Last Sunday, I was asked to speak as part of John Healy's very popular 'Sunday Morning Coming Down' event which traditionally closes the Wild Atlantic Words Festival. The following is the little talk I gave, just for the record. Thanks, John, for allowing me to share the stage with such esteemed company. I had a lovely time.
Good morning. I am delighted to be welcomed into such lovely company this Sunday morning. John and I thought it might be nice if I talked about some of the differences I see between my current home place, which is very much here in Castlebar, and my original home place.
Because I come from a distant and an exotic land. A place far
far away where, if you ever intend to journey to it, you had better pack your ‘samages’.
Yes, folks, as John said in his introduction. I come from Sligo Town.
And I’m going to undermine myself from the start. There
aren’t really very many differences between the two towns. We are all proud
West of Ireland, Connaught folk, hardy and true, and you’d best not mess with
us, if you value your trousers.
There aren’t many differences. But there are a few.
I’ve decided to restrict myself to three differences. Two
reasons. Firstly it gives me a little frame to hang my contribution on, a
little form, a little template. Secondly, it gives you an idea of when, ‘In ainm
Dé’ is he ever going to be finished?
I should also qualify these observations by saying that I
left Sligo as a young man, and I haven’t been back much, and I came here as an
older man, and I haven’t left much. So just bear that in mind.
Difference Number One, The Mall.
We have The Mall in Castlebar and we have The Mall in Sligo. The
Mall in Sligo is pretty good. It’s really just a street but it has the
beautiful Carly Parish, Church of Ireland Church, it has the Model Arts Centre
and it has the Hospital, which is always very handy at a pinch.
The Sligo Mall is pretty good. But, lads, it cannot hold a
candle to the Castlebar Mall.
Castlebar Mall played a crucial part in convincing me to come
to Castlebar to live. I’ll tell you why. Back in 1996, Patricia and I decided
to come back after fifteen good years in London. There were two reasons. The
first was that we had our first son, John. At the time, we didn’t know he was
our first son, he was just our son. But setting that aside, we decided us that
it was time to come home. Trish is from Galway and I’m_ well you know where I’m
from - so Castlebar seemed like a good median point, even though neither of us
had ever been here. Then when Tom Carr Architects took out an advert in the
British Architect’s Journal, looking for people like me. It seemed like an even
better idea.
I drove to Castlebar from Sligo on one of those non-days that
fall between Christmas and New Year. I parked up by the old Post Office and I
walked down to Burleigh House, just at the traffic lights. You know it. You do.
I met with Tom in his little office on the top floor and he was charming and
kind, as he always was, and it all seemed to go pretty well.
Except for one thing.
The whole top floor, every room, was full of people. People
who were, if you will pardon the expression, working their arses off.
Remember this was the time between Christmas and New Year and
I had never in my life worked between Christmas and New Year. The thought of
coming home to some Brave New Ireland that didn’t even allow the poor buggers a
day or two off for the Christmas. Well, it struck fear in my mortal soul.
Now, as it turned out, that the was the only year that Tom
and his team ever worked over the Christmas. That year was just a wild busy
year. An aberration. But aberration or not, it threw me off. I came out of
Burleigh House, pretty darned sure I didn’t want to give up my happy existence
in England to come and live in a town that didn’t even celebrate Christmas.
My mind was made up.
And I came out of Burleigh House, and I crossed the road up
at Moran’s Auctioneers and I walked round the corner and onto the Mall… and I
changed my mind.
At the time, we had a little house in Twickenham, just off
Twickenham Green. And I loved that village green. And I’d never seen an Irish
town with its own village green and yet here it was, in all its winter glory.
It was almost as if the town was telling me, ‘Come on home, Son. Anything you
have in Twickenham; you can have here.’
And we came, Valentine’s Day 1997 and we didn’t know anyone.
And we were welcomed, in various places, in various ways. But the Mall – the
Castlebar Mall – has always remained very dear to me. I cross it four times
every working day, walking from home to work and back up and down again at
lunch time. On Summer’s evenings, I’ll often circle round it a few times close
to midnight, maybe listening out for a fox. And every Christmas Night, while
the Strictly Come Dancing special is on, you’ll find me down there, soaking up
the silence and the cold.
The Castlebar Mall is my first difference between Sligo and Here...
and it’s one I really love.
Difference Number Two
Honestly, I’m not looking to rub any salt in any wounds here.
But there is no getting away from it. If you want to talk about differences
between Sligo Town and Castlebar, then at some point, you have to talk about
the GAA.
There is a long tradition of GAA football in the County of
Sligo. There are wonderful clubs and wonderful players. Their fans would follow
the Sligo Team to the ends of the earth, or the county border at least.
But…
In the part of Sligo Town where I grew up. We did not know what
the GAA was. Markievicz Park was just a big place up beside the Old Cemetery
where a mysterious traffic jam happened once or twice every year. For us
townies, or at least us Riversideys, Gaelic Football simply did not exist. How
did we fill our days? You might ask. Who did we weep for?
The answer, as you probably know, was Sligo Rovers. Every
second Sunday, as a boy, I would walk out to the Showgrounds with my dad and I
would alternately freeze and shout at great men like Fagan and Stenson. When
Dad was old and I was a bit older too, we would reconvene there on some Friday nights
and they were some of the best nights. After he died, Rovers held a minute’s
silence for him before the match. He was that kind of supporter.
But although, I don’t come from GAA stock, I have come to
have a huge respect for it. And particularly the Castlebar variety.
