Week ending 30th.
My table-full of golden onions has enjoyed the September sun as much as I have myself. In other years I have hung bunches of them on the clothes-line in the shed, but there was no need for that during this year’s Indian summer. I usually eat my onions now in the middle of the day to avoid indigestion but there was a time I could and would eat them like apples. I am always amused by the TV chefs who advise their clients to sweat their onions. The idea of sweating an onion in my younger days would have conjured up an image of carrying around a peeled onion beneath your shoulder socket for days and nights. Not an appetising prospect for those expected to eat it. Even now when I read a recipe which involves the sweating of onions I instinctively reach for the deoderant.
One of the advantages of spending years as a clergyman on offshore islands was that it gave a person time to learn to cook on a trial and error basis. With a small population/congregation, there was often not much else to do. Dependance on boats for deliveries also reduced the number and kind of ingredients readily available. Making the best of what you had was an ideal discipline. It meant the ability to conjure up a meal from whatever you could lay your hands on. I remember frying tinned spam with garlic and butter in order to try and put a better taste on it when the ferry from Galway, the Naomh Éanna, failed to travel for a couple of weeks at a time due to inclement weather more than forty years ago.
There were always cockles and mussels to fall back on if things became really scarce. I sometimes brought firelighters, turf and coal with a pan in a plastic bag to the shore. While the fire was lighting up and the seawater heating a sweaty onion in the saucepan, I gathered shellfish and tossed them into the boiling water. I soon learned that fresh water worked better as the fish was already salty. Apart from minor problems with sand and seaweed, a hearty repast could be eaten. The best part was that there was no washing up in those long lost days before dishwashers arrived to take away the trauma of having to wet our hands in sudsy water
I recall those times now that I am back patrolling the shorelines of South Conamara. My dog Mocca who came with the millennium has slowed down as much as myself and tends to walk beaches more than roads as they are easier on her feet.. Sea-rods have replaced the sticks she carried through Tourmakeady wood in the first ten years of her life. She braves the tide in hot or cold weather, even doing so during times of frost and snow. The only encouragement she needs is to have a sea-rod fired in ahead of her. I presume that fleas are not too fond of saltwater, and that means that I seldom have the bother of washing the dog.
I have always liked the comparison between a fox getting rid of its fleas and Jesus getting rid of the sins of the world through baptism. It is said that a fox rids itself of fleas by backing slowly, big tail first, into water. When the fleas have crawled or hopped on to its nose to avoid the rising water it quickly ducks underneath the surface and leaves the fleas to sink or swim. This can compare well with baptism by total immersion, carrying as it does the notion of going underneath with Christ in death and rising cleansed with him in resurrection. There it is: I have to take my theology-babble with me even while walking the dog on the beach while my homegrown onions are slowly sweating in a saucepan as they wait for me back at the house..
One of the advantages of spending years as a clergyman on offshore islands was that it gave a person time to learn to cook on a trial and error basis. With a small population/congregation, there was often not much else to do. Dependance on boats for deliveries also reduced the number and kind of ingredients readily available. Making the best of what you had was an ideal discipline. It meant the ability to conjure up a meal from whatever you could lay your hands on. I remember frying tinned spam with garlic and butter in order to try and put a better taste on it when the ferry from Galway, the Naomh Éanna, failed to travel for a couple of weeks at a time due to inclement weather more than forty years ago.
There were always cockles and mussels to fall back on if things became really scarce. I sometimes brought firelighters, turf and coal with a pan in a plastic bag to the shore. While the fire was lighting up and the seawater heating a sweaty onion in the saucepan, I gathered shellfish and tossed them into the boiling water. I soon learned that fresh water worked better as the fish was already salty. Apart from minor problems with sand and seaweed, a hearty repast could be eaten. The best part was that there was no washing up in those long lost days before dishwashers arrived to take away the trauma of having to wet our hands in sudsy water
I recall those times now that I am back patrolling the shorelines of South Conamara. My dog Mocca who came with the millennium has slowed down as much as myself and tends to walk beaches more than roads as they are easier on her feet.. Sea-rods have replaced the sticks she carried through Tourmakeady wood in the first ten years of her life. She braves the tide in hot or cold weather, even doing so during times of frost and snow. The only encouragement she needs is to have a sea-rod fired in ahead of her. I presume that fleas are not too fond of saltwater, and that means that I seldom have the bother of washing the dog.
