Australia, for everyday and always

"We are all visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through. Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love; and then we return home."

(Proverb of the Indigenous people of Northern Territory, Australia)

I was in two minds (happens a lot) about writing a post for Australia Day, but I eventually succumbed to my longstanding love for The Lucky Country and a couple of cyber-nudges from two greatly missed Aussie friends. "Australia Day", 26th January, is a national holiday in Australia and the focus for sentimental and enthusiastic celebration for Australians abroad. 

Previously known as "Foundation Day", the holiday marks the landing of the First Fleet: the eleven ships of the British Admiralty, sent to establish a penal colony at the place that would become Botany Bay, New South Wales. Captain James Cook had explored and "claimed" the land some seventeen years earlier, and the Dutch had clocked it a hundred years before him. But it was Captain Arthur Phillip who, after some forays into the surrounding areas, "took possession" of the land around a geographically welcoming cove in the name of King George III on 26th January, 1787. Phillip named their colony after the then Home Secretary, Thomas Townsend - Viscount Sydney.
The name "Terra Australis Incognita", Latin for "Unknown Southern Land", dates back to the Roman empire, and legends of the mysterious continent evolved with medieval geography. Yet human habitation of the land began about 50,000 years ago. The ancestors of today's indigenous Australians were among the most ancient peoples of the earth, and the vast land was home to at least two hundred and fifty tribes, with their own languages. When the Europeans invaded, which is what we did, the Aborigines were hunter-gatherer peoples, with complex, oral-based cultures and a tradition of story-telling and celebration. Spiritual values were strong and binding to the land itself; there was a reverence for nature. "The Dreamtime" encompasses not only the story of the creator spirit and creation itself but also births the animist beliefs that have survived tens of thousands of years. 

The stories of The Dreamtime shaped Aborigine laws and customs, incorporating art and dancing. The emphasis was on belonging to and showing respect for the land that nurtured them; Australian soil is known to be the oldest on the planet, and the driest. Yet it remains a painful fact that the Federal Government of Australia would not recognise Aboriginal title, the traditional ownership of any land, until 1992.
National research in 2009 confirmed that ninety percent of all Australians polled felt it was  important to recognise and include the indigenous culture as part of the Australia Day festivities; however, the commemorative date of the celebration is still divisive. Although many indigenous Australians celebrate Australia Day, "Invasion Day" protests occur almost every year. Moves to change the holiday to another date may well cause further rifts in the population, at a time when the emphasis is on recognition and reconciliation.
I love Australia: I've been fortunate enough to visit the Lucky Country five times in the past twenty years, although not since 2008. From day one, I felt almost seduced by the country; I long to go back and familiar sights on various antipodean based relocation series find me sniffling in front of the telly. It helps that I'm uncommonly fond of large spiders, snakes and reptiles, but the colour and vibrancy of the country seem to draw energies out of my usually quite shy personality. In Australia, I'm able to indulge my penchant for trees, rocks and soil without feeling at all unfeminine. I get to climb up things, simply because they're there. I can wear as many colours as I want, how I want, with bangles up to my armpits. Every second person you meet really does have an Irish grandmother. In fact, the blend of immigrant cultures has borne it's own aspirational kinship. Some of the good friends I've known from Australia have been from very mixed race backgrounds and others have extended families that include indigenous Australians. The Celtic heritage is instantly reassuring, but I've always been fascinated that it sits so deep and easy with the art and stories of The Dreamtime, which are simultaneously unsophisticated and intricate. 

The relevance of the landscape and it's supported nature is unashamed, even when Australia boasts the twelfth largest economy in the world. The presence of nature and evolution itself is palpable, even in the cities. In a country that now paints itself as not particularly religious, the bedrock itself seems invested with spirit and wants to sing about it. The last time I visited, I made it to the red, dusty centre: Alice Springs and Uluru were National Geographic-pretty but the ancient power of the landscape was breath-taking. The photos at the bottom of this post are mine; I was able to wait before dawn to see the rocks of Uluru change colour as the sun rose. I found it profoundly spiritual to witness new daybreak, almost at the dateline, in such prehistoric terrain.
So I have mixed feelings about celebrating Australia Day, but I have no qualms abut celebrating Australia, as a country and as a people. I've written this post with an affection and empathy that I hope is obvious: there's no intention to offend anyone who calls Australia home.
I've included two blessings here that have evolved from the optimistic indigenous Christian movement in Australia. The country has no state religion, but the Catholic Church has benefited from post-war multi-cultural immigration and now has the largest affiliation. The Catholic education system is still the largest non-government educator; similarly, Catholic Health Australia is the largest non-government healthcare provider. However, as social journalist Caroline Jones noted: "Aboriginal people are a steady beating heart at the centre of Australian spiritual identity."
I'm mindful of the almost biblical battering the elements have unleashed on Australia recently: some of my friends have been sweltering and living in fear of wildfires; others were dealing with torrential downpours and the threat of tornadoes on this 26th January. My thoughts are with them. God bless Australia, everyday.

