The light heart or a dark pint: Happy St Patrick's Day

"The light heart lives long."

(Irish proverb)

St Patrick's Day altar, 2012: All Saints Anglican Church in Patcham, East Sussex.

"The Fiddler's Elbow" in Brighton is ostensibly a decent, die-hard Irish boozer: every year, a local St Patrick's Day parade starts and returns there, and it generally hosts a weekend of Irish music and revelry. Having caught this year's flier (see below), I was quite intent on a Saturday evening of traditional Celtic high-jinks and the odd version of "Fields of Athenry" to sob into my glass of Virgin Mary to.

Having coerced a long suffering friend to go with me, we found that the pub's street party was two heaving beer tents outside the already rammed pub, with the "musical" element being drum and bass music belting out at eardrum-perforation level from a third tent. Apart from the Guinness and the ubiquitous lime-green party top-hats, Dublin and Belfast might just as well have been distant planets. I appreciate it was Saturday night and that this is very much a university town, but I can't be the only Brighton resident who expected to find the town that usually likes to enjoy itself a little too much most weekends a-wearing of the green and a-pogoing with The Pogues on this one weekend of the year?

I can't blame the pub: apparently they did have traditional Irish music playing on Friday evening, and they are patrons to Irish musicians across the year. It's a nice pub. Management were simply catering to your average Saturday night drinking crowd; just as the opposition were doing.

In 1800 there were some forty one inns and taverns in Brighton, equivalent to one inn for every thirty houses. They served the local fishing community upon which the town was founded, newly settled residents and the wealthy visitors and trippers who'd taking a shine to the original English seaside resort. By 2011, there were around fifteen hundred bars and pubs in Brighton and Hove. According to a citywide poll last year, more than sixty percent of the population feel that alcohol has to feature in social activities for them to enjoy themselves. Given Brighton's dark, longstanding reputation for substance abuse, I fond this sad as well as damning.

 I count myself incredibly fortunate that I've never felt I couldn't be merry or relaxed without a glass of something stronger than tea. I actually love the taste of a good white wine, a nice dry sherry or a sweet Tennessee whiskey, but my life isn't empty without it and I wouldn't even estimate that I have a "drink" once a week. I think I've only ever been drunk once in my life; I really didn't like it, or the sickness and fatigue that followed. When I was a bit younger, I could probably drink most of my friends, male and female, under the table and still get up and walk home,  probably giving bi-lingual, accurate directions to tourists on the way. I've always said that after one too many for me, I go into my Kylie routine, suddenly remembering all lyrics and dance routines; two drinks too many would see me harmonising with myself as both Annifrid and Agnetha from Abba. Beyond that, I would just feel sick. And stop.

I see females out and about in Brighton of all shapes, sizes and sensibilities with the skimpiest clothing and the most staggering heels, all still trying to strike a pose, after many bevvies past my Kylie stage. Usually, they're struggling to look sultry whilst sat in the gutter or lying on the pavement. I've sometimes stopped to ask if they're OK as various lads have been circling around them like vultures, only to be shrieked at to **** off and leave them alone to "enjoy" themselves. Of course, just as frequently and possibly almost as vulnerable, I do see lads of all ages from fourteen to four score and ten, crying, puking, urinating or bleeding in the street. Those who've "enjoyed" themselves to the max would seem to be those doing all of the above simultaneously.

If I sound harsh, I'm not without empathy. My own family hasn't been a stranger to addiction: my mother's only brother literally drank his life away and two of her sisters died of alcohol and tobacco related cancers; my father's gentle and kind-hearted nephew, my cousin, died of  heart failure at thirty years of age after drowning his sorrows a little too deeply a little too often. I know that for every person who drinks to remembrance, many drink to forget.

I've often perceived that the romantic but fiery Celtic psyche might lend itself more readily to that dream-catcher-turned-demon-drink. Walking home last night, I didn't see any drunk Irishmen (or women) on St Patrick's own evening. I merely waded through swaggers of smashed students and London day trippers, tripping over their green top-hats and asking what day it was. 

