Were you ever told stuff when you were very young that sort-of messed you up for a while? Some of the things that were told to me were imparted with the best will in the world, but they still set me off out into the world with some curious misapprehensions.
two of these. Let's not get too serious, though, it’s only a bit of fun.
the last Sunday of July has always been something of a big deal. I don’t know if that’s true everywhere or not. Here in Mayo,
it’s ‘Reek Sunday’ and people come and climb up our local Holy Mountain, Croagh
Patrick, in their hoards. Some do it barefoot. Some wear things on their feet; boots
and shoes and such. Some, like me, don’t do it at all. Come on, it’s hard.
where I spent my formative years (i.e. lived) it was called ‘Garland Sunday’,
and everybody went to the Holy Well where there were food stalls and boat trips
and… other things. (I dunno, it was a long time ago.)
I have this
memory of one Garland Sunday at the Holy Well and I’ll tell you a something about it.
But we have to tread carefully here. If I’m honest (and I do try to be)
this memory is little more than a series of dreamlike impressions. It was over
fifty years ago, for God’s sake. So, as I try to make a little narrative
paragraph about it, there is inevitably a significant quantity of
‘colouring-in’ being done. For instance, when, in a minute, I come to describe
my Dad lying back on a tartan blanket eating a ham sandwich, am I remembering
that or am I filling-in something I subsequently glimpsed in an old photograph
somewhere. I really don’t know.
matter anyway. Just keep in mind that what follows is probably 85% fabrication,
which is a bit higher than my usual average.
were, on Garland Sunday, up around the Holy Well (it all sounds impressively
Irish, doesn’t it?) and we were having sandwiches and tea from a flask and
I, being about six years old and a bit bored, set off exploring to the woods up
the back. At the edge of the woods, there was a huge black hole that led in among
the deep dark trees, and I paused on the edge of this hole and wondered if I
should go in or not. Gradually, as I waited there, I became aware of an air of music
emanating from the depth of the woods. I stood and let it ease over me for a
little while and then I concluded I definitely wasn’t going in there. I ran back to
my family and perched on the edge of the tartan blanket. Dad must have sensed
that some little thing was amiss, so he asked me what was up. I told him about
the music that was coming from inside of the woods.
he said, working on getting his pipe lit, “that will be the Faeries. Best not
go in there.”
is this: even at the ripe old age of six, I quickly discounted that the music
was actually coming from Faeries. That was Dad being mischievous, as he often
tended to be. Most likely there were some houses up the back of the woods,
which seemed infinite but probably were not. The music was coming from a house
back there or maybe even from some kids in the woods with a cassette player.
all that out for myself. Here’s the thing though. I worked it out on a rational
conscious level. But, somewhere in some much deeper subliminal level, the idea
of there being Faeries in those woods inserted itself into my psyche and lodged
It is still
If I drive
ever drive past those woods, I can’t help but glance up there and mutter in my
head that I heard music there once. And even as I mutter it, some deeper
quieter voice from another place in my brain will still always intone that some
second-of-two misapprehensions in this little collection is an altogether more
practical one. After my second sister was born, I would have been about ten
years old. One day, I asked my mother how my sister had got out of her. For the
longest while I had been aware of Mum’s tum and that there was a sibling in
there waiting for me. Then, rather suddenly, she was there. I knew where she
had been, I knew where she had come from, but how did she get out? Mum sat me
down and explained her experience of birthing to me. How my sister had come
into the world and my other sister and my two brothers and me. How we had all
easy,” she said, “there was a sort of an opening in the side of my tummy and
she came right out, just like you all did.”
being straight with me, as I subsequently learned. All five of us were born by
Caesarian Section. I’m glad she told it like it was, but it did set me off on a
temporary misapprehension that all babies came into the world in this
particular way. Days at the beach were spent, as a child, peering at
bikini-clad ladies, not in any morbid pre-pubescent sexual fascination. Quite
the opposite really, I was looking for that discreet exit that all the babies came
I bet we all
have little things like this. Things we get over easily but still never quite
fully give up.
okay with birthing matters these days and with Faeries too.
thing still troubles me a little it is only that I sometimes wonder why,
instead of ethereal melodies, the Little People in the woods were listening to ‘Sugar
Sugar’ by the Archies.