"A Prayer for Reconciliation"

Father of all,

You gave us the Dreaming:

You have spoken to us through our beliefs.

You then made Your love clear to us in the gift of Your Son.

We thank You for Your care:

You own us,

You are our hope.

Make us strong as we face the problems of change.

We ask You to help all the peoples of Australia to listen to each other and respect our cultures.

Make the knowledge of You grow strong in all people,

So that You can be at home in us and we can make a home for everyone in our land.

"A Blessing" 

To all who walk this land, 

May you always stand as tall as a tree, 

Be as gentle as the morning mist,

As strong as the earth under your feet. 

May the warmth of the campfire be in you;

And may the Creator Spirit of the Southern people always watch over you. 

 

(All photos: Gigi, album)

"This is the land of dreamings, a land of wide horizons and secret places. The first people, our ancestors, created this country in the culture that binds us to it." 

(Hetti Perkins)

"Keep your eyes on the sun and you'll not see the shadows." 

(Indigenous Australian proverb)

"The Holy Grail"  Hunters and Collectors

The things my mother told me...

"May the nourishment of the earth be yours,

May the clarity of light be yours,

May the fluency of the ocean be yours,

May the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow 

Wind work these words 

Of love around you, 

An invisible cloak 

To mind your life."

(From "Beannacht - For Josie", by John O'Donohue)

