Otherworld.

Otherworld.

The ancient Celts believed that when they died their spirits travelled to the Otherworld, a place where the supernatural reigned, home of the dead and kingdom of the fairies.  This was a place of beauty or dread, hope or despair depending on how you had lived your life or even how you died.  At certain times the dead could return to the world of the living in order to influence decisions taken and even to interact with the living, they did not however return in spirit form but in a solid shape, in fact they might look just the same as when they were alive.  They would eat, drink, and make merry and join in with those activities which they enjoyed in life, in fact, here in Ireland it was a common custom to set an extra place at the table for the returning entity at certain times of the year such as Beltaine or Samhain.  It was at these times when the veil that separated the two worlds was at its thinnest, the barriers were down, and the dead could cross over. The dead didn’t just come back to enjoy earthly pleasures though, they could return in order to warn you of some impending disaster, to offer advice, to complete some unfinished business or to take revenge on those still living.

The coming of Christianity to Ireland changed the way death was viewed.  The pagan belief in the Otherworld did not really fit in with heaven and hell so a very clever compromise was reached. Purgatory, a place where the soul could wait before it was to receive its final reward or punishment, and of course it was to prove to be a lucrative compromise.  While the soul waited in purgatory its time there could be ended and the soul could carry on its journey to heaven and its final reward.  However there was a catch, in order to gain freedom from purgatory the soul required prayers to be said and a mass celebrated in its name, and the only one who could perform this function was the priest, who had to be paid for his service.  The church decided to set up a special day for the purpose of saying mass for the souls of the departed and this day was called All Souls Day and of course it just coincided with the Celtic festival of Samhain, now there’s a coincidence.  The church even taught the people that the dead could return for one night only and this was to remind the living of their obligation to them, and woe betide those who failed to pay, for the dead would have their revenge.  The Clergy also told their parishioners that this obligation to the dead included making sure that they had a proper Christian burial, of course the only one who could perform the ceremony was the priest, and of course he had to be paid.

This notion of the vengeful dead soon caught on, and people began to fear the returning spirits. They even thought that the dead would punish them by harming, their livestock or making them weak by drinking the blood of the cattle or other animals that they depended on for their livelihood.  It was just a short step from domestic beast of the field to their own families, if the animals could be attacked then why not the members of the family.  The myth of the vampire was born.  Years later we have our own Irish contribution to the vampire stories Carmilla, written by Sheridan Le Fanu and of course the most famous of all, Dracula by Bram Stoker.

Séan na Sagart.

Here is a story that has a connection to County Mayo. It’s about one of the vilest men County Mayo ever produced and his name was:

 

Séan na Sagart.

Who was Séan na Sagart?

He was born in 1690 in Derrew, near Ballyheane, County Mayo and his real name was John Mullowney.  Mullowney was a notorious horse thief and drunkard, a violent man who had absolutely no morals whatsoever, a truly despicable character.  He was arrested for horse stealing and sentenced to death by the Grand Jury in Castlebar. The case came to the attention of Bingham, another man of low character and high station, the High Sheriff of County Mayo and realising just how low this man would stoop he saw in him the potential to offer him a deal. If Mullowney agreed to join the ranks of the priest hunters then he would be spared the hangman’s noose. There was one condition; he would have his freedom provided he paid a certain rent each year-a priest’s head”. Mullowney agreed and before long he had gained a new name, that of Séan na Sagart or John of the priests.

The Penal Act of 1709 demanded that Catholic priests take an Oath of Abjuration recognising the right of the protestant crown of England and today it would be the same as swearing allegiance to the crown. In effect it denied the rights of James II and the Stuarts or other Catholic claimants to the crown of England. All clergy had to recognise the Protestant Queen Anne as Supreme Head of the Church of England and Ireland, any cleric that refused was sentenced to death or transportation for life by the Protestant controlled judicial system.  Out of an estimated two thousand Catholic priests in Ireland only thirty three took the oath. The law hoped to eradicate Catholicism in Ireland within two generations and bishops and clergy were banished and no new priests were permitted to enter the country, in this way the protestant ruling class believed they would gain complete control over the political, economic and social systems of Ireland