I have always liked the comparison between a fox getting rid of its fleas and Jesus getting rid of the sins of the world through baptism. It is said that a fox rids itself of fleas by backing slowly, big tail first, into water. When the fleas have crawled or hopped on to its nose to avoid the rising water it quickly ducks underneath the surface and leaves the fleas to sink or swim. This can compare well with baptism by total immersion, carrying as it does the notion of going underneath with Christ in death and rising cleansed with him in resurrection. There it is: I have to take my theology-babble with me even while walking the dog on the beach while my homegrown onions are slowly sweating in a saucepan as they wait for me back at the house..
Week ending 23rd.
As you read this the Mayor of Boston Marty Walsh will be laying the foundation stone for an Emigrant’s Centre (Ionad Cuimhneachán na nImirceach) here in Carna. It is to be built on the site of an old National School which also served for many years as the local dancehall and community hall. Well, part of it is already built in that the walls of the old school/hall will be included in the new and expanded building. This will provide visiting emigrants and their families with information about where their people came from. There will also be a library, a small cafe and a space for singing, music and dancing. What was once the school playground will be a garden of remembrance containing artwork as well as a place to sit and ponder by the shore of Carna Bay as people re-imagine their ancestors cutting seaweed on the rocks exposed by the ebbing tide, or rowing their currachs on their way to Mass in the nearby parish church.
The Mayor’s father is from Carna and his mother from the next parish, Rosmuc. You can’t get more Conamara than that. His father, known locally as John Mháirtín Tom, died a number of years ago, but his mother Mary is alive and well. Most people in the Gaeltacht are known by patronymics, the name of their father, mother or one of their grandparents are used instead of a surname, and in many cases this custom has carried across the Atlantic as well. So the Mayor of Boston is really Marty John Mháirtín Tom, though most of the people in his American constituency are unaware of that. His ‘home’ constituency stretches through Conamara, many cars still carrying the ‘Walsh’ poster used during his election campaign. Former Tánáiste Mary Harney once said Boston was closer to Ireland than Brussels. In this part of the country it is even nearer to the heart than Galway City.
One of the invited guests to the laying of the foundation stone is former Taoiseach, Liam Cosgrave, now in his nineties. He and his brother Michael attended the school in question, Carna Boy’s school for a year more than eighty years ago. Their father was then head of the Cumann na nGaedhal government so they stayed in the home of Josie Mongan, a local TD for that party. They came to brush up on their Irish and to get to know what life was like outside Dublin. Whiting about his experiences for the local “Iorras Aithneach” magazine at Christmas 2010, Mr Cosgrave remembered:
“Michael and I arrived by train in Galway in March 1930, and then by the Galway Clifden train to Recess, where Josie Mongan’s car met us, a model T Ford. We reached Carna late at night.”
It is hoped that Mr. Cosgrave’s health will continue good so that he will be able to attend the ceremonies at the site of the school of which he has fond memories: “We started school at Carna N.S. when the school had two classes. We stayed with Josie and his sisters, Agnes and Monica. The routine was to bring a sod of turf each day, as did all the pupils, for the school fire. The teachers and pupils were very friendly as were the people of Carna and the surrounding area... This is all I can think of after 80 years, except I found it possible to pass my Irish exams when I went to Synge St. Christian Brother’s School.” One of our senior politicians is said to have remarked about someone who did well at school: “The sod of turf was not wasted on him.” It wasn’t wasted on Liam Cosgrave either.
There will be many memories from both sides of the Atlantic on this day.
