Week ending 29th June 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
The Twenty-ninth of June, the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul, was an important day in two of the parishes I have worked in. It is pattern or patron’s day on the Aran Island of Inis Mór in Galway Bay, and it is a day remembered fondly in the parish I am leaving in a couple of week’s time. The big fair day held on that date in Tourmakeady, Aonach an tSleibhe, the hill fair, was a most important day in the sheep farmer’s calendar, though it was not confined to sheep, but to all manner of other animals too, from bonhams to cattle.
Lá Fhéil Peadair is Póil, as the feast of the two great apostles was affectionately known, was a church holyday, though that never interfered with the buying and selling and other activities on and around the fair-green. There was Mass in the local church as on a Sunday, but religious duty done, people of all ages and genders enjoyed the fair. The coming of the cattle-marts eventually spelt the end of that and most other fairs throughout the country, so the 29th of June can slip by almost unnoticed nowadays in both the religious and commercial senses.
It is forty years since I first attempted to preach on the feast of Peter and Paul. It was still a church holyday at the time. I was a young deacon in Fulham in the Summer of 1970, trying to get experience of parish life. As a deacon I was allowed to baptise children and preach at Masses. It comes as somewhat of a shock to think that those little babies I christened at the time are more than forty years old now. I did cause a small shock in the local church when I described the great two apostles as “those two blackguards.” This was not the English way, and I was hauled gently over the coals for my rather intemperate language.
The language was probably wrong for that fairly genteel area, but the point I was trying to get across was not a bad one. Peter and Paul are great saints now, but they messed up more than most before they arrived at sainthood. Peter had a big heart and an even bigger mouth in that he promised more than he could deliver in his earlier days. He told Jesus he was prepared to die for him, and that no way would he ever deny him. We all know of the cock-crow that reminded him that he lacked the courage of his convictions. Jesus did not reject him for that, just gave him time to mature and reconsider. The day came soon after, when inspired by the Holy Spirit at Pentecost, he had the courage to preach the Risen Lord, and to live and die for that faith.
Paul was no saint either in his younger days. He was present at the stoning of Saint Stephen, and according to legend, held the cloaks of those who stoned him. Paul, then called Saul, persecuted the young church of Christ with great enthusiasm until his famous conversion on the road to Damascus, which led him to preach the gospel with all the zeal of the converted. He too gave his life in both senses for his faith, living it and dying for it. The two “old blackguards” deserve their position as two of the most important saints of the church. Spare a thought for them on “Lá Fhéil Peadair is Póil” and for all sinners who unknown to themselves and others, are also on the road to sainthood.
Lá Fhéil Peadair is Póil, as the feast of the two great apostles was affectionately known, was a church holyday, though that never interfered with the buying and selling and other activities on and around the fair-green. There was Mass in the local church as on a Sunday, but religious duty done, people of all ages and genders enjoyed the fair. The coming of the cattle-marts eventually spelt the end of that and most other fairs throughout the country, so the 29th of June can slip by almost unnoticed nowadays in both the religious and commercial senses.
It is forty years since I first attempted to preach on the feast of Peter and Paul. It was still a church holyday at the time. I was a young deacon in Fulham in the Summer of 1970, trying to get experience of parish life. As a deacon I was allowed to baptise children and preach at Masses. It comes as somewhat of a shock to think that those little babies I christened at the time are more than forty years old now. I did cause a small shock in the local church when I described the great two apostles as “those two blackguards.” This was not the English way, and I was hauled gently over the coals for my rather intemperate language.
The language was probably wrong for that fairly genteel area, but the point I was trying to get across was not a bad one. Peter and Paul are great saints now, but they messed up more than most before they arrived at sainthood. Peter had a big heart and an even bigger mouth in that he promised more than he could deliver in his earlier days. He told Jesus he was prepared to die for him, and that no way would he ever deny him. We all know of the cock-crow that reminded him that he lacked the courage of his convictions. Jesus did not reject him for that, just gave him time to mature and reconsider. The day came soon after, when inspired by the Holy Spirit at Pentecost, he had the courage to preach the Risen Lord, and to live and die for that faith.
Paul was no saint either in his younger days. He was present at the stoning of Saint Stephen, and according to legend, held the cloaks of those who stoned him. Paul, then called Saul, persecuted the young church of Christ with great enthusiasm until his famous conversion on the road to Damascus, which led him to preach the gospel with all the zeal of the converted. He too gave his life in both senses for his faith, living it and dying for it. The two “old blackguards” deserve their position as two of the most important saints of the church. Spare a thought for them on “Lá Fhéil Peadair is Póil” and for all sinners who unknown to themselves and others, are also on the road to sainthood.