Mullowney was to prove to be extremely efficient in his new role and received £100 for the capture of an Archbishop or Bishop, £20 for a priest and £10 for a monk, a Jesuit, or a hedge school teacher an extraordinary amount of money at that time and money that Mullowney used to fund his habits of drinking, womanising, and newly found expensive tastes.  In common with today, wealth was the key that opened the doors to society and it wasn’t long before he became a welcome visitor to the homes of certain members of the Protestant gentry.  In fact he was a regular visitor to Newbrook House near Hollymount, Claremorriss then the residence of the Lord Clanmorriss of the Bingham family, a close relative and neighbour of another Bingham, Lord Lucan. The Bingham’s hated the Catholics and the peasant class who they regarded as one in the same and supported the actions of Mullowney and his like.  It has been suggested that Bingham was Mullowney’s paymaster and that the heads of his priest victims were kept in the cellar of Newbrook House.  It has also been suggested that some of the heads were thrown into a little lake in the parish of Ballintubber; it now bears the name Lake of the heads.

There is an interesting story concerning Mrs Bingham, she is said to have employed a priest as a butler and footman. One day the Bingham’s had urgent business in Castlebar but when they got into their carriage one of the horses refused to move. Mrs Bingham must have been feeling a certain amount of guilt because she insisted it was because of the murders carried out by Séan na Sagart that the horse wouldn’t move. She made her husband promise that Mullowney would not be allowed to murder any more priest. As soon Bingham promised the curse was lifted and the horse is reported as happily trotting all the way to Castlebar. However, I don’t think the promise of the Bingham’s amounted to much as Mullowney carried on his wicked trade.

He truly was an evil man and he even used this as a way of catching those unfortunate priests who felt that there is a little good in everyone. One technique was to pretend to be sick, bedridden and close to death, Mullowney would call for a priest to confess his terrible sins and when the priest arrived Mullowney would grab a hidden knife from under the blankets and attempt to stab and kill the priest.  This technique was to eventually lead to his demise.

 Mullowney wanted to catch a particular priest in Ballintubber, It is said that he convinced his sister Nancy Loughnan who was a widow and a devout Catholic that he was gravely ill and desperately needed to confess his sins before he went to face his maker. The priest, Father Kilger was quickly sent for and he arrived dressed in disguise. As he knelt by the bed of Séan na Sagart in order to hear his confession the priest hunter jumped up and stabbed the priest in the neck killing him. 

Everyone in County Mayo hear of this and there was widespread anger and revulsion and everyone knew that Father Kilger’s nephew Friar Bourke would be at the funeral, exactly what Séan na Sagart wanted. The friar turned up as expected and took his place as a pallbearer; he wasn’t stupid though because he had brought two bodyguards with him for protection, John McCann and Fergus McCormick.  As the funeral procession arrived at Ballintubber a bunch of Redcoats blocked their way and from out of the bushes jumped Séan na Sagart.  He grabbed the friar roaring “My rent is paid” probably referring to the money he would collect for the friar’s head. The friar broke free and ran off towards the Partry Mountains hotly pursued by the priest hunter. 

It was said that the chase lasted most of that day and eventually came to an end in a wood near Partry.  The friar who was exhausted at this stage fought with Séan na Sagart and in the struggle the friar stabbed Séan with his own knife. McCann who by now had reached the pair grabbed the knife and finished the job so ending the career of Séan na Sagart, priest hunter. The year was 1726.

Mullowney was hated with a vengeance by the people of County Mayo, it is said that his body was tossed into Lough Carra. However, the parish priest ordered the body to be retrieved and it was buried in un-consecrated ground near Ballintubber Abbey. The locals had the last word though because they buried the corpse facing north where the sun never rises.

Poteen. The Pot of Gold at the end of a rainbow.

It has been said that poteen has been produced in Ireland ever since the first potato was plucked from the ground. The name Poteen means little pot and is supposed to reflect its small scale production. You know maybe it’s that pot of gold that you may find at the end of a rainbow.

Poteen.

According to legend St. Patrick was said to have been responsible for introducing poteen to Ireland in the fifth century A.D.  Having run out of mass wine he brewed up the first batch of poteen. However, I would suggest that this is a complete fabrication and has more to do with the fact that Christian monks recorded the practice of poteen making in written form and as with a lot of other urban myths concerning St Patrick it has become part of Irish folklore.