Josie Kelly: Gigi, family album

The late, lovely poet John O'Donohue wrote "Beannacht", which is Gaelic for "Blessing", for his own mother Josie during her lifetime. When I was putting together a wake for my Mum, Josie Kelly, I had a friend read the poem out in it's entirety; although the words reproduced above have always touched me most deeply. My Mum and Dad are now the invisible cloak that minds my life.
This Wednesday marked the second anniversary of my mother's death: she died on the morning of  10.10.2010. Although time appears to have flown by, I still seem to be slow at navigating the yawning void that has opened up in the very middle of my life. Until I moved to Brighton, I saw Mum everyday; once I had moved, I spoke to her everyday. I realise that losing my job around the same time that I lost my mother could only ever isolate me further: living on my own, I also find myself yearning for the camaraderie of my old colleagues. But more than anything, I can't deny that I miss my mum. 
Mum was one of a family of six children: the eldest was a step-sister who would quickly emigrate to Australia, the youngest was her only brother William; Josie was the youngest of the four sisters in between. With varying shades of strawberry blonde hair and Irish blue eyes, they were feisty and pretty and were known as The Kelly Girls around Antrim and Derry. My Auntie Barbara told me that when they were growing up Mum was generally stubborn and often cantankerous but always cute. Her enchantment of my father is recounted elsewhere in this blog; for her part, Mum appeared to have countless suitors but maintained she had only loved once. Living in my father's native Belgium and then Switzerland and France during the first fifteen years of their marriage, she loved the French culture and language, but she learned to speak French her way, with an unshakable Northern Irish accent. Mum was eternally Irish. She would cheerfully say she was born in "the Black North", but being born just before the partitioning of the Irish counties, she refused to recognise the divide, with an indignity I uphold. Her Irishness seems to have been as infectious for my Dad: he surely had a greater knowledge of Irish political history and a more prolific collection of Irish folk and rebel songs than your average, conservatively raised Walloon. And so the Sundays of my childhood resonated with Gregorian chant, Edith Piaf, The Dubliners and various versions of "Kevin Barry" and "The Fields of Athenry".
Mum was always a bit of a conundrum. Just as she was a resolute vegetarian who didn't care for many vegetables, she was also a confirmed Catholic who believed in fairies, omens and ghosts. Superstition and ritual featured large in her Catholic upbringing. Her own beloved Scottish mother, who I never knew, was a devout woman who could apparently"see" the fate of others; the local parish priest often asked for advice and assured my granny that she was thus "gifted" because she was close to God. Mum would often mutter prayers in front of the red-lit picture of The Scared Heart (above the fridge), asking The Virgin Mary, St Rita or St Anthony to fix or find things, to keep people safe or show them the error of their ways.
When my Dad died suddenly and my big sister left to travel across the world with the man she would marry, I feel I formed an enviable bond with Mum. At times, certainly in later years, I admit that I could feel smothered and stuck. The memory of that resentment is painful for me now: sometimes contrarily argumentative and startlingly devoid of tact, Mum loved my sister and I unconditionally and fiercely. She could be generous to a fault: some folk could pop in for a cuppa and still be there through lunch and dinner, and maybe even a drop of whiskey to set them back en route. At other times, she might resolutely refuse to open the door to neighbours or friends if she was having a bad hair or even a "bad house" day. She could be endlessly kind but brutally honest, frequently advising other people's daughters in shop changing rooms that a skirt or dress made them look fat, thin, peaky or just plain dreadful!
She could appear judgemental, largely due to the narrowness of her geography and religion. Yet I remember her instinctive reaction when she came to visit a man I had been helping to care for, in his last, painful stages of AIDS. His condition and homosexuality had blinded his own Portuguese Catholic family; when Mum asked him where his mother was, he started to cry. Always phobic about hospitals and terrified by the media's HIV and AIDS fever, my own Mum held Paolo's hand and told him she would be his mother that afternoon. I've never forgotten that; it helps me remember how I came to be me.
She had an unspoken fearlessness about her, which must have been attractive to my just and outspoken father. Once settled in south London, she rarely felt the need to travel across the Thames; yet she traveled to Australia and the Far East with my sister when she was well into her seventies and dependent on a walking stick. When I was younger, she would sometimes come along to reggae and punk gigs; she could often be heard offering young men with towering Mohican hairdos cough sweets and tissues. She became a big fan of singer and gay rights activist Tom Robinson, who referred to her as "Mum" on more than one occasion.
When I was arranging Mum's wake, I wrote the poem "Josie Kelly", which tumbled out in a rush of recognition of all that's Mum that I now see in me. I wanted to share it here, along with some of the (very many) things she would often tell me. She shared some of my taste in music, if not the full diversity which I inherited from Dad. She never tired of traditional Celtic music, including the pipes and the marching bands of the Orangemen, but I managed to introduce her to the likes of Springsteen, Van Morrison, Kings of Leon, Eddi Reader, Brian Kennedy, Damien Rice... I literally introduced her to Norn Ireland's own Snow Patrol, which is a whole other story. She grew to be especially fond of the band; her favourite Snow Patrol song, which reminded her of The Troubles, is included here. Mum felt that frontman Gary Lightbody would have made a fine Catholic priest, which would certainly be news to his lovely Protestant family back in Bangor. Mum frequently asserted that various people would've made fine Catholic priests. Apart from Blessed Pope John Paul: she thought he was wonderful of course, but felt he would've made a great rock star.
And people wonder where I get it from.

Things My Mother Told Me

Never let the sun set on an argument.

Never take your health for granted.

What's meant for you will surely not go past you.

That her marriage to my Dad was made in Heaven; or at the very least, the wedding license was filed there.

That I would never have much money, but that needn't mean I would ever be poor.

Money puts a price on happiness but still can't buy it.

Always accept an apology. It makes it easier to offer one.

God does indeed move in mysterious ways: why wouldn't He; He's God?

Irish people know how to laugh at themselves, which has encouraged the English to make Irish jokes because they haven't yet learned to laugh at themselves.

If you believe you're right, stand up and fight for your opinion, until you're knocked down; then, sit down and carry on shouting.

Men who mock women for being virgins, or chaste or celibate, are not fit for love-making.

You should marry for love and work for money, not the other way round.

That her lack of culinary skills hadn't affected her raising a family: she simply married a man who loved cooking and had one daughter who loved the preparing and eating of food and another who liked to eat out.

You can wear tartan with floral, polka dots with stripes; as long as none of it is wearing you.

You can paint your face but not a smile on it.

Real class has nothing to do with where you are on any social scale.

That talking to my plants would help me as much as them.

