Tuesday 11 April 2017

CROSSING THE SHANNON - Part of an Irish Wake

The Ancient Greeks venerate the River Styx and it has only now occurred to me that our custom in the west of Ireland of 'Crossing The Shannon' has similar overtones.  When a custom is so ingrained it is unremarkable to the native but apparently fascinating to the visitor.

Like many Irish families, my relatives are dispersed throughout Ireland and abroad.  Our kinship becomes very apparent when a family member dies.

As a child I was reared in Dublin together with a number of cousins whose parents had come from The West.  If a relative in The West died, our parents’ generation would head off in their cars and in a time when many had no phones, the accepted practice was to meet at The Covert, a pub just outside Mullingar.  When all were present and each branch of the family accounted for, the family would head for home and cross The Shannon in convoy.

If a relative died outside of The West and was to be buried in the family plot the assembly was reversed.  All the relatives residing in The West would congregate at The Covert and await the cortege.  They would take the lead after the immediate family in the cortege procession and escort the funeral across The Shannon.

Some years ago a cousin of my mother’s died.  He was to be interred in the family plot in Roscommon.  Without consulting anyone else, my husband, brother and I decided to Cross The Shannon and parked outside The Covert.  As we parked up, a fleet of cars pulled into the empty car park beside us...our cousins had come from far and near.  We were very emotional as we walked in the footsteps of our parents into the pub.  Very shortly afterwards the hearse pulled up in the car park, it had not been scheduled to do so but the family had suggested a 60 second stop to mark the commencement of the journey to Cross The Shannon.  We all trooped out of The Covert, loaded into our respective cars and the grieving family smiled through their grief as we brought our cousin Across The Shannon.

The following day, after the burial we met in Carrick on Shannon for refreshments and chat.  As the evening drew in the singers started, the stories were recounted with great fits of laughter interspersed with teary eyes.  At one stage a guitar player asked my cousin whose party was it. He was a tourist who thought he'd happened on an impromptu Irish Session.  My cousin ceased singing the songs chorus and said "It's not a party, it's a funeral".  The visitor was appalled at his error, "Jesus Man, I'm so sorry to intrude" he responded.  "Who died? He asked "My father" said Mick and he resumed his singing.  

As the talk ebbed and flowed my husband recounted the tale of our effort to attend my other cousin's funeral in Wicklow.  We set off very early from Roscommon and made the church  In the time between the hugging and shaking hands with others at the church, we missed the cortege taking off to the graveyard.  My husband quickly scanned a map and after a few miles of concentrated driving he instructed me to watch for a turn which would bring us to the graveyard.  Some time passed and he sharply enquired 'where are we now' as I gazed out the window I saw the Round Tower of Glendalough.  "WHAT! How the hell do you know that?" I calmly explained that St. Kevin had founded a monastic settlement in the 6th century and the Round Tower was beautifully maintained in what was known as The Garden of Ireland.  Oblivious to the dangerous level of my husband’s rising blood pressure I was totally engrossed in the scenery and massive deposits of glittering granite scattered along the roadside. My frustrated and exasperated husband stopped the car and looked me straight in the eye "You're some woman; we drive a hundred and fifty miles to go to YOUR cousin’s funeral and YOU'RE gone back in time 14 centuries. We've lost the funeral and if you don't mind, it would be useful if you could join me in the present century so we can head back home to where we've left four children with a babysitter,,,,, You're amazing, you can talk me back to the 20th century but you can't find two lefts, and one right on a map".


Enough said.

Monday 27 February 2017

A Clean Sweep

As every woman of a certain age will tell you, the ‘Gantry’ is the place in the house where all old towels, handles of brushes and assorted instruments of housewifely 
endeavour are stored.  The good instruments are to the forefront of a press and the spare parts gather in a motely assembly up on the top or to the rear.  It is inevitable that when the door to this essential munitions store is opened by the uninitiated that an assault of implements attacks the stranger.  Thus it was in Dickie Beirne’s Emporium last night.






Dickies is a great house for music, the GAA and rugby.  Soccer is a less regarded sport in the pecking order of the patrons but as with every rule, there’s always an exception.


It doesn’t take much for the craíc to lift off in Dickies but in this instance it was the winning goal by Jordan Muldoon in the Ireland versus Wales under 18’s win of the John Coughlan Memorial Cup. 

Young Muldoon is the grandson of two of the much loved patrons of Dickies and when I enquired about the match, I was merely prompting about the young fella and leaving the way open to the other patrons to ‘the news’ that the parish had a minor claim to fame by association.


The exultant Granny exclaimed that not only had Jordan played the match but he had scored the one and only winning goal.  In the excitement of congratulations and salutations to the young hero, a glass fell to the floor just as a singer had burst into song accompanied by The Lady of The House on her keyboard. 

With a nod to Dickie I hit for the kitchen to secure a floor brush and as Dickie fought off the household implements that tumbled out of the press I hastily returned to the lounge. 

As the music flowed, the singer never missed a beat or a word as he rose and paced in time to my sweeping.  The excuse for a floor brush was laid against the wall and I resorted to dust pan and brush guided by every patron in the lounge.


Dickie had the cheek to admonish my progress and the composure of his lady wife was severely tested.  Torn by the chagrin of the exposure of the useless implement and her post as lead instrumentalist, her duty to the singer prevailed.  As the singer reached the climax of the final verse I joined the dance with the offending brush as my partner.   

As I curtseyed to the singer Dickie; oblivious to the danger, yet again made a pithy remark….I whipped round with hands on hips and roundly demanded an immediate raise to the house keeping budget.  The motion was unanimously and loudly carried by the assembly and the strains of Olé, Olé, Olé hung in the ether.