Today, I lamented the lack of St Pat's shindiggery in Brighton this year with an Irish pensioner who frequents my local Sainsbury's for the warmth of the air-conditioning as well as that of the regulars and staff. He told me it was a pitiful St Patrick's when there was no room in any bar for a decent Irishman to fall down. I said I'd missed hearing dozens of versions of "The Irish Rover" and felt cheated out of even one sobbed refrain of "Danny Boy". His reply made me crack a smile: "We have these songs in our hearts. If you know them, you will know them all year round and forever." See, this is why I love the Irishness.

I do feel my St Patrick's weekend was hijacked this year by those wanting to get legless rather than jig, to get wasted en-mass rather than toast a feeling of heritage or togetherness. Ah well. I already have my newly acquired little ukulele and am looking to get my very own Irish drum, a bodrhan, as a belated birthday gift. Next year, I may be inviting selected friends to join me in my parlour for St Pat's tea, tatties and proper Irish drum and bass.

Wherever you've been this St Patrick's Day, whatever you've done and whoever you've done it with I hope it went well and safely and you've the shoes, the shillings and the smile to get you to Easter. 

Slainte.

"May the saddest day of your future be no worse 

Than the happiest day of your past."

"In Ireland the inevitable never happens and the unexpected constantly occurs. "

(John Pentland Mahaffy)

"You Couldn't Have Come At A Better Time"  Luka Bloom

"You've got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was."

"Raglan Road" Van Morison and The Chieftains

"God is good, but never dance in a small boat."

"The Fields of Athenry", wonderfully raucous version by The Dropkick Murphys

"Get on your knees and thank God for your two feet."

St Patrick's Trust

One place definitely open for business as expected, both yesterday and today, was St Patrick's Anglican Church in Hove. Still very much in use as a place of worship, St Pat's has been used as a night shelter for homeless people and addicts since 1985., when the parish priest allowed two rough sleepers to sleep on the floor of the church. More and more homeless people were encouraged to come forward and now over 300,000 bed spaces have been taken up over the years.
In 1987 a dedicated shelter was formed to raise funds as the church space was converted. St Patrick's Trust now offers help and support through the Night Shelter House and also the semi-independent organisation "Move-On Housing". As well as accommodation, the shelter is open from morning till night to offer advice, meals and social activities. The church continues to celebrate daily services.
Yesterday, St Pat's was offering tea, coffee and cakes and helpful literature to all-comers.

StPats-Hove.co.uk

"I am the meaning of the poem"

"Nature is the direct expression of the divine imagination."

(John O'Donohue)

“I believe in the sun when it’s not shining, 

I believe in love when I feel it not, 

I believe in God even when he is silent.”

(Celtic proverb)

One fine thing about being confined to the house and not being able to work is that you get to read and listen to old loves that you keep meaning to sit down with again when you've got the shopping, painted the garden pots, touched up the varnish on the front door, sorted your life out.

I've been thinking a lot about the elements over the past few days: it's not difficult to see why man was in awe of the seasons long before flood barriers, the meteorological office or even sunblock were invented. The indigenous populations of the ancient world tended towards animist beliefs, imbuing any living creatures, objects and natural forces with "anima": soul or spirit. Animism is not a religion as such, but is certainly one of the oldest belief systems in the world; essentially, it's a way of viewing all of nature.

Today, many anthropologists studying religion have asserted that "modern" faiths are in continuity with the "magical thinking" of even our most primitive ancestors. Animism certainly assumes a relationship between the seen and the unseen worlds; an interaction between the human and the divine. Sometimes I feel education dulls the Christian perception of the spiritual within the everyday: surely the natural world enfolds the supernatural power and wonder of creation.

The late Irish poet and former Catholic priest, John O'Donohue, wrote extensively and beautifully about exploring the hidden universe that we all carry within, reflected in what we create in the outside world. He fully accepted that to be natural can be holy, that we're today's custodians of ancient, sacred thresholds.

His writing is seamlessly embroidered with ancient Celtic wisdom and lyricism. Not quite as comfortably, more than a millennium ago, the pagan lore and ritual of the Celts would become encompassed by the fervour and contemplation of early Christian mysticism. Significantly, the striking beauty of the traditional Celtic cross is said to have been introduced by St Patrick during his mission to convert the "pagan" Irish. Delivering the gospel to sun-worshipers, he combined Christ's cross with the circle as the sun: many also see it as a halo effect.