Irish people are born to laugh and cry; sometimes, both at the same time.

That I should've married Bruce Springsteen.

Always keep a clean house: you don't want burglars thinking you're slovenly.

Always wear good underwear, in case you get knocked down or have to climb up something.

That I had her mother's gift of "knowing" things for others but would always be shortsighted about my own life.

Anyone with a semblance of decency surely has an Irish or Scottish grandmother tucked away somewhere.

Don't worry if people talk about you: at least you've been noticed.

That all the Christian denominations quite like the idea of being Catholic.

That I would grow more like her and my Dad as I grow older; that it would become my greatest comfort.

That she would die on a Sunday morning.

That I would miss her every day of my life.

"Josie Kelly"

Where have you gone Mum?

Not at the end of the 'phone,

nor waiting in my sister's car 

or scowling in the hated chair. 

My mirror reflects a pale ache of you, 

but you are there at the corners of my mouth, 

stretching my shy smile to a farm-girl grin. 

You are in the cussedness of my fringe, 

in my eagerness to laugh and in the easiness of my tears. 

You are in the rising of my temper and the dropping

of all wrongs before bedtime. 

You are in the tapping of my feet, 

from Springsteen to Sean South of Garryowen. 

You are in my green fingers, 

my need to nurture seeds and pips, twigs and stones. 

You are the way of grace in me, 

and in my knack for falling off kerbs while standing still 

and eyeing up a mountain. 

You are in my constant boiling of the kettle, my cake kept for strangers,

my sweeping of the stairs for critical burglars. 

You are in my lust for red shoes and handbags, 

in the miraculous medals in my purse; 

in my calling on the saints 

for lost rings, people and battles. 

You are in my recollections of an Ireland I never knew; 

you are in my love for my father and his faith,

and for your own mother's telling of the unknown. 

You are the gossamer that binds me and my sister 

beyond all differences of time, place or opinion.

You and my father are in my veins like whiskey and syrup: 

more than any DNA, 

you are at the core of me.

You are the skip in the heartbeat of all those who may come to love me; 

and you are in the echo of me, 

as I am in your footsteps. 

Where have you gone Mum? 

Wherever I am going. 

                                                                                                                                              Gigi

"The Fields of Athenry"  Brian Kennedy



"Open Your Eyes"  Snow Patrol

"May the Lord keep you in the palm of His hand and never close His fist"

"I am Patrick, a sinner, most uncultivated and least of all the faithful and despised in the eyes of many"

("Confessio" St Patrick)

Inescapably, yesterday was St Patrick's Day: his feast day, held on the anniversary of the date of his death. Far from being "despised" as Patrick feared, he is one of the most popular of all the saints, known and loved beyond the lands that popularised him and outside of the Catholic faith. More than any other feast day or even patron saint's day, St Patrick's Day has become not only a focus for national pride for Ireland, but also one of the most inclusive of festivals; a day of celebration and sentimentality across the globe for anyone who's ever possessed an aran knit or Dubliners CD. On the 17th March, people discover their own Irish side. I have an ostensibly non-Irish friend who shares my passion for Celtic music and Irish political history and agrees with me that everyone, somehow, has an Irish grandmother. My father was from Belgian Flanders, yet he became almost more Irish than my Antrim born and bred mother, albeit with a strong Poirot accent. I always tell enquirers that I'm half Irish and half Belgian, with no English blood running between the two: truth be told, I have always felt rather more Irish. My favourite (Irish) auntie used to say I dressed French, but that the clothes hung off Irish bones. It's a staunchly defensive and distinctive culture yet something else; Irishness is a feeling, an emotion. What makes the Irish so damned Irish?
Populated for more than 9,000 years, Ireland has been building a wonderfully storied heritage, with ancestors such as the Nemedians, Fomorlans, and  Milesians. Her turbulent history unfolds with interactions with the Picts, the Scots and Welsh, the Romans, the Bretons, the Gauls, the Vikings, the Normans and Flemish; and of course the English... It's estimated that ten percent of today's global family carry Irish genes, so we may be right about the Irish grandmothers. Irishness seems to have spilled far from the jug, but the essence is remarkably undiluted and unfathomable. Sigmund Freud famously said of the Irish: "This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever." Irish dramatist Brendan Behan went slightly further, stating that while others have a nationality, the Irish have a psychosis. The Irish psyche dose seem to me to be a conundrum. Pagan superstition seems to sit round the fire with fervent Christianity. The Irish excel at both adapting and adopting, but when they react or rebel you will know about it. Portrayed as whimsical and idiosyncratic by themselves no less than others, the Irish are scholars of the ancient and modern world, masters of the written and spoken word. A love of home and kin belies the navigator's soul. Irish waters can run deeper and more still than the ocean, yet the Irish can laugh louder, cry louder and pray louder than anyone else.
On 17th March, you will find a packed Irish bar in most parts of the world; with "The Irish Rover" and "Danny Boy" being slaughtered in various accents, by people who hate the taste of Guinness but are drowning in it because they're two eightieths Irish, on their mother's side. St Patrick's Day is a public holiday, a solemnity and holy day of obligation in Ireland and a day of celebration far and beyond. The Emerald Island of the Caribbean, Montserrat, has appointed St Pat's as a public holiday. Apparently, this is due to the high volume of Irish refugees that came to the island from Nevis and St Kitts. I have no idea how they came to be in Nevis and St Kitts. In Newfoundland and Labrador, St Pat's is a public holiday in memory of a slave uprising in the 1800s. The earliest recorded description of  a St Patrick's Day celebration comes from one Jonathan Swift, himself an Irishman, who mentions a 1713 celebration taking place in London. Westminster Parliament was apparently granted a holiday and some notable city buildings were decorated in green. I don't expect to see the like recur in my lifetime...