Week ending 22nd June 2010
For many people the real summer begins now. The major State examinations are over for most, a relief to both students and their parents. The Leaving is probably the toughest educational test young people have to endure in their lives, no matter what courses or careers they choose to follow afterwards. Well done to all concerned. Enjoy the summer in as much as you possibly can, knowing as you wake up every morning that the Leaving is no longer hanging over your heads. After forty-six years I still remember that feeling. Savour it while the summer lasts.
We have almost reached the longest day and shortest night of the year, which means that there are only about one hundred and eighty shopping days left until Christmas. It may be a bit soon to start dusting off the decorations, but the Christmas connection to this time of year is not all that absurd. The summer and winter solstices could be described as the hinges of the year and they have provided somewhat the same function in the spiritual lives of peoples for thousands of years.
Christian churches have hung important feasts close to those dates. The Christmas one is very obvious, but at this time of year we have the feast of the birth of Saint John the Baptist, almost six months to the day before the birth of his cousin, Jesus. The location of those feasts close to the solistices was meant to both wean people away from worship of the Sun-God and at the same time to recognise the deep-rooted spiritual significance of that worship. It was a way of saying that the real Son-God is the Son of God, the light of the world, Jesus Christ.
The reason for the lighting of bonfires on St. John’s Eve has been lost in the mists of the past, but I have no doubt that it goes back to pre-Christian, or what we call pagan times. Bonfire night has gained a new significance in recent years as it is probably the only occasion on which a fire can safely be lit outdoors without drawing down the wrath of some authority. Many of the old traditions have been lost, such as throwing coals or burning sticks into crops of oats or potatoes, as a blessing. We still have the fires but for the most part we don’t have the crops. After the damage done by recent forest fires the most sensible thing is not to throw coals – from barbeque or from bonfire - anywhere.
Saint John’s Eve was an important night in my last priestly posting, the Aran island of Inis Meáin in Galway Bay. It was not just bonfire night but the eve of the island’s patron, John the Baptist. I have always had a soft spot for John because I sensed he got a raw deal, his head chopped off for what seemed like a childish whim. John always seemed to play second fiddle, but playing second fiddle to Jesus was no mean achievement. His cousin paid him one of the highest compliments in the Bible: “Of all the children born of women, there is none greater than John the Baptist.” John was the one who pointed the finger at Jesus and said words we often repeat today: “Behold the Lamb of God…the one who takes away the sins of the world.” He stands between the Old Testament and the New, between the first and second halves of the year, a man with fire in his belly, a fire we rekindle in his honour on the traditional bonfire night.
We have almost reached the longest day and shortest night of the year, which means that there are only about one hundred and eighty shopping days left until Christmas. It may be a bit soon to start dusting off the decorations, but the Christmas connection to this time of year is not all that absurd. The summer and winter solstices could be described as the hinges of the year and they have provided somewhat the same function in the spiritual lives of peoples for thousands of years.
Christian churches have hung important feasts close to those dates. The Christmas one is very obvious, but at this time of year we have the feast of the birth of Saint John the Baptist, almost six months to the day before the birth of his cousin, Jesus. The location of those feasts close to the solistices was meant to both wean people away from worship of the Sun-God and at the same time to recognise the deep-rooted spiritual significance of that worship. It was a way of saying that the real Son-God is the Son of God, the light of the world, Jesus Christ.
The reason for the lighting of bonfires on St. John’s Eve has been lost in the mists of the past, but I have no doubt that it goes back to pre-Christian, or what we call pagan times. Bonfire night has gained a new significance in recent years as it is probably the only occasion on which a fire can safely be lit outdoors without drawing down the wrath of some authority. Many of the old traditions have been lost, such as throwing coals or burning sticks into crops of oats or potatoes, as a blessing. We still have the fires but for the most part we don’t have the crops. After the damage done by recent forest fires the most sensible thing is not to throw coals – from barbeque or from bonfire - anywhere.
Saint John’s Eve was an important night in my last priestly posting, the Aran island of Inis Meáin in Galway Bay. It was not just bonfire night but the eve of the island’s patron, John the Baptist. I have always had a soft spot for John because I sensed he got a raw deal, his head chopped off for what seemed like a childish whim. John always seemed to play second fiddle, but playing second fiddle to Jesus was no mean achievement. His cousin paid him one of the highest compliments in the Bible: “Of all the children born of women, there is none greater than John the Baptist.” John was the one who pointed the finger at Jesus and said words we often repeat today: “Behold the Lamb of God…the one who takes away the sins of the world.” He stands between the Old Testament and the New, between the first and second halves of the year, a man with fire in his belly, a fire we rekindle in his honour on the traditional bonfire night.