When Mum died, I was determined that her headstone should be a Celtic cross: her faith was that of her Scottish mother and her Irish father; only basically schooled, it was instinctive for her to believe in a higher power and a greater good. And to shamelessly ask St Anthony to find her the odd tenner that hadn't been lost yet.

Yesterday, I remembered that I'd copied down the poem "The Song of Amergin" in one of my scribble-books. Originally "Amhairghin", Gaelic for "birth of song", Amergin was a great poet and one of the legendary Celtic leaders who battled the Fairy Peoples for possession of Ireland. 

 "The Song of Amergin" invokes the power of the land itself but I feel it also unfolds the omnipotence of God at the heart of Christianity. Amergin may well have been "bigging himself up" by claiming the power of the elements; just as readily, he voices the strength and godliness that can be within each of us. The poem reminds me of "St Patrick's Breastplate"; it soothes as much as it empowers. 

Similarly, I found a list of CDs that I either haven't got round to buying or simply can't find on Amazon; "The Turning of the Tide" by Donegal-born singer Aoife is one of the latter. She sings in her native Irish with a real purity. Her version of an old Irish hymn, "My Love, My God", is one which I wanted to have played at my wedding, if such a day should ever dawn! Although the words are probably only a few centuries old, set to a much older melody, the hymn has the passion and sensuality of the Celtic Christian tradition. It's a lovesong to faith and also to God.

"The Song of Amergin"

(att. Amergin Glúingel) 

I am the wind on the sea, 

I am the ocean wave; 

I am the sound of the billows; 

I am the seven-horned stag; 

I am the hawk on the cliff; 

I am the dewdrop in sunlight; 

I am the fairest of flowers; 

I am the raging boar; 

I am the salmon in the deep pool; 

I am the lake on the plain; 

I am the meaning of the poem; 

I am the point of the spear; 

I am the God that makes fire in the head: 

Who levels the mountain? 

Who speaks the age of the moon? 

Who has been where the sun sleeps? 

Who, if not I? 

"Mo Ghrá'sa, Mo Dhia (My Love, My God)" Aoife Ní Fhearraigh

"Mo ghrá-sa, mo Dhia, mo ghárda, mo liaigh" 

(My love, my God, my guardian, my saviour)

"The world rests in the night. Trees, mountains, fields, and faces are released from the prison of shape and the burden of exposure. Each thing creeps back into its own nature within the shelter of the dark. Darkness is the ancient womb." 

(John O'Donohue)

"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." 

(John O'Donohue)

Dewi Sant, legends and "the little things"

"Do good and then do it again"  (Welsh proverb)

St David, patron saint of Wales, is said to have died on 1st March, 589, and the date has traditionally become his feast day. However, it wasn't until the eighteenth century that St David's Day was declared a national day of celebration in Wales. Ostensibly, surprisingly little is known about him, although his birth and existence are historically verified. As a child, I simply associated him with daffodils and my favourite auntie, Barbara, who's birthday was 1st March! Over the years, I often saw St David depicted standing on a hill, holding a dove or a leek: more of which later. In fact, Dewi Sant, as he's known in Wales, was born into an aristocratic family in West Wales. His father was a prince called Sant, son of the King of Cardigan; his mother Non was a chieftain's daughter and possibly a niece of King Arthur. His mother was a devout lady who became St Non; his beloved teacher would also be canonised as St Paulinus.
St David helped to spread Christianity among the pagan Celtic tribes of Western Britain. He originally founded a large monastery in West Wales and eventually rose to be Archbishop for the Welsh nation, but chose to remain with his community at Menevia. This region has been renamed St Davids; his shrine there became a place of great pilgrimage. There is a legend that tells of the saint preaching to huge crowds where many were unable to see him: the ground is said to have risen up until St David was standing on a hillock, for all to see and hear. When you start to scratch around, there are many such legends of St David, even surrounding the circumstances of his birth. St Patrick is said to have been prepared for St David's birth 30 years before, having been visited by an angel who foretold his rise to greatness.
Baby David's baptism water is said to have cured a man's blindness. Sadly, the child wasn't the blessing of a love-filled marriage. He was born after his father had seduced Non, who ran away to give birth alone by the seashore. Legend has it that her labour was so intense that she grasped at the rocks, leaving marks to this day; a lightning bolt then split the rocks apart. Unfortunately, no-one seems quite sure which marks on which rocks bear witness to St David's dramatic but lonely birth. It is known that his mother Non decided to become a nun while her son was still a child.
The young David was schooled at the local monastery, Hen Fynyw, near to present day Aberaeron, and was taught by the blind monk Paulinus. He's said to have cured his teacher of his blindness by making the sign of the cross over his face. Recognising the boy's holiness, Paulinus sent him forth as a missionary across still-pagan Britain.