Historically, Irish emigration has been caused by famine, strife and economic divisions. Today, the Irish diaspora across the globe may be up to 80 million people, including the UK, the USA, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Argentina, Mexico, Brazil, Chile, Jamaica, Trinidad, France, Germany... It's been said that the first non-indigenous child born on what would become north American soil was of Irish descent on both sides. It's also been said that an Irishman sailing with Christopher Columbus, one William Ayres of Galway, was probably the first European to set foot on American land. However, legendary Irish saint, Brendan The Navigator, he of the fantastical voyages, claimed he actually discovered the continent some eleven centuries earlier, anyhow. In fact, there are now ten times more Irish in the United States of America than in Ireland herself. The annual St Patrick's Day Parade in New York, first documented in 1766, draws around 3 million spectators, with more than 150,000 participants; the parade usually stretches for one and a half miles. Every year, the Irish 165th Infantry marches at the head of the parade as the official escort. In the city of Chicago, the river is turned to green for St Patrick's Day, using forty pounds of dye. Indeed, green is now seen as a hugely favoured colour for the Irish, synonymous with the Emerald Isle and said to be the colour of the patron saint himself. He's often depicted in ornate green gowns. Yet the earliest colour associated with St Patrick was not green at all, but blue. Long ago, the military in Ireland were uniformed proudly in "St Patrick's blue". At one time, the Irish didn't wear green for luck, instead associating it with fairies and the little people: it was the colour of mythical and supernatural creatures, a scared symbol of fertility and  growth. It would have been seen to be tempting fate for a mere mortal to wear it.