The Mayor’s father is from Carna and his mother from the next parish, Rosmuc. You can’t get more Conamara than that. His father, known locally as John Mháirtín Tom, died a number of years ago, but his mother Mary is alive and well. Most people in the Gaeltacht are known by patronymics, the name of their father, mother or one of their grandparents are used instead of a surname, and in many cases this custom has carried across the Atlantic as well. So the Mayor of Boston is really Marty John Mháirtín Tom, though most of the people in his American constituency are unaware of that. His ‘home’ constituency stretches through Conamara, many cars still carrying the ‘Walsh’ poster used during his election campaign. Former Tánáiste Mary Harney once said Boston was closer to Ireland than Brussels. In this part of the country it is even nearer to the heart than Galway City.
One of the invited guests to the laying of the foundation stone is former Taoiseach, Liam Cosgrave, now in his nineties. He and his brother Michael attended the school in question, Carna Boy’s school for a year more than eighty years ago. Their father was then head of the Cumann na nGaedhal government so they stayed in the home of Josie Mongan, a local TD for that party. They came to brush up on their Irish and to get to know what life was like outside Dublin. Whiting about his experiences for the local “Iorras Aithneach” magazine at Christmas 2010, Mr Cosgrave remembered:
“Michael and I arrived by train in Galway in March 1930, and then by the Galway Clifden train to Recess, where Josie Mongan’s car met us, a model T Ford. We reached Carna late at night.”
It is hoped that Mr. Cosgrave’s health will continue good so that he will be able to attend the ceremonies at the site of the school of which he has fond memories: “We started school at Carna N.S. when the school had two classes. We stayed with Josie and his sisters, Agnes and Monica. The routine was to bring a sod of turf each day, as did all the pupils, for the school fire. The teachers and pupils were very friendly as were the people of Carna and the surrounding area... This is all I can think of after 80 years, except I found it possible to pass my Irish exams when I went to Synge St. Christian Brother’s School.” One of our senior politicians is said to have remarked about someone who did well at school: “The sod of turf was not wasted on him.” It wasn’t wasted on Liam Cosgrave either.
There will be many memories from both sides of the Atlantic on this day.
Week ending 16th.
On the “apple a day” principle I don’t expect to see a doctor except in passing this side of Christmas. The trees I set in the front garden of the presbytery when I came to Carna four years ago produced five apples last year. This year there are over a hundred. A recent storm left quite a few windfalls on the ground, but for the most part I am trying to leave as many as I can on the trees until they are fully ripe. That does not mean that I am not eating at least one a day at present as well as gorging on apple sauce from the “cookers.” For many years I had promised myself to set apple-trees in my next parish, but the uncertainty of when I would be changed meant I tended to postpone planting. As my next parish is probably heaven I thought it was time to put theory into practice when I arrived here, and I am delighted that I did.
After reading the Adam and Eve story at the start of the Bible I was careful not to plant any fruit tree in the middle of the garden. That said I have often wondered why there are not more apple and pear and plum trees planted in suburban gardens as well as in municipal parks. We seem to plant everything except what we can eat. We delight at the beauty of Japanese cherry trees but get no fruit from them other than the pleasure of looking at them for a short while. The abundance of blackberries again this year makes me wonder why we have not much more home-grown or public park grown fruit available to make jams, jellies and tarts for the coming winter. It would seem to make a lot of sense for both health and economic reasons. Now is there anyone out there who could develop beef or even horsemeat burgers that grow on trees. There are fortunes to be made.
It has been a great year for fruit. A good year too for carrots, parsnips and beetroot in my four grow-boxes. Cabbage and spinach was good too in the early days, but I didn’t keep far enough ahead of the caterpillars. After a couple of good years of curly kale I am living on scraps of it at the moment, but it sometimes grows again when the weather gets too cold for the creepy crawlies. I have a soft spot for beetroot in that it reminds me of the time it seemed to explode into prominence in this country back in the mid-fifties. It was around the same time that the turkey replaced the goose on our Christmas dinner plates. These became the exotics of the time in the way that many of the fruits and vegetables we now see on gourmet food and cooking programmes on TV have found their way to our palates.
