Week ending 29th.
“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 part of July was a disappointment after a glorious June. Mist and fog replaced sunshine to a large extent, but not before hay and yurf were saved here in Conamara. I hate to mention it but back to school is little more than a month away, and children would enjoy a bit more 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not read them and only knew of them by reputation, but Peter Connolly stuck to his guns, and the censorship laws were repealed fairly soon afterwards by Justice Minister, Brian Lenihan. It was my pleasure to re-launch the first novel banned in this State, Aran Islander Liam Ó Flaherty’s “The House Of Gold” in Galway city Library this time last year.
Another literary giant on the Irish scene at the time was to visit our college shortly before he died, 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 day’s 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. It was my pleasure to re-launch the first novel banned in this State, Aran Islander Liam Ó Flaherty’s “The House Of Gold” in Galway city Library this time last year.
Another literary giant on the Irish scene at the time was to visit our college shortly before he died, 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 day’s 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.
Week ending 22nd.
I first saw tennis played on television during the Wimbledon finals of 1970. I must confess that I am not much more interested now than I was then, but every glimpse of Wimbledon I got recently on TG4 reminded me of my time as a deacon in Fulham fortyt-four 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 ever had, as the Gospels tell us that ‘he drank no wine or strong drink.’
I remember the contrasts in the parish of Fulham from the highrise flats named after Labour politicians of the past to the well to do rows of houses in other parts of the area, as well as in nearby more fashionable 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 about employment 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. 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 in the communications industry. Thirty-one years ago when my first book was published (Súil le Breith, Cló Chonamara) 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 of the past to the well to do rows of houses in other parts of the area, as well as in nearby more fashionable 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 about employment 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. 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 in the communications industry. Thirty-one years ago when my first book was published (Súil le Breith, Cló Chonamara) 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 15th.
By the time these words are in print I and up to a thousand other people will have a weather eye or ear to forecasts for tomorrow. By then we hope to be on board fishing and other boats heading out from close to Mace pier to St. Mac Dara’s island off the coast of Carna. The ‘Mace’ in question is not a supermarket but a place-name some people will be familiar with from weather forecasts. There is a metereological station on nearby Mace Head facing into the southwest prevailing wind as it comes ashore at the bottom corner of the Galway/Mayo extension into the Atlantic ocean. Saint Mac Dara is revered in this part of the world, his island a sacred place. His little church was beautifully restored in the 1970’s and the tradition of having Mass and a pilgrimage there on his feastday, the 16th of July, goes back much further. Mace pier itself was severely damaged in last winter’s storms, so we will need very good weather to clamber from shoreline rocks on to small boats or currachs which can carry us to larger craft for the journey to the island. Fisherfolk and sailors have a special regard for St. Mac Dara. Sailboats have the tradition of honouring him by dipping a sail. Coastal communities are deeply affected by losses at sea or in lakes no matter where they happen. Each remember tragedies that happened in their own area at such times. They are united in their grief and in their knowledge of the power of water and of the sea in particular, no matter how careful people are or what precautions they take. After forty-three years as a priest in coastal and island communities as well as by the shore of Lough Mask, I am very aware of how deeply those feelings run. The harrowing grief of failing to find a body is probably the worst of all, whether this is felt after a drowning or in the case of the disappeared whose families are still searching for the bodies of loved ones murdered during the Troubles in Northern Ireland.
Saint Mac Dara’s pattern or patron day will acknowledge grief and loss as well as praying for the safety of all who put to sea, but like all such days there will be the fun element too. There is a certain excitement, especially for children, in heading out to an offshore island for a special occasion. Some will bring picnics to have after the ceremonies. People will mingle, greet old friends, wander around the island for a couple of hours. There will be a regatta. The great sails of hooker and gleoteóg will soon be seen throughout the bay as boats from all over Conamara and beyond will race each other. The boats themselves have in a sense been resurrected, as many were made redundant in the seventies when the turf-trade across Galway Bay to the Aran Islands and Ballyvaughan came to an end. Many have been restored, others built from scratch, so it is now possible to see as many as thirty traditional sails in one outing.
Saint Mac Dara’s Day will have a special meaning for me as it marks the fourth anniversary of my move from Tourmakeady to Carna. A couple of sad funerals in this area clashed with the deaths of old friends who had been exceptionally good to me in my last parish. Their cups of tea and cakes of brown bread were the stuff of legend. I didn’t manage to go back to share the altar for their funeral Masses, but they will have known that they would be remembered with gratitude at an altar on a distant shore.
Saint Mac Dara’s pattern or patron day will acknowledge grief and loss as well as praying for the safety of all who put to sea, but like all such days there will be the fun element too. There is a certain excitement, especially for children, in heading out to an offshore island for a special occasion. Some will bring picnics to have after the ceremonies. People will mingle, greet old friends, wander around the island for a couple of hours. There will be a regatta. The great sails of hooker and gleoteóg will soon be seen throughout the bay as boats from all over Conamara and beyond will race each other. The boats themselves have in a sense been resurrected, as many were made redundant in the seventies when the turf-trade across Galway Bay to the Aran Islands and Ballyvaughan came to an end. Many have been restored, others built from scratch, so it is now possible to see as many as thirty traditional sails in one outing.