 Prominent Irish Nationalist Thomas Davies once defined Irishness: "It is not blood which makes an Irishman but willingness to be part of the Irish nation." Certainly, most of St Patrick's devotees now accept that the man himself was not Irish at all but probably Scottish or Welsh. It's believed that he was kidnapped from the land of his birth by Irish pirates when he was about sixteen and sold into Irish slavery. Traditionally, he tended the land and livestock around the Slemish Mountain, an area better known these days by my cousins as Ballymena, County Antrim. The mountain is actually an extinct volcano, providing dramatic and weather-scarred scenery 1,500 feet above sea level. Captive in this terrain, the teenager found God. Some years later, he escaped and managed to return to his homeland, where he developed his love of the Christian faith. Some historical investigation points to his blood family being associated with the Roman nobility; his own household may well have had slaves. He became a priest, returning to Ireland on God's instruction to reconcile the land of his captivity with his faith. Under the patronage of the Bishop of Auxerre in France, he then took the name of Patricius. The ancient Annals of Ulster suggest he lived between 340 and 460AD, ministering to the peoples of the north of Ireland from around 428. It's certainly widely accepted that he was active as a pioneering missionary in the second half of the fifth century.
There are many legends surrounding St Patrick, from the land of some of the finest story tellers on earth. Did he banish all snakes from Ireland? As with New Zealand and Iceland. there are no fossils or other biological evidence that post-glacial Ireland has ever been home to snakes. Certainly no species has managed to migrate from the UK or farther afield in recent centuries. Ireland does have slow-worms; technically, very slow moving lizards. The story goes that St Patrick was troubled by snakes as he fasted on a forty day retreat on a hilltop. Summoning the snakes with his staff, he drew them to the cliffs and let them drop into the sea. Religious scholars now believe the tale could have symbolic origins: the ancient Druids in Ireland were known to favour tattoos of large snakes on their forearms. St Patrick's expulsion of serpents may be seen as part of his core mission.
The dear little green shamrock has long been associated with St Patrick, and with Ireland itself. It's said that the saint used the little plant whilst preaching to demonstrate the Holy Trinity, the three divine persons in one God. Yet the shamrock was also revered in pre-Christian days in Ireland: it's vivid green colour and distinctive shape represented rebirth and eternal life. The number three was sacred in the pagan religions and the ancient Irish worshipped a number of Triple Goddesses. The most famous of these was Brigit: unlike the Celtic pagan tradition of "maiden, mother, crone" as facets of one entity, Brigit was a set of triplets, self contained in one being and all with the same name. There was Brigit the poet, Brigit the smith, and Brigit the doctor of leechcraft. She was said to be the daughter(s) of  the "Dagda", the good god of all the lands of Ireland. Tradition and history, faith and fable; all seem somehow to merge in one cauldron in Ireland. Brigid, who would become St Brigid of the Catholic Church, was born in County Louth in 453. Her father was a pagan Gaelic chieftain named Dubtach (Duffy) and her mother was a Christian slave, sold soon after Brigid’s birth. Brigid was baptised by Saint Patrick and they became good friends. Even as a child, young Brigid had a calling to care for the poor. Dubthach tried to arrange a marriage for his daughter, but she decided to dedicate her life to God. Together with seven other women she formed the first ever female monastic community in Ireland in 468 at the ripe old age of fifteen. Many believe that Patrick is buried in the Cathedral at Downpatrick, County Down, alongside St Brigid and St Columba, although this has never been verified. It's generally accepted that he had become patron saint of all Ireland by the seventh century, although never formally canonised by any pope.

Some hagiographers of the seventh century paint St Patrick as a martial figure, battling with the Druids and overthrowing pagan gods and practises. Legend holds that he was a forceful evangelist, often thumping the ground with his ash-wood walking staff to drive his sermons home. At the place now known as Aspatria ("ash of Patrick") in Cumbria,  the message took so long to get through that the stick had taken root and started to leaf by the time he was ready to move on. This blend of Celtic and early Christian mysticism with beefy conviction and vigour make St Patrick a totally appealing figure to the Irish. Often depicted as a virile presence and with a fearsome intellect, he's still credited with Ireland's peaceful conversion to Christianity. For a man who traded words in Latin, Gallic and Irish Gaelic, surprisingly little of his writings survive. Accredited to St Patrick, "St Patrick's Breastplate", also known as "The Deer's Cry", is a beautiful but simply worded affirmation of faith. It's said that St Patrick wrote it while camped out on the Hill of  Slane, County Meath, near to Tara, traditionally the secret seat of the ancient kings of all Ireland. Early on in his conversion campaign, possibly 433AD, St Patrick chose to light a large fire on the hill on the eve of the feast of Easter,  which coincides with the Celtic pagan feast of Beltane. At the time, the law of the land stated that no fire should be lit in the vicinity of the great festival fire blazing at the royal seat of power on Tara. This has become known as the first Paschal Fire, Furious, King Laeghaire drove his chariot and army to Slane to arrest the rebel, but St Patrick bravely began to preach to him, as eloquently as only he could. Apparently. the king was not only pacified but enchanted: St Patrick and his party were left unharmed and he was allowed to preach Christianity to the pagan army. The story perfectly illustrates St Patrick's legendary fearless and even foolhardy defence of what is gentle, noble and true. Wherever he was born and whatever colour his cloak, St Patrick was Irish.

Beannachtai.

"May the grass grow long on the road to hell for the want of use"

 

St Patrick's Breastplate (St Patrick)

 I arise today


Through the strength of heaven:

Light of sun,

Radiance of moon,

Splendour of fire,

Speed of lightning,

Swiftness of wind,

Depth of the sea,

Stability of earth,

Firmness of rock.

