Éamonn King Shanghai
Each Spring, I recount the poem "Cill Aodáin" we were taught as children in Ballyconneely National School, written by Antoine Ó Raifteirí (c.1779–1835), a blind poet. The opening lines always remind me of the beauty of Connemara:
Anois teacht an earraigh / Now with the coming of spring
Beidh an lá ag dul chun síneadh / the days will be getting longer
'S tar éis na Féile Bríde / and after the feast of Bridget
Ardóidh mé mo sheol / I will raise my sail
Imbolc, celebrated in the first week of February, traditionally signifies Spring's arrival in Ireland. The feast of St. Brigid (Feb 1st) reminds me of picking rushes with schoolfriends to make St. Brigid's crosses. Whilst mine weren't award-winning, a lot of love and pride went into them. The best cross was hung over the classroom chalkboard, whilst the rest went home to kitchens throughout Connemara.
Sacrificing sweets and chocolate for Lent wasn't easy, but on St. Patrick's Day we could once again indulge, and boy did we. It also meant a day off school, wearing green, going to mass in Star of the Sea church in Claddaghduff, and watching the parade in Clifden.
Easter weekends in Cleggan and around Connemara were always fun. The weather was better, the village full of familiar faces, live music, boats busy taking people to the islands, people getting ready to cut turf and sow vegetables, everyone on holiday — the place was alive!
On a visit during Easter 2010, we spent a wonderful holiday with family and friends visiting the many beautiful and spectacular sites of Connemara. When the Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajökull erupted and unexpectedly grounded flights, we found ourselves stuck. However, I recall thinking at the time that there was nowhere else on Earth I'd rather be stranded.
Eleanor Mannion Dublin
March – Connemara is springing back to life.
The wildflowers appear first, all colour, and the hedgerows grow brighter by the day. The light lingers longer in the evenings and my mom's garden begins to wake — all daffodils, tulips and grape hyacinths.
Lambs appear in the fields again, unbothered by the rain.
March for me was always about St. Patrick's Day. In national school, our marching band practised for weeks in the lead up to the Clifden parade — recorders, bell lyres, accordions and drums, all doing their very best to stay in time. The adults would be preparing too. My mom's gardening club once dressed up as different varieties of potatoes — think members walking around the town looking like breeding male chickens and vinyl players. My Uncle Francy's bridge club stole the show one particular year when they turned up to the town parade dressed as different versions of Barbie. The floats were always creative, full of heart and community.
And of course, there is that well-known truth — Lent didn't count on St. Patrick's Day.
Now, my work tends to keep me in Dublin each March, covering Ireland's biggest St. Patrick's Day parade for RTÉ News. There on O'Connell Street, I'm surrounded by marching bands from all over the world, all their colour and noise filling the streets of our capital.
But I still wait for all the photos and videos to emerge from the parade in Clifden. Because no matter how big and elaborate the parade might be up in Dublin, it's the one back home that still sets the standard.