Week ending 15th June 2010
The phrase: “Look thy last on all things lovely,” was rattling around in my head as I drove through hills and valleys around Tourmakeady on my second-last First Thursday and Friday calls. The rhododendron never looked so colourful. The whins or furze was at its most golden yellow. Whitethorn and blackthorn blossom adorned the most delicate green leaves. The trees were in their Summer bloom, and I was leaving all of this. The sky was blue. Lough Mask was too. I had to pull myself up and remind myself to “get real.” I am not dying (in so far as I know.) Just moving parishes. This beauty will still be there to view at any time I feel like taking an hour’s drive from my new home in Cárna..
“Look thy last on all things lovely. Every hour…” is from the poem “Fare Well” by English poet, Walter De la Mare (1873 – 1956) He wrote for children as well as being a novelist and poet. I like the phrase because it is more than anything about living in the present time, making the most of the time we have, seeing and appreciating the beauty that is all around us, as if this was our last hour. Do you think I would take half as much notice of my surroundings at the present time if I was not leaving them? It is a reminder to soak it all in, park it in the memory and imagination and bring it with me wherever I go.
I have often mentioned that visiting the sick and housebound tends to be my favourite task each month. Many of those I attended down through the years have gone to their eternal reward but I think fondly of them as I pass their houses. Cups of tea, glasses of whiskey (while I still had the constitution of a horse and the road-skills of a rally driver) come to mind. One perilous road that leads from Tourmakeady to Westport is little more than the width of a car and has steep drops on one or both sides. It often reminds me of a story an airline pilot told to Gay Byrne on radio many years ago. Speaking of a particular dangerous escapade he delicately remarked: “I got to know the colour of adrenalin, and it was brown.”
It has been my experience over thirty-nine years as a priest that the people who have most reason to complain in the world are the ones who complain least. People with chronic pain, with disabilities, with mobility problems, with danger of death illnesses for the most part show far more courage and faith than most of us who have little to complain about. They are an inspiration as they retain their good humour and wit through all the trials of life. Those who work in the caring professions from home help to nurses and doctors, particularly those in hospice care, are inspirational too.
Looking out my kitchen window a few moments ago as I paused for a cup of tea, I saw some lovely deer graze outside. It reminded me of a recent RTÉ ‘Nationwide’ programme on Aras An Uachtaráin. President Mary McAlese and myself have that much in common, deer in our gardens, though my garden is considerably smaller than Phoenix Park. Another thing we have in common is that we will both be moving home, she when her two term Presidency of fourteen years is over, me when my fifteen year stint in Tourmakeady comes to an end next month. I expect a bigger scramble for the President’s job than for mine. It reminds me that change, moving on and getting over it is a normal part of life. “Look thy last…”
“Look thy last on all things lovely. Every hour…” is from the poem “Fare Well” by English poet, Walter De la Mare (1873 – 1956) He wrote for children as well as being a novelist and poet. I like the phrase because it is more than anything about living in the present time, making the most of the time we have, seeing and appreciating the beauty that is all around us, as if this was our last hour. Do you think I would take half as much notice of my surroundings at the present time if I was not leaving them? It is a reminder to soak it all in, park it in the memory and imagination and bring it with me wherever I go.
I have often mentioned that visiting the sick and housebound tends to be my favourite task each month. Many of those I attended down through the years have gone to their eternal reward but I think fondly of them as I pass their houses. Cups of tea, glasses of whiskey (while I still had the constitution of a horse and the road-skills of a rally driver) come to mind. One perilous road that leads from Tourmakeady to Westport is little more than the width of a car and has steep drops on one or both sides. It often reminds me of a story an airline pilot told to Gay Byrne on radio many years ago. Speaking of a particular dangerous escapade he delicately remarked: “I got to know the colour of adrenalin, and it was brown.”
It has been my experience over thirty-nine years as a priest that the people who have most reason to complain in the world are the ones who complain least. People with chronic pain, with disabilities, with mobility problems, with danger of death illnesses for the most part show far more courage and faith than most of us who have little to complain about. They are an inspiration as they retain their good humour and wit through all the trials of life. Those who work in the caring professions from home help to nurses and doctors, particularly those in hospice care, are inspirational too.