I arise to-day

Through God's strength to pilot me:

God's eyes to look before me,

God's wisdom to guide me,

God's way to lie before me,

God's shield to protect me,

From all who shall wish me ill,

Afar and anear,

Alone and in a multitude.

Against every cruel merciless power that may oppose my body and soul

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,

Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,

Christ on my right, Christ on my left,

Christ when I lie down,

Christ when I sit down,

Christ when I arise,

Christ to shield me,

Christ in the heart of every one who thinks of me,

Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks of me.

I arise to-day.

"St Patrick's Breastplate / The Deer's Cry"  sung by Angelina

 

Catholics - parts one, two and three

"I will give you shepherds after my own heart"
(Jeremiah 3.15)

A new three part series of documentary films opened on BBC4 last night, simply titled "Catholics". The episodes focus on priests, children and finally women. The series was commissioned by BBC4 controller Richard Klein. "Catholic Christianity is at the very centre of many of the Western world's cultural and institutional sensibilities, and yet Catholics today can feel at times like they are set apart from mainstream society. So this is a series that asks a simple question: what is it like, being a Catholic?" Klein  has said. The Archbishop of Westminster, Vincent Nichols, has recommended the series, praising it's sensitivity and "great beauty".

The Diocese of Westminster featured heavily in last night's episode, filmed mainly around Allen Hall in Chelsea; one of only three remaining Roman Catholic seminaries in England. Bafta nominated filmmaker Richard Alwyn directed and produced the series and seems to have been allowed extraordinary access to the seminary and some of the men there, at various stages of their journey into Catholic priesthood. This lent the programme exceptional candour. Alwyn was allowed to film at the seminary for six months. Training for the Catholic priesthood is long: the Catholic church prefers to call it "formation". Usually, 2 years of "in-house" instruction and guidance will be followed by a year of practical placement within a parish, culminating in a three year Theology degree. We were shown that the instruction at Allen House covers Latin and Greek, philosophy, the Liturgy and more particular subjects such as celibacy and "special morality"; the latter including war. It costs around £20,000 a year for each seminarian to receive formation at Allen Hall. Although the Catholic church has struggled to recruit young men to the priesthood in recent years, there are currently 45 seminarians at Allen House: a ten year high. However, it must be noted that, with 5 million Catholics in Britain today, only 19 priests were ordained across England and Wales in 2010.

We met some of the seminarians,  most memorably Robert Hunt in his first year. Robert described himself as a "cradle Catholic", but said he had felt he had as much chance of becoming an astronaut as a priest when he was younger. Slightly terse and with a dry, almost dour humour, he made me think of comic Ade Edmondson if he were ever to become a monk. Robert had been in several "imperfect" relationships and had spent ten years of his life as a a roadie for a rock band. He'd always felt that his taste in music wouldn't be appropriate for the seminary; he'd brought his cds and downloads with him, along with his boxed set of The Sweeney for light relief. He pointed out that he still has female pin-ups, although these days they tend to be Saints Bernadette and Therese of Lisieuix.

In his final year of the seminary, Andrew Gallagher is 30 years old. He worked for a city law firm before what might seem a startling career change. Andrew said he didn't realise he had a calling while he attended non-Catholic school, although he always felt rather different and his fellow pupils had nicknamed him "The Priest". Interestingly, he felt his time working in the city literally "pushed" him towards the priesthood. He didn't recall being particularly holy as a child, although he was strongly influenced by his Catholic Irish grandmother (I do have a personal theory that every Catholic in England and Wales is mostly likely to have had an Irish grandmother somewhere). Considering his background, Andrew was edgy and diffident, and as excited as a child when he spoke about finding the right chasuble.

The simplicity of the film-making highlighted the rich and complex nature of Catholicism. Many non-Catholics appear almost fascinated by the ritual and tradition of the religion; the "smells and bells". Certainly the reverence and poignancy of ceremony in the Catholic church was displayed beautifully in this film. Alwyn remarked that a Catholic priest is the bridge between man and God: the seminarians came across as ordinary blokes who were at the same time somehow extraordinary. With (uncredited) mesmeric music trickling throughout, the film offered insight but ultmately maintained the mystique which is at the heart of Catholic faith.