One From 12 Years Ago Featuring Father Vincent Davey

This post refers to events that happened in the late 1960s so almost ancient history. Father Davey, the Parish Priest of Antrim during my childhood, was quite the character, a sportsman, missionary and community worker. He got on so well with the people of Antrim that he was sometimes referred to as the Protestant Priest. He was also the first dead person I ever laid eyes on when his body lay 'in state' in St Comgall's in 1970.

And so, on to the recycled post.

In A Graveyard

So that is St Patrick's Day and Mother's Day over for another year. We had a few friends around last night and the talk came round to parading. Swisser complained that she had been held up earlier by an Orange parade and Bert and me had a little disagreement when I opined that I thought Orange Men only paraded on St Patrick's Day for complete twistedness and he opined that I was a sectarian bigot.

Usually on Mother's Day it slips my mind that I am a mother and have been so for 37 years. It always seemed far more important that I was a daughter and I had a mother. I visited her grave today and left a little posy that I plucked from my garden. Hannah went with me. I took her photograph by the grave and afterwards I said, “Were you smiling in that picture?” and she said, “Yes. Everybody puts on a solemn face by a grave. I didn't want to.” I've never been in St Comgall's cemetery with Hannah alone and we walked around and I told her stories about the people I knew who were buried there.

There was an Aunt who died of cancer when I was a teenager. She had the most beautiful smile and she loved to laugh. Her daughter was seven years older than me and she had a really quirky sense of humour. One day I went to visit my Aunt and my cousin was there as well. She came out with some remark (I forget it now) that I found so funny that I laughed until I wet myself. My Aunt was tickled pink at this disaster and she laughed until tears ran down her face. She died not long after this.

I knew so many stories about people who were buried there. There wasn't the time to tell her all of them but I did tell her one about Father Vincent Davey who was Parish Priest in Antrim when I was a girl. In those days the Parish Priest was a figure of authority and although Father Davey seemed to be a jovial sort of man, we children were taught to fear him. Father Davey had been a missionary priest in Nigeria from 1922-1932 and was still devoted to that cause. He was very skilled at raising funds or, to put it another way, squeezing money out of his parishioners. As I remember, the bulk of his sermons were fund-raising drives and exhortations for money. Still the people of the Parish would far rather have given their money to the Missions or the Parish than to the Government.

I would have been around fifteen and becoming very wilful and defiant and my parents were despairing of me. Matty had the bright idea of sending me in to Father Davey for a good talking to and I was given the busfare to Antrim and instructed to go and see him. I can't have been that bad a girl or I wouldn't have went near the Parochial House but anyway I stood at that bus stop and I got on that bus and I was trembling with fear and I'm sure there are people who've gone to the scaffold who were not as afraid as me.

I got off the bus at the Chapel Corner and presented myself at the Parochial House. I knocked the door and, after what seemed like a long time, it was opened by the old dragon of a housekeeper. She looked down at me with great disdain. “Yes. What do you want?” I quaked and said in a very tiny voice. “I'm here to see Father Davey.” She went off and a few minutes later he appeared at the door. I must have interrupted his meal for he was wiping his mouth. He was pink and shiny and not terribly cross looking at all. I said, “My mammy sent...” He stopped me, looked at me benignly and he said, “Now – you're to be a good girl, say your prayers, work hard at school and do what your Mammy and Daddy tell you,” and with that he smiled at me and closed the door. I was delighted to have got off so lightly and made my way home with a far lighter heart.

I did not make Matty much wiser as to what had passed between me and the Parish Priest and I'm afraid that I did not take his advice to heart for I did not say my prayers, nor did I work hard at school or do what my parents told me. But I probably should have.

Missing the Northern Lights

 I woke up on Saturday morning, early as usual, let the dogs out, made coffee, then went to my desk and completed Wordle in four tries. As always, I opened Twitter/X and posted my results so that a fellow Wordler west of Dingle might see it. I think he and I are the only two folks left in the world who still do this. But what else had he posted? Only the Aurora Borealis over Mount Brandon! I was delighted for him and just a little envious.

I sipped my coffee and noodled over to the WhatsApp family group. And there was another photograph of the Aurora. This time it was Leitrim Sister who’d caught it in the bog. Wow! Aren’t they lucky dogs in 26 I thought to myself. I carried on scrolling. What’s this. The Northern Lights in Crumlin? County Antrim! Where I live. This was my niece Neesh who’d seen the amazing light show. Her photos were the best too. I might have to steal one. Or two.