I remember the time huge big beetroots found their way on to the dinner plates at threshing time. The question was asked: “Where did ye get the purple turnips?” Slices were eaten like slices of bread when the new fad caught on, as the various uses of beet for sugar and fodder were discussed. My own crop this year are small and sweet and I am getting through them as quickly as they are getting through me. I made the mistake last year of waiting for them to grow big. They did, but they got hard and inedible. In so far as possible such home-grown food should be eaten while in season. I am reminded of a story I heard a doctor tell some years ago. A patient was worried about blood appearing where it should not be. Samples were taken and readied for a laboratory. As he left the dispensary the man asked the doctor: “Do you like beetroot? We have lots of it in the garden.” The penny dropped. The bloody beetroot was the culprit.
After reading the Adam and Eve story at the start of the Bible I was careful not to plant any fruit tree in the middle of the garden. That said I have often wondered why there are not more apple and pear and plum trees planted in suburban gardens as well as in municipal parks. We seem to plant everything except what we can eat. We delight at the beauty of Japanese cherry trees but get no fruit from them other than the pleasure of looking at them for a short while. The abundance of blackberries again this year makes me wonder why we have not much more home-grown or public park grown fruit available to make jams, jellies and tarts for the coming winter. It would seem to make a lot of sense for both health and economic reasons. Now is there anyone out there who could develop beef or even horsemeat burgers that grow on trees. There are fortunes to be made.
It has been a great year for fruit. A good year too for carrots, parsnips and beetroot in my four grow-boxes. Cabbage and spinach was good too in the early days, but I didn’t keep far enough ahead of the caterpillars. After a couple of good years of curly kale I am living on scraps of it at the moment, but it sometimes grows again when the weather gets too cold for the creepy crawlies. I have a soft spot for beetroot in that it reminds me of the time it seemed to explode into prominence in this country back in the mid-fifties. It was around the same time that the turkey replaced the goose on our Christmas dinner plates. These became the exotics of the time in the way that many of the fruits and vegetables we now see on gourmet food and cooking programmes on TV have found their way to our palates.
I remember the time huge big beetroots found their way on to the dinner plates at threshing time. The question was asked: “Where did ye get the purple turnips?” Slices were eaten like slices of bread when the new fad caught on, as the various uses of beet for sugar and fodder were discussed. My own crop this year are small and sweet and I am getting through them as quickly as they are getting through me. I made the mistake last year of waiting for them to grow big. They did, but they got hard and inedible. In so far as possible such home-grown food should be eaten while in season. I am reminded of a story I heard a doctor tell some years ago. A patient was worried about blood appearing where it should not be. Samples were taken and readied for a laboratory. As he left the dispensary the man asked the doctor: “Do you like beetroot? We have lots of it in the garden.” The penny dropped. The bloody beetroot was the culprit.
Week ending 9th.
Ongoing conflicts in Syria, Iraq, Palestine and Ukraine are a source of great concern to many people as television news footage show the consequences for the innocent. The grotesque beheading of journalist Jim Foley is just many of the horror images brought to our screens. As I write this a ceasefire brokered by Egypt has taken hold between Hamas and Israel in Gaza. There is some hope here, but why have more than two thousand people have to die and the place virtually razed to the ground to get to this point? In the meantime Isis is wreaking havoc on religious minorities in Iraq and Syria and is seen as a real threat to future peace by the powers of the world.
Back here in Ireland the marching season in the North has brought about a couple of anxious moments, though thankfully nothing like the troubles of twenty or so years ago. This time of the year brings reminders of the Omagh bombing on the fifteenth of August, a sacred day for many people, but the bomb made no discrimination between Catholic and Protestant. There are still issues to be resolved in that regard, but for the most part Ireland is seen as a country in which a peace process is working relatively well. There are of course setbacks from time to time, but that is what process is all about, two steps forward and one step back in many cases, but the answer is not to allow the steps back to obscure the steps forward. It took this part of Ireland the best part of a hundred years to get over the Civil War. That too was a process, and although it still raises an occasional niggle, it has come to fruition.