Looking out my kitchen window a few moments ago as I paused for a cup of tea, I saw some lovely deer graze outside. It reminded me of a recent RTÉ ‘Nationwide’ programme on Aras An Uachtaráin. President Mary McAlese and myself have that much in common, deer in our gardens, though my garden is considerably smaller than Phoenix Park. Another thing we have in common is that we will both be moving home, she when her two term Presidency of fourteen years is over, me when my fifteen year stint in Tourmakeady comes to an end next month. I expect a bigger scramble for the President’s job than for mine. It reminds me that change, moving on and getting over it is a normal part of life. “Look thy last…”
Week ending 8th June 2010
It’s official. The clerical changes for the Archdiocese of Tuam have been announced and I am on the list for the first time in fifteen years. I will be moving from Tourmakeady to Cárna in Southwest Conamara on or before the 16th of July. The clock is ticking. I have a lot of bags and baggage to organise and shift. The older we get the more we acquire. I arrived at my first posting with a suitcase. I will probably need a big removal van this time.
It should be easier than moving to or from an island, as my last few changes required. The difficulty there was in having stuff secured enough to survive being brought to a boat, being lifted on board, kept covered from salt water to the other side, being hoisted off again, carried to ones destination, and brought inside without serious breakages. It is no wonder that many stories are told about priests moving from one parish to another.
The most popular is the one about a group of parishioners loading a priest’s belongings on horses and carts, making a long trek and delivering their goods safely to the new parochial house, after which they repair to a local hostelry to slake their thirst. The barman remarks that they must have been very fond of their former priest to come so far with him. The reply was as follows: “When ye have him as long as we had, ye will go a long way with him too.”
Naturally enough I will be lonely leaving such a lovely place and people I have shared joys and sorrows with for fifteen years. I will miss too the support and comradeship of An Canónach Deasún Ó Grógáin (Canon Des Grogan,) my Parish Priest who is retiring. He is probably the longest serving priest in one parish in Ireland, or possibly the world, as he has served students of Coláiste Mhuire and the people of the parish faithfully since shortly after his ordination in the early sixties of the last century. I wish him a very happy retirement, while hoping to call on his services from time to time to help out in Cárna.
We are being replaced by one priest, Fr John Kenny, who is coming from Dunmore, Co. Galway. This suggests that I am either irreplaceable or useless, or both, but in fact the reality is for most parishes that one priest is called to do what two or more did in days gone by. It is not quite as stark as that, in that priests get much more help nowadays in organising the administration of a parish, which leaves more time to concentrate on what would be considered strictly priestly work.
I have no doubt that the people of Partry/Tourmakeady will welcome Fr. John and take him to their hearts as well as giving him all the help and co-operation he will need. He is no stranger to the area, having priested in Leenane/Finney as well as Westport, Castlebar and Achill. As a TV programme on dancing portrayed a couple of years ago, he is very nifty on his feet and he certainly has much more energy than I have. We had some cross border co-operation when he was covering the Finney area, so he knows his way around. In the circumstances I think it is an excellent appointment. While I am heading south of the border, down Conamara way, you will continue to see my mug each week on “The Connaught.” I offered my resignation as columnist to Editor, Tom Gillespie as I will be no longer in the local area, but he kindly invited me to continue to write “Standun’s Station.”
It should be easier than moving to or from an island, as my last few changes required. The difficulty there was in having stuff secured enough to survive being brought to a boat, being lifted on board, kept covered from salt water to the other side, being hoisted off again, carried to ones destination, and brought inside without serious breakages. It is no wonder that many stories are told about priests moving from one parish to another.
The most popular is the one about a group of parishioners loading a priest’s belongings on horses and carts, making a long trek and delivering their goods safely to the new parochial house, after which they repair to a local hostelry to slake their thirst. The barman remarks that they must have been very fond of their former priest to come so far with him. The reply was as follows: “When ye have him as long as we had, ye will go a long way with him too.”
Naturally enough I will be lonely leaving such a lovely place and people I have shared joys and sorrows with for fifteen years. I will miss too the support and comradeship of An Canónach Deasún Ó Grógáin (Canon Des Grogan,) my Parish Priest who is retiring. He is probably the longest serving priest in one parish in Ireland, or possibly the world, as he has served students of Coláiste Mhuire and the people of the parish faithfully since shortly after his ordination in the early sixties of the last century. I wish him a very happy retirement, while hoping to call on his services from time to time to help out in Cárna.
We are being replaced by one priest, Fr John Kenny, who is coming from Dunmore, Co. Galway. This suggests that I am either irreplaceable or useless, or both, but in fact the reality is for most parishes that one priest is called to do what two or more did in days gone by. It is not quite as stark as that, in that priests get much more help nowadays in organising the administration of a parish, which leaves more time to concentrate on what would be considered strictly priestly work.