In fact one of the earliest records of distilling aqua vitae or the water of life also has a religious connection. In the Exchequer Rolls of 1494 it was recorded that eight bolls of malt were delivered to Friar John Cor to make whiskey. Distilled spirits were commonly made in monasteries for medical purposes and were often prescribed for the preservation of good health and as a general cure all.

 There were monastic distilleries recorded in Ireland in the late 12^th century.  The medical benefits were formally endorsed in 1505 when the Guild of Surgeon Barbers was granted a monopoly over the manufacture of aqua vitae which they used when carrying out surgical procedures.

Of course there have been many in the medical profession who have condemned poteen as highly dangerous and warn of the very real threat of alcoholic poisoning and they also claim that it was responsible for a huge problem with alcoholism in rural Ireland.

 They also pointed out the increase in mental illness and it was suggested at one time that more than half the people in the mental asylum in County Mayo were there from the effects of poteen drinking.  However, in 1730, one doctor claimed that drinking poteen to the point of intoxication held off old-age, aided digestion, enlightened the heart, and quickened the mind.  I would not recommend this advice folks.

In Ireland we hold a wake for someone who has died and one suggestion for this was said to be because of the after effects of poteen. It was said that people didn’t know if those who were lay as if dead were just unconscious or were actually dead so they used to wait up at night for them to wake up, hence the name.  A more recent story which is probably a myth is that it was called a wake because of the frequent lead poisoning suffered by people drinking from pewter tankards.  One of the symptoms of lead poisoning is that of a catatonic state that resembles death from which you would hopefully recover in anything from a few hours to a couple of days.  It was for this reason that a burial was delayed to give the poor unfortunate a chance to wake up.  I’d make your own mind up about that one.

It was in1661 that King Charles II, attempting to re-build the post-war treasury, decided to introduce a charge on spirits. In Ireland private stills were outlawed and a large section of the Irish population became criminals at the stroke of a pen.  The Irish promptly ignored the tax and the making of poteen was forced to go underground.  In 1770, the English tried to clamp down on the trade once again but it did very little to slow down production and poteen making took off as a thriving cottage industry.

The stills were moved from cottage to barn then to small shacks in the hills and mountains.  Some enterprising individuals set up stills in ancient burial chambers (I wonder if that’s why they are called spirits), some set up on small islands in the middle of lakes, so they could see the gards coming and one fellow even had his still set up on a small boat on a Lough. It was said that for many years he was able to out row the local Gardaí.

There is a wealth of folklore regarding poteen.

Leprechauns are frequently found in a drunken state caused by poteen.

Poteen made in fairy mounds is seen as magical and it was used for curing painful rheumatic joints, half a cup given morning and night was said to be a cure for all ailments.

It is said to be especially potent if a housewife left fresh cream and bread by a fairy mound at night and asked the fairies for a cure for illness. The fairies would then leave a cup of poteen outside the cottage door to heal the sick.

Poteen made from the water of a fairy spring or sacred well also gave it healing properties and it was used by wise women like Biddy Early in medicinal cures.

Drinking poteen on a fairy hill at night will call the fairies to you and in exchange for a drink they are said to grant you a wish in return. However, give them too much and you may end up as their permanent guest.  Drinking poteen is also said to be responsible for hallucinations. I’m saying nothing.

The Achill Islanders once referred to poteen simply as Inishkea because of its superior quality and flavour.  In fact they suggested that the Islanders of Inishkea should be declared Saints because of their skill.  The reasons given for the quality of this illegal produce included the remote location of Inishkea which enabled the still owners to take their time in distilling the alcohol without fear of interruption by the Custom’s man or the Gardái, well you should never hurry a good thing.  The Island is located off the Mayo coast, because of the changes in the weather the law enforcers may have a calm trip out but then be stuck there for a week due to heavy seas and wind conditions.

Another reason for superior poteen was that it was distilled in copper stills which were far better than the tin stills used on the mainland. These stills were often hidden in the caves on the western side of the Island well away from the prying eyes of unwelcome visitors and they were so valuable they were handed down from father to son.