Trying to see the bigger picture always helps. When we look at the World war
that started a hundred years ago and the one that followed, the number of countries
and peoples involved, we see that we now have a relatively peaceful world. The
European Community in whatever guise, from the Common Market through the EEC, etc, has played a big part in creating stability in this continent. We may moan and groan about its inefficiencies and the slowness of its decision making processes, but it sure beats sending people “over the top” in Flanders The fact that nations and countries that fought each other for hundreds of years can now sit down together to solve problems holds out hope for areas of conflict.
Names of towns and cities that keep cropping up in reports from Syria, Egypt and Israel have a particular resonance for people with a Christian or Jewish background, because of their Biblical connections. Damascus, for instance will forever be associated with Saint Paul, both a proud Jew and a proud Christian. The religious melting pot that is the Middle East is capable of a “live and let live” policy if extremists are not allowed to dictate agendas. Koran and Biblical Testaments, New and Old preach the love of God and neighbour. Politicians have to find the formulas to make that possible. In the meantime all most of us can do is pray, but the many years of prayer as well as the good work done by among others recently deceased Taoiseach Albert Reynolds as well as leaders of most political parties in Ireland did lead to what we hope will be lasting peace.
Back here in Ireland the marching season in the North has brought about a couple of anxious moments, though thankfully nothing like the troubles of twenty or so years ago. This time of the year brings reminders of the Omagh bombing on the fifteenth of August, a sacred day for many people, but the bomb made no discrimination between Catholic and Protestant. There are still issues to be resolved in that regard, but for the most part Ireland is seen as a country in which a peace process is working relatively well. There are of course setbacks from time to time, but that is what process is all about, two steps forward and one step back in many cases, but the answer is not to allow the steps back to obscure the steps forward. It took this part of Ireland the best part of a hundred years to get over the Civil War. That too was a process, and although it still raises an occasional niggle, it has come to fruition.
Trying to see the bigger picture always helps. When we look at the World war
that started a hundred years ago and the one that followed, the number of countries
and peoples involved, we see that we now have a relatively peaceful world. The
European Community in whatever guise, from the Common Market through the EEC, etc, has played a big part in creating stability in this continent. We may moan and groan about its inefficiencies and the slowness of its decision making processes, but it sure beats sending people “over the top” in Flanders The fact that nations and countries that fought each other for hundreds of years can now sit down together to solve problems holds out hope for areas of conflict.
Names of towns and cities that keep cropping up in reports from Syria, Egypt and Israel have a particular resonance for people with a Christian or Jewish background, because of their Biblical connections. Damascus, for instance will forever be associated with Saint Paul, both a proud Jew and a proud Christian. The religious melting pot that is the Middle East is capable of a “live and let live” policy if extremists are not allowed to dictate agendas. Koran and Biblical Testaments, New and Old preach the love of God and neighbour. Politicians have to find the formulas to make that possible. In the meantime all most of us can do is pray, but the many years of prayer as well as the good work done by among others recently deceased Taoiseach Albert Reynolds as well as leaders of most political parties in Ireland did lead to what we hope will be lasting peace.
Week ending 2nd.
Among the things that surprised me when I returned to the sea-shore after fifteen years by the shores of Lough Mask in Tourmakeady was the constant movement of the tides. Although I had previously spent twenty-four years in the Aran Islands and Conamara I had just forgotten the tide that waits for no-one. The shoreline is never the same from day to day, hour to hour. I was amused recently to see an old toaster lodged between rocks when the tide was out. There is a story there: What kind of fish likes to have toast with breakfast? From such observations are imaginations fired and stories, children’s stories in particular, born.
As I drove around Conamara on my return, I realised that there was something else that I had missed for many years. I had forgotten the purple and gold in the landscape at this time of the year, and I am revelling in seeing it again this Autumn. When I look at articles I wrote in Irish after moving from Conamara to Inis Meain in the Aran Islands in 1987 I find references to those colours and how much I missed them in the limestone grey islands. Don’t get me wrong. The islands have their own beauty, and I often stood for hours watching giant waves thundering against the cliffs. But Conamara has its own breath-taking beauty particularly at this time of the year.