I have no doubt that the people of Partry/Tourmakeady will welcome Fr. John and take him to their hearts as well as giving him all the help and co-operation he will need. He is no stranger to the area, having priested in Leenane/Finney as well as Westport, Castlebar and Achill. As a TV programme on dancing portrayed a couple of years ago, he is very nifty on his feet and he certainly has much more energy than I have. We had some cross border co-operation when he was covering the Finney area, so he knows his way around. In the circumstances I think it is an excellent appointment. While I am heading south of the border, down Conamara way, you will continue to see my mug each week on “The Connaught.” I offered my resignation as columnist to Editor, Tom Gillespie as I will be no longer in the local area, but he kindly invited me to continue to write “Standun’s Station.”
Week ending 1st June 2010
Ironically it was the day I finished corrections to a book about the history and folklore of Tourmakeady that I got a call from Archbishop Michael Neary to discuss a change to another parish. After fifteen years I could hardly complain. I have been lucky enough to have served in only three different parishes in thirty-nine years, in the smaller islands of Aran in Galway Bay twice, allied to twelve years in An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) as well as being where I am since 1995. Each area has had its own scenic beauty, but the real beauty has been in the people I have got to meet in each of those places. Priesthood is anything but easy in the present climate, but the variety and character of the people a priest meets in both times of joy and of sorrow makes up for most of the downsides.
I am neither a historian or a folklorist, so the book I have put together lays no claim to expertise in either of those areas. It is an effort to collect and string together a picture of life in this area as reported in history books and as written in newspapers and magazines, and in particular “The Waterfall,” a magazine published by the local community on an annual basis since 1987. Most of my emphasis is on what was written in the Irish language because I think it important to have as much as possible of that between the covers of one book. This ranges from songs written about the 1921 ambush to accounts of the great annual fair, Aonach an tSléibhe on June 29th, Lá Fhéil Peadair is Póil, the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul.
The book is called “Tuar Mhic Éadaigh sa Stair agus Seanchas” (Tourmakeady in history and folklore) and it is to be published in the near future by Conamara publisher, Cló Iar-Chonnacht which has published nine of my novels. It makes no claim to tell the whole story of the area, as many books have been written about the evictions of the mid-1800’s, the Ambush of 1921, the murders in Maamtrasna, the Irish colleges, etc. The person who wants the full story can read any or all of those. History is not just about the big events. It is about the lives of the people. Her-story is as important as his-story, and this is what we get from folklore.
The importance of the annual Tourmakeady magazine, “The Waterfall” came home to me more and more as I tried to piece together the local history and folklore. Stories from Chicago, from Cleveland, from Scotland, from those who moved to County Meath in the 1930’s and later, as well as stories from the second and third generation of the diaspora are an essential part of any Irish communities’ history. Here they are, available in twenty-three magazines so far. More and more of them should be collected in book form. That is not a job for me but for young history students or people on FÁS and other schemes. The material is there, and Tourmakeady is blest to have it. My little collection is my uacht, my will and testament to my parishioners of fifteen years.
I am neither a historian or a folklorist, so the book I have put together lays no claim to expertise in either of those areas. It is an effort to collect and string together a picture of life in this area as reported in history books and as written in newspapers and magazines, and in particular “The Waterfall,” a magazine published by the local community on an annual basis since 1987. Most of my emphasis is on what was written in the Irish language because I think it important to have as much as possible of that between the covers of one book. This ranges from songs written about the 1921 ambush to accounts of the great annual fair, Aonach an tSléibhe on June 29th, Lá Fhéil Peadair is Póil, the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul.
The book is called “Tuar Mhic Éadaigh sa Stair agus Seanchas” (Tourmakeady in history and folklore) and it is to be published in the near future by Conamara publisher, Cló Iar-Chonnacht which has published nine of my novels. It makes no claim to tell the whole story of the area, as many books have been written about the evictions of the mid-1800’s, the Ambush of 1921, the murders in Maamtrasna, the Irish colleges, etc. The person who wants the full story can read any or all of those. History is not just about the big events. It is about the lives of the people. Her-story is as important as his-story, and this is what we get from folklore.
The importance of the annual Tourmakeady magazine, “The Waterfall” came home to me more and more as I tried to piece together the local history and folklore. Stories from Chicago, from Cleveland, from Scotland, from those who moved to County Meath in the 1930’s and later, as well as stories from the second and third generation of the diaspora are an essential part of any Irish communities’ history. Here they are, available in twenty-three magazines so far. More and more of them should be collected in book form. That is not a job for me but for young history students or people on FÁS and other schemes. The material is there, and Tourmakeady is blest to have it. My little collection is my uacht, my will and testament to my parishioners of fifteen years.