Inishkea Islanders had a very limited source of income, fishing and poteen provided them with products that could be sold or traded on the mainland and once again the sale of poteen found willing buyers within the clergy (both Catholic and Protestant), and Gardái.  There were always customers on Achill Island who eagerly awaited a new batch of poteen unfortunately this was to lead to a great tragedy in 1898 when an Inishkea Islander and his daughter were lost at sea when rowing to Achill with a cargo of poteen. This led to three members of the R.I.C. (Royal Irish Constabulary) to be stationed on the Island.

Eventually the church declared the drinking of poteen a sin, the Bishop of Clogher , Most Rev. Dr. O’Callaghan declared it to be a product that led to smuggling and blamed all the troubles of Ireland on its consumption.  One man arrested for its production said “The devil drove me to it yer Honour”, he was convicted and fined a total of £33.  On another occasion a shocked priest said to a parishioner “I am told you sold it for £2, aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” To which the answer came “Sure Father it was all I could get”.  Or was that for selling his vote to the Landlord?  There’s an old saying in Ireland “Never let the truth stand in the way of a good story”.  There I will leave the Islands of Inishkea.

The Godstone of Inishkea.

In 1851, Robert Jocelyn, the third Earl of Rodan and a prominent protestant Tory wrote about the Stone Idol of Inishkea also known as the Naomhóg. He referred to the Islanders as a bunch of heathens linking their use of the Irish language and Celtic traditions with ignorance and popery and in effect setting the seeds for the Great Famine of 1845.  Well its always easy to blame someone else.

The God Stone of Inishkea.

The Naomhóg.

In the mid nineteenth century the population of Inishkea numbered around four hundred, they supported themselves by fishing, potato crops, shell fish and seaweed.  Ruled over by their own King they were to all intents and purpose self sufficient and lived by their own self imposed laws. Occasionally visited by clergy off the mainland they had been baptised into the Church, they made rare visits to worship in the King’s house, and the Holy Well which they called ‘Derivla’ but still practised their traditional religion.

The people of the Islands worshipped a stone idol which was dressed in flannel and cared for by a priestess, the origin of this idol and its early history has long been forgotten but it is said to have immense power.  The Islanders pray to it in times of sickness, and its power is invoked in order to manipulate the weather. When they see a ship in the distance it is alleged that they would pray for a storm and that this resulted in heavy seas that would smash the helpless ship against the rocks, they would then plunder the contents and dispose of survivors. Conversely, the Islanders would pray to the stone idol when the seas were choppy in order to calm the waves so they could go fishing or visit the mainland.

There are a number of different stories told about the power of the stone idol. One stormy day an Island man was so sick his wife believed he was not long for this world and although she had prayed to the idol to restore him to health it was to no avail.  She decided to send for the priest from the mainland to see if he could help him and if not at least administer the last rites.  Unfortunately, there was an incredible storm brewing and the Islanders were scared of putting to sea without the stone idol to protect them on their voyage. They placed the idol in the boat and set off for the mainland, they successfully made the voyage and declared to the astonished priest that it was the presence of the idol that ensured their safety.  The sick man recovered and this was also attributed to the power of the Naomhóg.

Another story relates how a number of pirates landed upon the south Island and finding very little plunder they decided to set fire to all the cottages.  They burned very easily as they were mainly constructed of timber and straw, all except one.  This would not burn no matter what they did to it, every time they lit a fire it promptly went out.  The leader of the pirates was incensed by this and suspecting witchcraft he ordered the cottage to be searched.  He had heard rumours about the power of a stone idol that was in the possession of the Islanders and his men appeared carrying the Naomhóg, he gave orders that it should be smashed.  This would put an end to the raising of storms and the destruction of ships that he considered his own; it would also prevent the Islanders from seeking their revenge upon him for his actions that day.

The Pirates returned to their ship and with the sound of laughter sailed away never to return. The Islanders collected all the broken pieces of the stone idol and tied them together with strips of leather and in order to keep the idol warm they dressed it in a suit of flannel.  This flannel is replaced every New Year.  No one is sure whether the treatment by the pirates had any long lasting effect upon the idol but the Islanders still held it in great regard.  

