern Ireland First Minister from the Democratic Unionist Party appearing with fellow First Minister Martin McGuinness of Sinn Féin at a GAA League match during the year helped in this regard. Gaelic football matches between the Garda and PSNI are a help too, though many PSNI members are now from the Catholic community.
I have heard fellow clergymen express disappointment at the appearance of Roman Catholic bishops in VIP lounges in Croke Park while clubs arrange training and matches with scant regard for the views of parents who want their children to be involved in sport while practising their faith as well. Some clubs do not see the irony in seeking space in parish newsletters while ignoring the views of such parents. The organisers of cycle races, marathons and car rallies close roads with no regard for those wishing to practice religion on a Sunday morning. It’a free country, they say, but the freedom to practice religion is part of that freedom.
