IN MY MIND I GO BACK TO THE ISLAND

 

The country is going mad, I said to my sister as we stood at the pedestrian crossing in Salthill, a place bustling with  happy young families on Easter Holidays. 

The couple standing next to us with two small children decided not to wait for the green man and headed straight across the road.

I was telling Evelyn that I had learned always (mostly) to wait for the green man, especially if children were near, so as not to give them a bad example.

Just then a little girl from the next family decided to run straight across the road too while the 401 bus had started to move away from the stop. Thankfully her dad, with a roar, had called her back.

People are distracted, in a hurry, recklessly ignoring basic rules of the road, putting themselves and others at risk. 

It happens all the time when driving. You're trying to keep the speed limit which is admittedly sometimes impossibly slow. But you try to keep it when the driver behind bears down upon you aggressively, maybe flashing lights or even blowing the horn. Or they cut in on you from the left. Or drivers hog the overtaking lane of the motorway while driving way below the allowed 120kph limit. Breaking red lights is incredibly regular. And stopping in the yellow box so you can't get out. Lots of things like that increase the levels of frustration and stress.

And on the 401 bus home from Salthill you have to listen to a cacophony of mobile phones as people watch their favourite programmes out loud, as if everyone else needs to share in their enjoyment. Headphones seem to be out of fashion. No consideration, I'm complaining to myself. 

And, more critically, there is the war. People's homes are being bombed, innocent people being killed. We have to deal with the fuel blockades and petrol stations now with no petrol. Anxiety assails us in all sides. The right to protest we agree with, but this seems unfair to ordinary people who are trying to to live their ordinary lives.

But, when it comes down to it, we are not the victims of war. We might have to be a lot more careful about the use of our cars; maybe we will have to walk more or cycle but we are not in the throes of war.

So, stop moaning I say to myself in the bus and in my mind I go back to the island. Sitting beside the open kitchen fire with my brother at the end of a lovely day. No sound other than the flapping flames of fire and our voices in quiet conversation. Telling memories of childhood in that house and he hearing aspects of my life unknown to him. 

We were there for one night only, having taken the 10.30am ferry from Rossaveal. A lovely crossing. I am always well when borne upon the sea. Literally lifted on the swell. The freshness of air, seabirds soaring in the wind and diving decisively for a catch. 

There's a rhythm to our arrival at the house where our grand mother and her sister aunty Breege lived. The kettle, the fire, a quick visit to the shop for milk and something nice. A warm welcome from Elizabeth the owner and a chat.

We did no heavy, distance walking, strolling instead around Kilronan, which we love. The tranquility of the church, coffee and chat at Gearoid Brown's, ending up in Wattys for lunch which was busy (and loud!)

Grace came and sat with for a while. She knows Harry well, as he does a lot of gigs there in the Summer. Everyone knows Harry.

She was telling us that twenty two priests turned up for food but they were too many of them to be accommodated there, so she had to turn them away.

I was saying that they must be up for a post-Easter break or a retreat. But, out walking later we came on a group of young lads on bicycles, accompanied by about four young priests all decked out in clerical gear. The real deal. Looking very happy. 

Later in the evening we watched the very efficient unloading of the cargo ship before going in search of a pub for a pint and a coke. In the past we would have chosen Joe Mac's but it had become more modern and loud. But the preferred option of The Bar was packed, so it was Joe Mac's after all.

It was pleasantly quiet with places to sit and, no matter how much it has changed, I still have an affinity with the place, having spent a lot of my childhood there with the then owners Mary Anne and Katie MacDonagh.

And then the young priests arrive with their band of happy youths. It's quite a sight. The priests in their cassocks with no hint of shyness in them and a great air of  natural happiness among them all. "How good and how pleasant it is when brothers dwell in unity" as the Psalm says.

One of the lads, Paul, sat down next to me and began chatting. I asked who they were and he told me they belong to the new order Home of the Mother who are very active in Ireland, working with families and young people. I have heard of them often and have met their nuns at the Living Family retreats that I am part of. The young Sister Claire Crockett who died in an earthquake ten years ago is one of them and there is a lot of talk of her being a Saint.

More of the group gathered around the table with us, some drinking their pints and eating their food and chatting happily with Har and myself. With others too. A elderly islander (probably younger than me 😀) was asked by another islander what they were talking about and he replied, "tattoos and prostitutes." In reality he was engaged in very respectful conversation with the lads.

Paul told me that the group are on pilgrimage through the Atlantic Way and will end up at Sister Claire's grave in Derry.

I asked if they had visited St. Enda's little monastery in Killeaney but they hadn't known about him at all, even tho he is the founding father of Irish monasticism. Imagine coming to Aran on pilgrimage and not connecting with its most important Christian roots.

A delightful moment in my conversation with Paul was the discovery that we have mutual friends in Sligo, Therese and Jimmy O'Brien and their three older sons Paul, Mark and Thomas. Small, small world. We took a selfie and sent it to Therese.

Back in the house after our lovely chat by the fire and, snuggled up in our beds, I got word during the night that the lovely Rita Gleeson had died at home, sister of my good friend John Fitzpatrick who died only last August. I'm very grateful that I got down to see her last week when we had a great chat. The bed of heaven to her. Amen.

In the morning I take a walk along places of my childhood and spend a while in the church alone, only to have the Home of the Mother come in for the rosary, Mass and Adoration. Though I had already said the rosary, I stayed and joined in their's that was led in a kindly prayerful way by Cathal who is a postulant or candidate with them.

Though we Pallottines are a different kind of Religious Congregation, with different emphasis, there is something for us to learn from Home of the Mother. They have a freshness of vision and a youthfulness that we need to rediscover.

On the boat home we were tossed about on the upper deck by a very lively sea. It makes everyone smile and gives the young a chance to mess about, include some of the youths from last night.

We got talking again to two lads from Leitrim named Benoit and Naoise and Har gave them a lift to Galway as they were trying to figure out how to make the long journey home.

Back to Salthill, Evelyn and I were looking for someplace where we could have a cup of tea and something small. The Galleon welcomed us to their gorgeous apple tart and custard with a scoop of ice cream. Kind food at the close of the day.

First time using my Free Travel Pass on the boat to Aran 😀