Here, it is everything. And as a person who often tends to
come second in things, I tend to think of it all as a huge win. And the huge
win I see, as a bit of an outsider, is the joy it brings to people here. And
yes, of course, there is pain as well.
In the film ‘Shadowlands’, Joy Davidman says: “The Pain
now is part of the Happiness then. That's the deal.”
I was lucky enough to get an unusual view of that happiness just
last year.
September 11th, 2021, I happened to be driving back from
Dublin to Castlebar after an overnight stay. What I saw on that trip stays with
me. I wrote about it, the day after, and I called the piece ‘Driving the Wrong
Way Down the Road to the All-Ireland final’, which is fairly self-explanatory. Here’s
a little bit.
“When you’re in
Castlebar in the weeks before the big match, you may see little flags attached
to a car. You may see a licence plate illicitly changed out for a red and green
‘Mayo4Sam’ sentiment.
But when
practically every car going the other way is decked out in the Red and Green,
when every car is packed with families and friends, it’s an entirely different
effect. Every petrol station along the way was replete with fans and
flag-ridden cars. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh they went past me. I couldn’t help but
wave and occasionally toot my horn at people I really didn’t know. I glanced in
my rear-view mirror and decided that the person behind me thought I was a feckin’
lunatic.
Mayo fans never give up.
Never will. It is a key part of
what defines them. Every year that they can, they will ride in that
parade, filled with pride and hope and expectation. All the arid years that
have gone before only adding further to the love and the respect that the place
has for its mighty team.
Castlebar is different to Sligo when it comes to GAA and, to
my mind, it is a really brilliant difference.
Difference Number Three
The third and final difference, well it hardly qualifies as a
difference at all. It’s something that anyone who has ever moved from their
childhood place to another place will probably know quite well.
And it is simply… the faces.
Whenever I venture back to Sligo and, sadly, that’s often for
a funeral, I see faces of people I have known. If I walk around the town, the
faces of the people who pass me by are imprinted on me like a tiny bird might
have its mother’s face imprinted on its brain. And it goes further than that. I
see teenagers and children and young men and women and I just know who their
parents are from their faces, from the imprints that the faces of the people of
my hometown have made on me.
And I said this was hardly a difference at all and the reason is this: It’s happening all over again.
After twenty five years of being here with you in Castlebar.
I am becoming imprinted anew. I see your faces and I feel them embed themselves
into my tiny brain.
I’m nearly at the end. Just one final thing.
Back near the start, I said that Trish and I came home for
two reasons, but I only told you one of them. The second reason relates to a
film I saw on the King’s Road in 1987. It was called Roxanne. Steve Martin
played a modern day Cyrano De Bergerac character, with a big, long nose. In the
film Steve Martin lived in a small town, and he knew everybody and everybody
knew him. I came out of that film and I said to Trish. Someday, not now, but
someday, I would like for us to live in a town like that. A place where people
know who we are and where we know who they are. And Patricia agreed.
And it’s happened, right here in Castlebar. These days, I am
always late for work after lunch because on my way home and back I meet so many
people who I know and we smile and chat. Perhaps it’ll never be quite as
embedded as the childhood imprints of a Sligo upbringing. But bonds have been
forged here in Castlebar and firm friendships have been made.
And the first thing I said, when I stood up, was how delighted I am to be welcomed into such
lovely company. It turns out that wasn’t just a simple platitude. That was the
truth. The differences between my Sligo
home and my Castlebar home, day by day, year by year become fewer and fewer.
Such that, here today, with you, at Sunday Morning Coming
Down, I feel very much… at home. So,
thank you.
1 comment:
Over the last sixty-three years I’ve lived in [counts on fingers] four towns and one city. Three of the towns were all new towns—East Kilbride (designated 6 May 1947), Cumbernauld (designated 9 December 1955) and Irvine (designated 9 November 1966)—and it’s interesting to compare them. They all consist of a mixture of old and new, small towns with modern estates grafted on. I kind of like the combination to be honest. Of the three Irvine revolves around the old whereas with the other two the Villages are tangential. East Kilbride is often referred to as 'Polo Mint City' because of the number of roundabouts including the infamous Whirlies with its three lanes. Cumbernauld, on the other hand, is riddled with motorways and everywhere you go there’re these dizzying footbridges to cross. For my tastes Irvine feels the most integrated; old bleeds into new and back again seamlessly. Each has its pluses and minuses but where Irvine stands out is its mall which is built over a river. Not sure I’ve seen that anywhere else. It also has a harbour which is always a plus. All have new housing estates laid out in such a way you can find a dozen or more different ways to walk anywhere, no endless stretches of terraced houses; I particularly like that. Of course, all three are going downhill and East Kilbride gets particularly bad press which is sad because when I lived there I always thought of the place as a bit on the classy side. Where we’ve just moved to is far, far away from anyone we know so walking through the malls (there are two here) the chances of me seeing a familiar face are zero. That was the thing about childhood, everywhere you went there were people you knew and, odd for an old misanthrope like me to admit, I actually found some comfort in that. The fourth town we lived in was Clydebank and actually, apart from my childhood home, I’ve lived there the longest, about sixteen years. It’s been two years since we left there and I really never think about it. Which is odd. For a time I thought it was going to be our forever home but when push came to shove I found I had no strong ties. Odd that. “Home” is one of those words we come to re-evaluate over time. I used to be kind of sniffy when people trotted out the old cliché “Home is where the heart is” but I’m starting to come round to agreeing with them.
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