I wonder if Naomhóg means little Niamh.  She was the daughter of the King of the sea Manannán Mac Lír who took Oisin to Tír na nÓg. Her father had power over the sea so it might not be too much of a stretch of the imagination to assume that his daughter would have the same powers to command the waves and storms.  Could it be that the red flannel suit was in fact a red dress? 

There is also a story that was told to an English traveller in 1959. The Godstone was associated with potato fertility during the famine of 1845-50.  It was said that the Islanders from South Inishkea stole the idol from the Islanders of North Island.  It was supposedly thrown into the sea by a catholic priest called Father O’Reilly in the 1890s.  He died shortly afterwards and the Islanders swear it was a direct result of his attempted destruction of the idol.

However, on the night of the 28^th October 1927 the power of the sea was to prove deadly. It is said that even the oldest fisherman can be surprised at the sudden anger shown by the sea and it was on this night that thirty currachs set out on a fishing expedition. Each was manned by two men, it was a dark night but the sea had been calm all that day and even though the barometers showed low pressure they decided to take a chance. Ten of those young men would pay the ultimate price, in just over an hour of setting out, eight men from South Island and two from North Island were swept to their death.

Like a screaming banshee the hurricane came out of the night tossing their boats as if they were made of nothing more than paper.  It was said afterwards that many more would have died had it not been for their uncanny ability to read the weather.  They sensed a change in the air and turned their boats for home, shouting to others to do the same; those who reacted quickly were saved, their boats thrown up onto the shore by the power of the waves. The others were not so lucky; the storm was so bad that nothing could be done to save them.  Six currachs didn’t manage to reach land and of the twelve young men only two were saved, brothers John and Anthony Meenaghan.  The people of Inishkea waited upon the shore all night hoping beyond hope that the other ten young men would return home but when the following morning dawned their hopes were dashed. They found the broken remains of four currachs and one unbroken, one body was found that day, John Reilly who had been accompanied by his younger brother, fourteen year old Terry.  As the days progressed more bodies were found, one by one washed up on the shores of the mainland, sometimes only identifiable by their clothing or their boots.

The storm was so bad that the families of the deceased were unable to get to Falmore cemetery to attend the funerals of their loved ones.  Michael Keanes body was never found.  If that wasn’t bad enough five years later two more fishermen from North Island were drowned.  One of these, Michael Lavelle was never found.  There is a monument with their twelve names on it erected in Falmore.  In the 1930s the families of both Islands left for the mainland, they still retain the right to their properties on the Islands and some of those families are still fishermen. 

The Islands now lie empty except for the birds, seals, and the odd donkey.  Tourists visit when the weather allows and they wander the Islands and look at the abandoned cottages and the ruins of the old church and schoolhouse.  I have been there myself and felt an eerie silence as the wind kissed my cheek. The sound of the gulls and the gentle grazing of the few animals, it was a very moving and emotional experience and I couldn’t help but feel a lump in my throat as I read the names of those poor young men who fought the sea that dark October night and lost.  May they and all those brave sea farers Rest In Peace.

The Little Lame Donkey.

This is a lovely story about a donkey and I thought I’d share it with you. It’s called,

 

The Little Lame Donkey.

It was a cold night. There was a full moon that lit up the snow covered meadow where the little lame donkey stood. He’d been there since the spring when he arrived with a small travelling fair. He was limping then and his owner decided to leave him behind when the fair moved on. The little donkey didn’t mind, at least he wouldn’t have to pull the heavy cart in which the children sat while he took them around the short circuit in the fairground. He was quite content to stay in the meadow, there was plenty of grass to eat and the local farmers who owned the surrounding fields threw him cabbages, turnips and carrots and they made sure that he always had plenty of water to drink.

But the little donkey was very lonely, particularly tonight for it was Christmas Eve and all donkeys know about Christmas, after all it was one of his ancestors who carried Mary to Bethlehem.  He heard the sound of the village clock in the distance strike midnight and because he felt so lonely he brayed a long, sad bray. Suddenly he heard another sound, this was a different sound. It was very quiet at first, a jingling, tinkling sound and it seemed to be coming from overhead. The little donkey looked up but he couldn’t see anything through the falling snowflakes. The jingling, tinkling sound slowly faded away to be replaced by another sound, crunching footsteps in the snow, someone was walking up the meadow towards him. The little donkey suddenly felt very excited who could it be out at this time on Christmas Eve?

