The trouble with Ireland . . .1

In these blogs "The trouble with Ireland is . . ." I am using the words Catholic and Protestant, for ease of use in identifying the protagonists in the Irish conflict. In doing so, I am neither suggesting nor implying, that Protestants and Catholics per sae, are predisposed toward bigotry or violence in respect of their fellow human beings.

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The trouble with Ireland, in a sense, is, that it is a very cosy place. Even if you have lived all your life in one small corner of it, you feel that you have been everywhere else. Or if you hear of someone called Paddy O’Rourke, an instinct tells you that you know, not just Paddy, but all the O’Rourke’s that ever lived. But it is worse than that. If you go to all those places that you had never been to before, you feel that they belong to you; that they are your rightful place. But I have just had a worrying thought. Isn’t there a music-hall song that says, “Glasgow belongs to me!” ?

Now the question that I am asking is, how come that I have this acute sense of Irish identity, growing up as I did in the “Protestant North” of Ireland. In a place where the signs and symbols were different, and the general sense of well-kept-ness, was impressive. You only had to cross the border from Derry to Donegal, on what we used to call, “an excursion,” to know the difference between a road and a track. Somehow, over the border, (in "the south", or Republic of Ireland, that is,) they had no sense of what belonged to them. You would find: a garage, a dance hall, or a café, stuck in the middle of nowhere, and with no clearly defined boundary. In Donegal the philosophy seemed to be, get it up, make a few bob, and to hell with the aesthetically pleasing. What a contrast. “The North,” the “Protestant North” that is, that was full of aesthetically pleasing places, and clearly defined boundaries.

But fearing that I might be misunderstood, let me tell you that I do know that there’s more to life than “spit and polish.” You couldn’t live in Portrush and not know that. A peninsula town that to the west, looks toward the hills of Donegal, and to the east, (more or less,) towards the Giant’s Causeway. A volcanic rock formation, (62 million years old), that extends under the sea to Scotland. You could stand on the East Strand, in Portrush, and stare up at the dunes with their scrawny heads, and sense a bygone age. Or look in wonderment at the haunting remnant of Dunluce Castle; those bits that didn’t fall into the sea in the sixteen hundreds, and that still sit precariously on a shelf of rock. In fact, Northern Ireland, notwithstanding its clearly defined boundaries, may well have more than it's fair share of places that are rugged and beautiful.

And in the context of identity, and what you are drawn to, and why, here’s another interesting snippet.

I didn’t grow up in a bigoted family. A family that hated all things English, or Protestants, even though our church stood next to the gassworks on the outskirts of town; an echo of the days when Catholics, if they wanted a church, had to build it two and a half miles outside the town. What political sympathies my parents had, they kept well under wraps, except for the occasion when I sauntered into the Kitchen with a small badge pinned to my jumper. It was a Union Jack. I think I liked the colours; and it’s not every day that someone in the street gives you something for nothing. But quick as a flash, my father whipped it out. But what I most remember about this incident is, that in doing so, he said nothing. Almost certainly he saw the surprised and uncomprehending look on my face; and knew that he had acted on impulse. It was a moment of impulse from a man with many weaknesses, but who, from his strengths, told us that we were to salute the Protestant minister when we met him in the street, thereby showing him the same respect, as we would our Catholic priest.

And the worst that my elderly aunts could do, to stir up political rebellion, was to describe the gerrymandering Unionist politicians of Derry, and those Protestants who wouldn’t employ a Catholic, as “rascals.” Anyway, as a teenager, I loved cricket. And you can’t get anything more English than that. And yet, though I spent four years at school in England, had clearly defined boundries everywhere I looked and rugged natural beauty at my front door, and didn't come from a bigoted family, my soul still refused to bend the knee to the idea that I was “British.”

Here in England, recently, those who seek to set the political agenda, have been grappling with this question of identity, and discovered, that most English people don't think of themselves as British, but instead identify with the region of England that they came from. Well as I listened I resisted the temptation to become involved in the debate, and tell them that I had worked all this out as a teenager many years ago. In my youth I had fearlessly challenged those few Protestants who had tried to tell me that I was British, pointing out what was glaringly obvious to me. That describing someone as British, tells you nothing about where the come from, but rather, that they are subjects of, “the Imperial Parliament at Westminster.”

Perhaps rebelliousness is in the genes, or should it be identity. I wonder; or were there more subtle, or not so subtle influences at work?Well, for now, I leave you with this. The words of a song. As a small boy I listened to them not because I had to, but out of curiosity, on what was called a "gramophone". The recording was of poor quality, which added to the mystique. And the words, (where an old woman is the personification of a rebellious Ireland), were sung to a haunting melody. It was a story in which the images were crystal clear, as was the passing reference to religion; to the idea that God was on the side of the oppressed. Here it is:

Twas down by the glen-side, I met an old woman

A-plucking young nettles, she ne'er saw me coming.

I listened a while to the song she was humming.

"Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men."

'Tis fifty long years since I saw the moon beaming.
On strong manly forms their eyes with hope gleaming.
I see them again, sure through all my days dreaming.
"Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men."

When I was a Colleen their marching and drilling,                      young girl
Awoke in the glen-side sounds awsome and thrilling.
But they loved dear old Ireland, to die they were willing.
"Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men".

Some died bye the glenside, some died mid the stranger
And wise men have said, that their cause was a failure.
But they stood by old Ireland, and never feared danger.
"Glory O, Glory O to the bold Fenian men."

I passed on my way, God be praised that I met her.
Be life long or short I shall never forget her.
We may have great men, but we'll never have better.
"Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men."
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© Cormac McCloskey

And a few relevant websites:

The Giant's Causeway
The North Antrim Coast
Dunluce Castle

Note: This blog, "The trouble with ireland is . . .1", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 10th March 2007