In the course of his travels, St David founded twelve monasteries. He prescribed a life of austerity for himself and his monks, which made him unpopular at times. Again, legend tells that some of his own monks were so disgruntled that they attempted to poison his bread. However, St Scuthyn travelled from Ireland on the back of a sea-monster (remember this was long, long before P and O ferries) to warn him. St David blessed the poisoned bread, ate it; and was unharmed.
His monks certainly worked hard, rising at dawn and working the land as well as in the monasteries. They ploughed the fields themselves, as he wouldn't allow them to make animals work for them: he believed that each man should be his own ox. As they worked, they continued to pray, but there lives were committed to silence. The monks ate only vegetables and bread, drinking milk and water. St David himself had lived on vegetables and herbs for many years and would do so until he died: hence the depiction of the saint with the leek, national emblem of Wales and also of growth and harvest. His meagre vegetarian diet did little to stunt his growth: legend holds that he was physically tall and strong, living over 100 years. It is generally accepted that he died in 589 in his monastery at St Davids, where he's buried. The Cathedral of St David would later be built there.

However austere his teachings, he was obviously a charismatic man who became known as a prophet and worker of miracles; he shaped the spirituality of his people, time and place. His popular depiction with a dove symbolises the eloquence of the Holy Spirit as he preached Christianity. His much celebrated last words to his monks are beautifully simplistic, also resonating in the modern world: "Be joyful, and keep your faith and your creed. Do the little things that you have seen me do and heard about". Today, "Do the little things" ("Gwnewch y pethau bychain") is a well-known and much used phrase in Welsh, and an inspiration to many.
Dewi Sant was canonised in 1120 by Pope Callactus, when 1st March was included in the Church Calendar. His feast has become a time of celebration and partying in Wales. In St David's Hall, Cardiff, there is an annual concert featuring male voice choirs from across the world. Throughout Wales, parades and often food festivals take place. Despite the fact that the saint himself abstained from drinking and advised others to do the same, a number of Welsh breweries make special St. David’s Day ales. Likewise, a Welsh stew, Cawl, containing both lamb and leeks, is traditionally consumed on St. David’s Day. Ah well. In honour of the great man's vegetarianism, I include a recipe for more celebratory comfort food:

Leek Welsh Rarebit

Ingredients: 

1 Ciabatta loaf

2 Medium leeks, washed and finely shredded

2oz/50g butter

1 oz/25g all purpose/plain flour

1 tsp mustard powder

1¼ pt/150ml milk

4 oz/110g goats’ cheese, preferably Welsh

Sea salt and ground black pepper

(Serves four, or two very hungry vegetarians)

Directions:

Cut Ciabatta into thick slices, and place in hot oven for 5 – 8 minutes to crisp and lightly brown.

Melt the butter in a medium pan and sweat the leeks for 2 -3 minutes to soften, not brown.

Stir in the flour and mustard powder.

Gradually stir in the milk and simmer to make a thick sauce.

Stir in the goats’ cheese until melted. Season well.

Spoon rarebit onto the toasted Ciabatta.

Brown under the grill until bubbling.

Serve immediately, eat and enjoy.

Dduw bendithia!

"Cwm Rhonda (Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer)"  Cor Rehoboth Choir - Pensylvania