It was a man, a big man dressed all in red, he had a red coat with a hood pulled up over his ears, a pair of red trousers and a pair of black wellington boots and he seemed to be carrying a large sack on his shoulders. As he got closer the little donkey noticed that the man had a big bushy white beard and twinkling eyes.

“Hello fellah, how are you” the man said as he removed the sack from his shoulder and placed it on the ground.

The donkey thought he knew the answer before he asked the man the question but nervously he said “Hello, who are you?”

The big man smiled, “Well I’m known by different names in different places. Sometimes I’m called Sinterklass,some call me Kris Kringle or Saint Nicholas. Here in Ireland I’m called Santa Claus or Father Christmas. I quite like Santa or Father Christmas”.

“But I thought you rode on a sleigh pulled by reindeer” said the donkey,

“I do” replied Father Christmas, “but I’ve nearly finished delivering all the presents for this year so I’ve let the reindeer go on ahead. They’ve been working very hard. I heard you braying a moment ago and you sounded so sad and lonely so I decided to come and see you”

“Where are you going now” asked the little donkey

“Well my final delivery is just outside Westport and I have a couple of chimneys to drop into”

“but Westport is about 5 miles away” said the little donkey,

“I know” said Father Christmas “but it won’t take me long to walk”

The donkey looked down to the large sack next to Father Christmas’s feet,

“I could help you” he said, “You could lift the sack onto my back and I could carry it for you”

“But what about your lame leg” answered Father Christmas,

“I can do it” insisted the little donkey,

Father Christmas smiled and said “Very well, if your sure, I would be very grateful for your help” and he lifted the sack and gently placed it on to the little donkey’s back and off the two of them went, across the meadow, down into the valley and headed towards Westport.

They chatted away as they walked and time passed quickly. They made four stops on the way and Father Christmas took mysterious and exciting looking packages from the sack and disappeared down the chimney of each house. They eventually arrived at a little farm just outside of Westport just as the sun began to wake up. Dawn was breaking and the little donkey noticed a wisp of smoke curling from the chimney of the farm house.

“Their awake early” said Father Christmas as he lifted the sack from the donkey’s back. “Time I wasn’t here” He patted the little donkey on the neck. He placed a smaller sack next to the donkey and said,

“Goodbye my friend, take care and I’ll see you again next year” The donkey looked around but Father Christmas was nowhere to be seen.

Just then the back door of the farmhouse opened and Mrs Foy came out to feed the chickens. She saw the donkey.

“What have we here” she said in surprise, she turned back and called into the farmhouse “Come out here quick, we have a visitor”

Her husband and children appeared in their dressing gowns and slippers ,

 Mr Foy said “Where did he come from” He walked over to the donkey. “Look at this” he said, “I think Father Christmas has been here” he patted the little donkey on the neck and he bent down to examine the sack.

By this time the children had become extremely excited, it was Christmas morning after all. They ran over to the little donkey and for a moment they even forgot about the sack bulging with Christmas presents.

“Look daddy” said one of the children, “There’s some tinsel around the donkey’s neck and there’s a label on it”

Mr Foy looked at the label and read the message out loud,

“Here is a special present for you all. He has a lame leg. Please take special care of him for he is my friend. Have a very merry Christmas”

Well they did look after the little lame donkey, they loved him. Mr Foy who knew a lot about animals helped the donkey’s leg to get better. In the spring he was even well enough to let the children ride him around the farmyard and he was never lonely again. As far as I know, he is still with them to this day

The Boy's at Án Post

Here is a little story to warm your heart. I’ve simply called it

The Boy’s at An Post.

Once upon a time not that long ago the sorting office for An Post was relocated from the local post office to a central location in Athlone. There was a fellah working there whose job it was to process all the mail that had illegible addresses.