Saint Mac Dara’s Day will have a special meaning for me as it marks the fourth anniversary of my move from Tourmakeady to Carna. A couple of sad funerals in this area clashed with the deaths of old friends who had been exceptionally good to me in my last parish. Their cups of tea and cakes of brown bread were the stuff of legend. I didn’t manage to go back to share the altar for their funeral Masses, but they will have known that they would be remembered with gratitude at an altar on a distant shore.
Week ending 8th.
It is probably five years since I took my dog Mocca for a walk down a roadway which was for me as much a memory lane as a road to God knows where. Apart from God and those who have access to their land from this particular road, its existence is probably unknown to the rest of the world. I only know it from many years as a youngster bringing cattle to water at one end of it. I had not stepped on the roadway we used to know as ‘the green boreen’ for more than forty years. A chance meeting with a member of the Maughan family whose family camped there from time to time while sending their children to Clogher school brought many memories tumbling back.
Like much of the land striped and divided more than a hundred years ago as a result of the Land Acts which gave ownership of the land to the tenants, our holding was scattered into three different sections inside about a mile of each other. This was inconvenient for the movement of animals or for haymaking or other activities, but we didn’t think too much about that as we got on with the job in hand. After school activity entailed walking a mile or so across other people’s fields to check cattle or walk them a quarter of a mile to water at one end of that green road.
This was sometimes a chore, but more often than not an outlet for the imagination, ducking and diving, hiding and seeking, playing cowboys or swashbuckling musketeers from one of Alexander Dumas’s novels. Other memories are of haymaking, and the extradorinary taste that food has when eaten outdoors in bog or hayfield. Hunger is a great sauce, and bottles of tea from homespun woolen socks washed down the day’s dust as satisfyingly as any good wine.
Another section of our land was a bit closer to Tuffys and Maddens at Doonamona crossroads. Children were dispatched on rare occasions for a sweetcan of porter, more often for a loaf of bread and a pot of strawberry jam. I remember distinctly the smell of the‘tar rope’ when it came out and did away with the need to wind two hay ropes to tie down every cock of hay. I can see now in my mind’s eye the round caravans parked at the end of the green boreen as we made our way to Clogher school, the piebald ponies a source of some wonder. An earlier memory is of a sports day across the road in Fortlawn. A photograph taken on the day would place it as far back as 1950, or slightly earlier.
It was on that green boreen I once thought I heard the curlew call my name: Its plaintive voice seemed to say:”Pád-raig, Pád-raig” We had probably been learning of the way Saint Patrick had been called by the children of Ireland to “walk once more among us.” I will probably never walk that road again as the last time was there I found the part of it I really wanted to see virtually inaccesible due to overgrowth of the undergrowth, so I can leave it all to memory and imagination. In one sense I left that world behind me many years ago. In another I brought it with me. One of the great joys in life is carrying our store of memories with us the way the seilimide carries its house on its back.
Like much of the land striped and divided more than a hundred years ago as a result of the Land Acts which gave ownership of the land to the tenants, our holding was scattered into three different sections inside about a mile of each other. This was inconvenient for the movement of animals or for haymaking or other activities, but we didn’t think too much about that as we got on with the job in hand. After school activity entailed walking a mile or so across other people’s fields to check cattle or walk them a quarter of a mile to water at one end of that green road.
This was sometimes a chore, but more often than not an outlet for the imagination, ducking and diving, hiding and seeking, playing cowboys or swashbuckling musketeers from one of Alexander Dumas’s novels. Other memories are of haymaking, and the extradorinary taste that food has when eaten outdoors in bog or hayfield. Hunger is a great sauce, and bottles of tea from homespun woolen socks washed down the day’s dust as satisfyingly as any good wine.
Another section of our land was a bit closer to Tuffys and Maddens at Doonamona crossroads. Children were dispatched on rare occasions for a sweetcan of porter, more often for a loaf of bread and a pot of strawberry jam. I remember distinctly the smell of the‘tar rope’ when it came out and did away with the need to wind two hay ropes to tie down every cock of hay. I can see now in my mind’s eye the round caravans parked at the end of the green boreen as we made our way to Clogher school, the piebald ponies a source of some wonder. An earlier memory is of a sports day across the road in Fortlawn. A photograph taken on the day would place it as far back as 1950, or slightly earlier.
It was on that green boreen I once thought I heard the curlew call my name: Its plaintive voice seemed to say:”Pád-raig, Pád-raig” We had probably been learning of the way Saint Patrick had been called by the children of Ireland to “walk once more among us.” I will probably never walk that road again as the last time was there I found the part of it I really wanted to see virtually inaccesible due to overgrowth of the undergrowth, so I can leave it all to memory and imagination. In one sense I left that world behind me many years ago. In another I brought it with me. One of the great joys in life is carrying our store of memories with us the way the seilimide carries its house on its back.