Just over four years ago I used the line ‘Look thy last on all things lovely’ as I prepared to leave that then rhododendrened landscape, in which the fuchsia is now in full bloom. I realise once again how lucky I have been in the places in which I have lived as a priest, each with its particular beauty of sea or lake, mountain or forest. The real beauty is in the people, but the landscape helps. Wise word from the psalms come to mind: ‘I lift up my eyes to the mountains,’ or ‘Near restful waters he leads me, to revive my drooping spirit.’ The spirit seldom droops when surrounded by beautiful scenery.
Someone will surely remind me that: ‘You can’t eat scenery’ but it has helped put a few euro into pockets around the west this year. I am told that the “Wild Atlantic Way” has been very successful as a tourist initiative. When I heard of it first I went into defensive mode: “Who are they calling “Wild?” The people of the west coast of Ireland are among the mildest in the world. What about “The Mild Atlantic Way?” MAW. They wouldn’t even have to change the logos on the signposts. The winter storms and sea surges soon proved to me that whatever about the people, the wind, waves and sea surges are certainly wild. So “The Wild Atlantic Way” is here to stay despite some of its signposts tending to send people the wrong way, but that is, I hope, just a teething problem.
The light in the west has drawn artists and painters for many years, Paul Henry to Achill, Charles Lamb to Carraroe, Sean Keating to Aran, Brian Bourke to Connemara Evie Hone, and many others. Those of us who live here take it for granted most of the time, but there are days when our eyes are opened, days in which skies are big and blue and horizons stretch forever. Dank damp foggy days are usually followed by such epiphanies, in which for a while at least, all is well with the world and we wonder will the next one be half as good.
As I drove around Conamara on my return, I realised that there was something else that I had missed for many years. I had forgotten the purple and gold in the landscape at this time of the year, and I am revelling in seeing it again this Autumn. When I look at articles I wrote in Irish after moving from Conamara to Inis Meain in the Aran Islands in 1987 I find references to those colours and how much I missed them in the limestone grey islands. Don’t get me wrong. The islands have their own beauty, and I often stood for hours watching giant waves thundering against the cliffs. But Conamara has its own breath-taking beauty particularly at this time of the year.
Just over four years ago I used the line ‘Look thy last on all things lovely’ as I prepared to leave that then rhododendrened landscape, in which the fuchsia is now in full bloom. I realise once again how lucky I have been in the places in which I have lived as a priest, each with its particular beauty of sea or lake, mountain or forest. The real beauty is in the people, but the landscape helps. Wise word from the psalms come to mind: ‘I lift up my eyes to the mountains,’ or ‘Near restful waters he leads me, to revive my drooping spirit.’ The spirit seldom droops when surrounded by beautiful scenery.
Someone will surely remind me that: ‘You can’t eat scenery’ but it has helped put a few euro into pockets around the west this year. I am told that the “Wild Atlantic Way” has been very successful as a tourist initiative. When I heard of it first I went into defensive mode: “Who are they calling “Wild?” The people of the west coast of Ireland are among the mildest in the world. What about “The Mild Atlantic Way?” MAW. They wouldn’t even have to change the logos on the signposts. The winter storms and sea surges soon proved to me that whatever about the people, the wind, waves and sea surges are certainly wild. So “The Wild Atlantic Way” is here to stay despite some of its signposts tending to send people the wrong way, but that is, I hope, just a teething problem.
The light in the west has drawn artists and painters for many years, Paul Henry to Achill, Charles Lamb to Carraroe, Sean Keating to Aran, Brian Bourke to Connemara Evie Hone, and many others. Those of us who live here take it for granted most of the time, but there are days when our eyes are opened, days in which skies are big and blue and horizons stretch forever. Dank damp foggy days are usually followed by such epiphanies, in which for a while at least, all is well with the world and we wonder will the next one be half as good.