Photos by Naoise

Next to Facebook to see whose been looking at Nelly’s Garden and what do I find. Vee’s brother Geordie, over at Cardonaghy, only a few fields away from here, okay more than a few, I went on Google Maps and counted them, fifteen fields away but that takes into account that the fields around here are quite small. Anyway, I digress, Geordie too had photos of the Aurora and there’s me slept through the whole thing. Raging!

At least I had Evie’s concert to take my mind off it. This took place at Wellington Church near Galgorm. I passed Geordie’s house on the way and there he was, the lucky beggar, sitting sunning himself at his front door. Evie’s concert was wonderful. I did not take any photographs and was cross with all the people who did as they kept obstructing my view of Evie and her cello. The crossness did not last as the concert was so good. I was feeling happy on the way home and when I passed Geordie’s house we waved at each other. No hard feelings about missing the Aurora.

There were high hopes that it would be visible later that night which is why I found myself standing in a silage field with the Haribos at 11 o’clock, way past my bedtime. Ditto Zoe and the girls. Dave is a night owl so was normal for him although he’d be more likely to be on the sofa than a field at that time of the evening. It was not to be. At the crucial time the sky clouded over and there were no Northern Lights for us.

I was back down the lane, past the silage field today, all by myself, headphones on, plugged into a podcast, fast forwarding to episode 8 to hear my own voice in my ears. This from was the interview I gave at the BBC back in March.* I was slightly in dread of hearing myself but it was OK.

Later on, I listened to the entire series and I'd recommend it to anyone interested in the history of the Northern Ireland conflict.

* Ganching and I were both invited to take part in a BBC Ulster programme about the UWC Worker’s Strike.

The Things I Learn From Books

 

Don't even ask me where I picked this one up, for I don't recall. This week it went into the reading basket, as I always want at least four of the twelve to be non-fiction. I read the introduction this morning and know I will love this book.

The new thing I learned was on the first page. Welwitschia mirabilis, a plant found in the Namib Desert, never grows more than its first two seedling leaves, leaves which grow to an immense length and which can live for thousands of years. How amazing is that? 

Welwitschia is named after an Austrian botanist, Friedrich Welwitsch, who was the first to describe the plant in 1859. The 'mirabilis' means marvellous, amazing. Latin may not be spoken much today but, thanks to Linnaeus, all plant people have a bit of it, even me. 

Some folk think that Welwitschia is an ugly plant and yet some people still want to grow it for themselves. I checked eBay for availability and a company is selling 10 seeds for £47.99. I'm not going to bother though as the company is in China and I couldn't be certain that I wouldn't end up  with some other plant. Also, I don't even have a heated conservatory. Coming from a desert I'm sure the plants wouldn't appreciate the climate in Cullybackey.

Still, I would like to see Welwitschia in real life. Preferably without visiting Namibia or Angola. Nothing against those countries except they're a bit far away. I must have missed it when I visited Hortus Botanicus in Amsterdam for, according to Flickr, it was there in 2012. Unless it perished before I got there.

This illustration would suggest that Welwitschia has more than two leaves but over the decades the desert winds shred them so that there appear to be many more. Then, over the centuries the ends of the leaves disintegrate and blow away. Truly amazing.  Another thing. They can be eaten*. I wouldn't. 

*Indigenous people eat the cone of this plant by eating it raw or baking it in hot ashes. One of its names, onyanga, translates to 'onion of the desert'. (Wikipedia)

The Twelve, May 2024

 

It's been five years since I began reading multiple books simultaneously and, since then, I have read approximately 224 books. There may be a few I still need to record. To be honest, I've been slacking. That works out at less than four a month and at that rate, should I live to be eighty years old, I'll only be able to read another 448 books. Some of  which are yet to be written. Recommendations, please.

Hagseed is my favourite of the current batch, with the Michael Lewis and the McNamara a close second. The Sheri Fink I've been dragging through and the J.M. Coetzee (his first book) has been a struggle. I've just completed The Vietnam Project and will be moving on to The Murderous Boer (my words, not his). I've barely started the Feeney, the Chidgey and the Shafak. All three seem promising and, coincidentally, two of them feature magpies. 

The following is a list of the 224 books I've read or am currently reading. Only look at it if you can be bothered. I won't mind.