Week ending 1st.
I happened to see the Corpus Christi procession in the Southern Italian town of Sorrento four or five years ago, and I must say that it was impressive. It brought festive colour, noise, music and a wonderful smell of incense to people of many nationalities who were sitting down to their evening meals both in restaurants and out of doors as the procession wended its way through the narrow streets. Waiters and other staff seemed to become concerned as people abandoned their tables and went to the end of the street to view the procession, drawn there by the activity and the music. It was over as quickly as a cycle race, as the action moved on and tourists returned to their meals with another unusual happening to report or remember.
Later in the evening the ringing of church bells and a fireworks display reminded people that this was an important local festival as well as a feast of an almost universal church. It was treated with respect by people of various religions and none at all. It seemed to be taken for granted that local people were entitled to express their religion and culture without interfering with others (apart from maybe too much bell ringing) or being interfered with by them. It is their town and we tourists were the strangers, so Anglo-Saxon notions of political correctness did not enter the equation. People were getting on with their own lives as they had always done. Too often people in this country bend over backwards to accommodate tourists, when the tourists themselves would much prefer to see people’s lives just as they are.
Five years later and one week of good weather means that any kind of foreign holiday would have little appeal for me this year. Many countries in Europe are just too hot at the moment, as Southern Italy was on my one visit there. Anyway I would not want to be away from Carna’s sandy beaches if we continue to get a reasonably good summer. After more than forty years in beautiful areas that attract many tourists I still have mixed feelings about how much any tourist learns about an area which they visit for a week or two. Go for the food, the drink, the music, the heat of the sun on your back, I say, but don’t come home claiming to be an expert on the country or the place you visit. When I was in the Aran Islands especially I was often amazed at the generalised judgments tourists made about the place or the people after a couple of days or weeks. After years there I could not claim any expertise. I’m getting too old and lazy for airports any more but am still glad I travelled a little later in life, after getting my first passport twenty years ago at the age of forty-eight.
The universality of the Roman Catholic church to which I belong is also striking in countries such as Italy, Portugal or Spain. I just have not visited many others so I can not compare them. I remember sitting at the exposition of the Blesed Sacrament in a little church in Sesimbra in Portugal which was no different from a similar few hours of adoration in any church in Ireland. It brought home to me the number of people who quietly pray inside and outside churches every day and sometimes all day. They are unnoticed and overlooked by millions, not that notice matters to them, but they quietly get on with prayer, for themselves, their families and the rest of the world. They have endured the flak, the shame and the blame for the failings of the minority of church people whose brutality in Institutions has been highlighted in recent times, but those who pray quietly week in and week out and help carry the rest of us through difficult times.
Later in the evening the ringing of church bells and a fireworks display reminded people that this was an important local festival as well as a feast of an almost universal church. It was treated with respect by people of various religions and none at all. It seemed to be taken for granted that local people were entitled to express their religion and culture without interfering with others (apart from maybe too much bell ringing) or being interfered with by them. It is their town and we tourists were the strangers, so Anglo-Saxon notions of political correctness did not enter the equation. People were getting on with their own lives as they had always done. Too often people in this country bend over backwards to accommodate tourists, when the tourists themselves would much prefer to see people’s lives just as they are.
Five years later and one week of good weather means that any kind of foreign holiday would have little appeal for me this year. Many countries in Europe are just too hot at the moment, as Southern Italy was on my one visit there. Anyway I would not want to be away from Carna’s sandy beaches if we continue to get a reasonably good summer. After more than forty years in beautiful areas that attract many tourists I still have mixed feelings about how much any tourist learns about an area which they visit for a week or two. Go for the food, the drink, the music, the heat of the sun on your back, I say, but don’t come home claiming to be an expert on the country or the place you visit. When I was in the Aran Islands especially I was often amazed at the generalised judgments tourists made about the place or the people after a couple of days or weeks. After years there I could not claim any expertise. I’m getting too old and lazy for airports any more but am still glad I travelled a little later in life, after getting my first passport twenty years ago at the age of forty-eight.
The universality of the Roman Catholic church to which I belong is also striking in countries such as Italy, Portugal or Spain. I just have not visited many others so I can not compare them. I remember sitting at the exposition of the Blesed Sacrament in a little church in Sesimbra in Portugal which was no different from a similar few hours of adoration in any church in Ireland. It brought home to me the number of people who quietly pray inside and outside churches every day and sometimes all day. They are unnoticed and overlooked by millions, not that notice matters to them, but they quietly get on with prayer, for themselves, their families and the rest of the world. They have endured the flak, the shame and the blame for the failings of the minority of church people whose brutality in Institutions has been highlighted in recent times, but those who pray quietly week in and week out and help carry the rest of us through difficult times.