Week ending 21st July 2015
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 reminded me of my time as a deacon in Fulham forty-five 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 forty-five year olds over there in London who are wondering what the smell from the deacon’s breath was as he poured on the baptismal water on their baby heads. 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 priests 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, as it was for a number of years until recently on TG4. That station now carries the Tour De France at this time of year, Cycling and tennis are 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-two 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 priests 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, as it was for a number of years until recently on TG4. That station now carries the Tour De France at this time of year, Cycling and tennis are 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-two 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 14th July 2015
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 the day after tomorrow. By then we hope to be on board fishing and other boats heading out from 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 the winter before last’s storms, but has now been beautifully restored.
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-four 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. Thankfully, after forty-two years, searches for at least some of the disappeared have been successful recently
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 fifth anniversary of my move from Tourmakeady to Carna. Recent sightings of rhododendron have brought back fond memories of those years in a place and people I will always remember with gratitude,
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-four 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. Thankfully, after forty-two years, searches for at least some of the disappeared have been successful recently
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 fifth anniversary of my move from Tourmakeady to Carna. Recent sightings of rhododendron have brought back fond memories of those years in a place and people I will always remember with gratitude,
Week ending 7th July 2015
The whispers were gentle as summer breezes, as the elephant in the ointment or fly in the room began to be faced up to and discussed by the clergy of the Archdiocese of Tuam, “Where are the Canons?” was the question It was whispered in sacristies before weddings and funerals. It was mentioned apparently in a casual manner when a priestly golfer was trying to put a colleague off his stroke: “How come there are no new Canons this year?” It is as if the Canon is the new corncrake or curlew, an endangered species in the clerical world, a voice that will not cry in the wilderness for much longer. There were four Canons last year from the class of 1970, none this year from the ’71 vintage to which I belong. Could it be the end of clerical civilisation as we know it? Are we getting back to the two-tier priesthood, the insiders and the outsiders?
I had waited with bated, or was it baited breath for the announcement of the priestly appointments. It was like reading the newspaper obituaries and breathing a sigh of relief that my name was not included this time. I had dirtied my clerical copybook often enough to know that I was never going to be a Canon, but what of men of exemplary character who were ignored, overlooked or omitted? None of them had publicly supported the same-sex marriage referendum, as I had. Perhaps the Canon quota was full, or quotas had been done away with as in the land of milk and butter, but there was no explanation. It sounds like sour grapes for someone like me to say that priestly honours are part of the clericalist malaise that has the Roman Catholic church the way it is. How else are good clerics to be rewarded or the wicked punished?
Naturally enough I had tried all of my considerable charm to butter up my Archbishop as the deadline for diocesan changes approached. I wrote an article in Irish for the diocesan magazine “New Dawn” which harked back nostalgically to times we shared rooms in Maynooth College, when our very future in the priesthood rested on the whims of eccentric deans of indiscipline. I also referred to the danger three priests of his diocese found themselves in as we travelled by Aer Arann islander plane to Galway on our way to his installation as Archbishop twenty years ago. The landing in Inis Mór had to be aborted and we found ourselves flying over Poll na bPéist and the cliffs from which Red Bull divers ply their trade from time to time nowadays. The sea was like a madly boiling kettle beneath us when one of my colleagues turned to me and asked: “Is any bishop worth this?” I did a Tammy Wynette and stood by my man: “Of course he is worth it.” Devil the difference it made. It was still: “No Canon do.”
I have to admit to some Canon-envy, not for spiritual, but for literary reasons. I often think of the advantage the novelist and Parish Priest of Doneraile had in being able to put “Patrick Augustine Canon Sheehan,” on the covers of his books more than a hundred years ago. I have to be content with my own name and surname on my novels, but there is more than one way to skin a cat or become a Canon. Politicians like Sean D Dublin Bay Rockall Loftus or Pól Báinín Ó Foighil went down the road of deed poll to make particular political points. How about “Pádraig Referendum DeCanoned Standún” on my next novel: “MacDé, Cé hé?” or the full Irish language version: “Pádraig Reifreann Canónach Coillte Standún?”
I had waited with bated, or was it baited breath for the announcement of the priestly appointments. It was like reading the newspaper obituaries and breathing a sigh of relief that my name was not included this time. I had dirtied my clerical copybook often enough to know that I was never going to be a Canon, but what of men of exemplary character who were ignored, overlooked or omitted? None of them had publicly supported the same-sex marriage referendum, as I had. Perhaps the Canon quota was full, or quotas had been done away with as in the land of milk and butter, but there was no explanation. It sounds like sour grapes for someone like me to say that priestly honours are part of the clericalist malaise that has the Roman Catholic church the way it is. How else are good clerics to be rewarded or the wicked punished?
Naturally enough I had tried all of my considerable charm to butter up my Archbishop as the deadline for diocesan changes approached. I wrote an article in Irish for the diocesan magazine “New Dawn” which harked back nostalgically to times we shared rooms in Maynooth College, when our very future in the priesthood rested on the whims of eccentric deans of indiscipline. I also referred to the danger three priests of his diocese found themselves in as we travelled by Aer Arann islander plane to Galway on our way to his installation as Archbishop twenty years ago. The landing in Inis Mór had to be aborted and we found ourselves flying over Poll na bPéist and the cliffs from which Red Bull divers ply their trade from time to time nowadays. The sea was like a madly boiling kettle beneath us when one of my colleagues turned to me and asked: “Is any bishop worth this?” I did a Tammy Wynette and stood by my man: “Of course he is worth it.” Devil the difference it made. It was still: “No Canon do.”
I have to admit to some Canon-envy, not for spiritual, but for literary reasons. I often think of the advantage the novelist and Parish Priest of Doneraile had in being able to put “Patrick Augustine Canon Sheehan,” on the covers of his books more than a hundred years ago. I have to be content with my own name and surname on my novels, but there is more than one way to skin a cat or become a Canon. Politicians like Sean D Dublin Bay Rockall Loftus or Pól Báinín Ó Foighil went down the road of deed poll to make particular political points. How about “Pádraig Referendum DeCanoned Standún” on my next novel: “MacDé, Cé hé?” or the full Irish language version: “Pádraig Reifreann Canónach Coillte Standún?”