One day a letter came to his desk addressed to God in very shaky handwriting. He looked at it and thought to himself “I’d better open this one and see what it’s all about”

When he opened it he began to read. It said,

“Dear God, I am an 83 year old widow living on a very small pension. Yesterday someone stole my purse, it had a hundred euros in it. It was all the money I had in the world and I won’t get my next pension cheque until after Christmas. I’ve invited two of my friends over for Christmas dinner so we won’t be lonely but without that money I won’t be able to buy any food. I have no family and no one to turn to, you’re my only hope. Can you please help me”

With a tear in his eye the postal worker went around the department and showed the letter to all his colleagues. Every one of them decided to put a couple of euros into an envelope and by the end of the day they had collected 95 euros. They sent it to the old woman’s address which was written on the top of the letter. All of them felt a warm glow because of the kind thing they had done.

Well Christmas came and went and after the holidays they had all returned to work when another letter came from the old woman. Once again it was addressed to god in the same shaky handwriting. All the workers gathered round while the letter was opened. It read,

“Dear God, how can I ever thank you enough for what you did for me. With the money you sent I was able to buy all the food and we had a lovely Christmas dinner. I told my two friends all about your wonderful gift. By the way, there was five euros missing, I think it must be those thieving fellahs at the sorting office”

Séan's Special Gift.

This is a story that may bring a tear to your eye, it’s a lovely tale about the love of two people. It’s called

Sean's Special Gift.

Can you remember the most meaningful present you’ve ever given to someone? It doesn’t have to cost the earth or be something flashy. It’s the joy of giving a gift to someone that really shows the thought that you’ve put into it and that’s what makes them so important. Here is a story about one such gift; I hope it reminds you of that special moment and how it may relate to your own Christmas story.

Sean steadied himself against the cold night wind, holding tight to his silver topped walking stick he stared at all the beautiful things in the shop windows on Bridge Street,

“What do I get for her” he said to himself. He only needed one present but it had to be perfect and time was running out.

Snowflakes began to fall and people walked by some loaded up with bags some still looking for that last minute gift. People carrying Xmas shopping and the air seemed filled with the sound of people calling out to those that they recognised

“How are ye” and “Happy Xmas”

Children with eyes wide looked in the shop windows and pulled at their parents hands “Look Mammy, Daddy” they shouted as they tugged at their sleeves dragging them away from boring stuff like dresses and jewellery and towards the more exciting windows with toys and sweets.

Sean turned around very carefully for now the street was slippy with snow and leaning on his walking stick he wandered down towards the end of Bridge Street. What wonderful things he saw, beautiful shiny objects, and the smells, Ohhh the smell was lovely, mince pies and mulled wine, turkey and ham. The air seemed alive. He pulled his scarf a little tighter and put his head down but even though he wore a wide brimmed hat the cold wind still stung his eyes and froze his cheeks. It even brought tears to his eyes, or was that the wind or something else?

Window after window Sean passed and each was filled with different things that at various times throughout his long life he had bought. A diamond ring, a wedding ring, elegant clothes, baby things, toys oh yes loads of toys especially those toys that you had to put together or those that you forgot to get batteries for.  Sean smiled as he remembered how she’d laughed and swore at him for being a complete eejit, fancy forgetting the batteries. She laughed as he tried to put the toys together and she’d bring him a cup of tea. They’d sit and talk about Christmases past and they’d nibble at the mince pie and drink the milk that the children had left for Santa and Rudolf. Then when all the work was finished they would sit in front of the fire and say a prayer to the child who had changed the world all those centuries ago, they’d pray for peace, they’d kiss and hold each other close. Yes they were the times he remembered best about this time of year, the times when they knew love best and their years were so very full.

Sean smiled and whispered to himself so that those who stood near him didn’t hear “Wonderful, wonderful times, but my present, I must find my present”

He turned and began to walk back down the other side of Bridge Street. Past Port West, Past Gavin’s, past the cafes and the smell of freshly baked cakes and pubs filled with the sound of laughter. He came to a stop at a toy shop window and looked in. He saw sail boats and dolls, games and teddy bears. He saw them all and lost himself in the ghost of Christmas past as he remembered the faraway sound of children’s laughter. Then he felt a shiver down his spine, despite his warm coat, his hat, gloves and scarf. Sean was growing colder, he was growing tired and yet still he saw nothing, nothing that stood out and said to him “Here I am, your perfect gift”

Then as if by magic he saw it, there it was tucked away in a corner of the window high up on a shelf only just visible behind the more expensive toys. Yes there it was, the perfect gift, the most perfect gift of all. Sean entered the shop bought the gift and asked the nice girl behind the counter if she would wrap it in some lovely Christmas wrapping paper. Then he went outside and seeing a taxi he hopped in.

“Where to” the taxi driver asked,

“Castlebar hospital please” Sean replied.

 

Arriving at the hospital Sean paid the driver, giving him a nice tip and they wished each other a very Happy Christmas. Sean went through the revolving doors and went to the elevator, pressing the button he went up to the women’s ward, to Mary’s room.  He opened the door and went in, took of his hat,coat, gloves and scarf and he pulled the chair close to Mary. He took her hand and held it, gently stroking it.

“Hello Mary” he said, not expecting an answer and of course none came.

Sean stared at her beauty, the rest of the world saw an old woman of 80, wrinkles, frail, white hair and swollen, gnarled, arthritic joints but not Sean. With his eyes he saw those things but not with his heart. With his heart he saw a woman who had devoted her life to him, a young woman standing on a step ladder as they decorated the baby’s room, she was giggling and had paint in her hair. He saw a woman playing with the children and comforting them when they felt ill, a woman with skin that was smooth and fresh and eyes that twinkled in the light.

He heard the soft sound of her voice as she sang their children to sleep and he heard her laughter as they played in the garden kicking autumn leaves and throwing snowballs in winter.  His heart smelled her scent mixed with the salt air as they walked along Bertra Beach, they’d seen the world with lover’s eyes and he felt the comfort of waking up next to her every day.

Yes this was Mary, the Mary that Sean saw. Not the Mary connected to life by wires and tubes.

“It’s Christmas Eve Mary” Sean said softly, “I’ve brought you a present, would you like to open it or save it for tomorrow?”

Knowing that Mary couldn’t answer Sean reached for the gift and placed it on the bed beside her. “I tell you what, why don’t we open it now. See the beautiful ribbon that the girl in the shop put on it. And didn’t she choose beautiful paper to wrap it in. It’s red and has little Santa’s on it, I picked it especially for you cause I know you like it. She did a marvellous job of wrapping it up”

With aged, trembling fingers Sean unwrapped the gift and while doing so he journeyed back in time.

“The Cow’s gone dry Mary” he shouted as he walked through the door,

“What are you going to do” answered Mary.

“We’ll have to shoot her and make beef burgers for the dinner” Laughed Sean,

“I’ll put the kettle on” replied Mary.

This was their greeting every night when Sean came in from work. How it began, they couldn’t remember. Just a bit of fun, just being young and foolish. It was funny really because they didn’t live on a farm and Sean had no idea how to milk a cow, he worked in an office. All they knew was it was a bit of fun, it was their special way, no one elses. It was their special way of saying “I Love you and it’s good to be home”

Sean pulled the last of the wrapping paper from the box in which the present sat. “Here it is Mary, give me your hand” Sean drew her hand towards him so that Mary could hold the gift. Then he placed it in her palm. It was a small, fluffy toy. A black and white cow that mooed when sqeezed. The cow lay in Mary’s limp hand, Sean reached over and squeezed the cow, “Mooo, Moooo”

In the silence of the room Sean heard a quiet, soft, muffled sound. Looking from the toy to her face he saw Mary’s eyes, open and distant. Her lips moved slightly. Sean rose from his chair in disbelief. It had been months since Mary had stirred. Gently, afraid of breaking the spell Sean leaned towards Mary. He bent down and put his ear near to her mouth and said “What my dear, what did you say”

Quietly Mary whispered “What are you going to do”

Sean had never felt such a surge of joy. Those few words from Mary’s lips. What a gift, what a gift, never had there been such a wonderful gift. Tears welled up in his eyes and fell on Mary’s cheek. Our words, our special words he thought, then choking back the tears he said,

“We’ll have to shoot her and make beef burgers for the dinner”

All that night, all that holy Christmas night, Sean waited for Mary’s response but Mary lay silent. She held her cow and she gently passed into the great beyond.