Happy St Patrick's Day!

 I hope you've had a lovely 17th March! The weather was glorious here today, and legend tells us that this must be because St Patrick has turned the stone! Expect a fabulous summer therefore...

On this day last year we knew that we were about to enter something that would be called a Lockdown. The two most spoken phrases in our house were to be: "the new normal" and "we'll just do what we're told". I've just had a look back to my St Patrick's Day post from last year to see what I was thinking then. I remembered how struck I had been that Patrick had been forced to self-isolate for a whole six years as a slave on what is a very windy, very muddy little hill not so far from here. I remembered feeling inspired by his dedication to praying frequently, all day and all night, as that time brought him deeper into faith. I remembered thinking how wonderful it would be to use this time shut away from the world to do just that.

What I hadn't remembered was saying this: "I even think that these weeks will bring us closer to others as well. We can, as so many are saying now, use our multitudinous communication technologies to communicate with each other." Now, I have certainly not used this year as I could have done prayer-wise. Like the seeds that fell on rocky ground,my joy has too often fallen away when trouble and persecution came. But. I am enormously grateful for the friendships that have not only been maintained, but even deepened* by regular video calls and Zoom break-out rooms, and walks and garden cuppas when the summer restrictions allowed. 

I was reading through Patrick's story again last night, feeling all wistful about having to leave the safe pastures behind. What struck me this year was that after all that time alone and praying (and not lounging about making sour dough and reading Hilary Mantel) God told Patrick to get up and go out and his ship was ready, two hundred miles away.

So that's what I'm taking from my patron saint this year. The time for quiet reflection is coming to an end, and the ship is ready to set sail towards The Other Side. I'm going to try to be courageous like Patrick, obedient like Patrick, and faith-full like Patrick.

It's time to arise!

*895

Views and Badger

 Jane! Help! I am currently capable only of blogging on a Thursday with my Northern Irish views, but keep meaning to tell you that, despite my invitation, I can't get in. Please advise...

Everyone else! It has been a typical Spring week here in the Frozen North. Just when we had all put away our woollies and bought suncream, back came the rain and snow and blizzard- and that was just lunchtime on Monday- and out came the winter coat. Shed today with the return of Meadowplace Blue. The strawberries are re-enacting Roman prisoners being taken into slavery. You can guess what we're revising tonight. Big into kinesthetic learning in this house.

 Jo sat us all down to make paper bunting yesterday, which we dutifully did. Not least because a return to sun means the annual return of exam weather and no-one was in any fit state to revise Physics or rotational symmetry. The bunting was in honour of PC's new (to him) car. We bade a grateful farewell to the carriage which has taken us all through Ireland, Scotland, England and France. It needs a rest!

 On to more pressing blog Badger business. Pom Pom, in the deep mid-winter, sent Badger forth on a quest for international hygge. He got as far as here, felt about Ireland much as I imagined the Romans did, and refused to come out of his den.

 There was a brief burst of energy when the grey cold lifted momentarily for February half-term. We took him out and about for his Irish farewell. Not sure that he appreciated the Stormont playpark as much as we did. He mustn't have known that activities there are mightily more impressive than any antics in our Parliament Building on the hill behind...

I think he did appreciate the wild ruins of Nendrum at Strangford Lough. His nose was twitchy and I suspect he smelt weasels. Though it could just have been ancient vestiges of Viking fear still  floating over the waters.

This is our oldest monastic site in Northern Ireland with links back to St Patrick and beyond. You can wander over the enclosures and hear the chants. Mole would have been bored.

He might have preferred the splendour of Mount Stewart house. We proceeded there for refreshment. Badger looked for some animal company on board but there was none to be had. The sunken garden is closed, with much of the rest, for a huge refurbishment, so all the strange stone creatures were out of bounds.

We did explore the Ulster Garden and count symbols and legends.

The story of the Red Hand of Ulster is most gruesome, but it was too early in the season for a vivid display of blood. No doubt when our Marching Season of July comes round we'll be spilling some again.

So, FINALLY, Pom Pom and Betty, finally I can state that Badger has left the country. He should by now be well on his way to England for a stay in a real Wild Wood. He is rested and ready for adventure. His fur bristles with the need for undergrowth and trees. Betty the Wood Fairy, here he comes.

If you would like to host Badger do let Pom Pom or me know- it's a wide, wild world, and Badger is on the move... (Ang, no reference to Rev Bob has been harmed in the making of this post. Bob seems currently to be a cult figure inspiring stomach-clutching hilarity in any context involving ten year old boys. Answers on a postcard. To someone with more patience for stomach-clutching hilarity in full exam season.)

Owed to Spring

Oh, I know. There were so many other things that I should have done on a totally gratuitous day off school today. At least four of you must be guts for garters with me in mind. And I didn't even show you the most incredible giveaway that Simone gave away to me last week. I'll use her photo because mine would never do it justice. I have it in my schoolbag for random acts of celebration. Thank you, Simone. I'm still delighting in its beauty.

I'm going to suggest that my gay (can I till use that word in that sense?) abandon of the to-do list is owed entirely to Spring. This is where I was today, instead of being efficient. There were lambs and daffodils and many, many balls of wool. I bought two- balls of wool. Now I have three little shamrocks all ready for tomorrow, when I shall look at my to-do list. Promise...

Celebrating St Patrick

Despite the fact that we are living in a box. A cardboard box. Life goes on! Homework has to be done- keep the pencil pots unpacked. Clothes must be washed, worn, laundered again- keep the clothes unpacked, and the clothes horses, the iron (ha!), the laundry baskets. Dinners must be made and consumed- keep the pots, pans, food, tea towels and kitchen sink.


I resist all attempts to pack up the boys' books. Mine are long gone, and I never resist pointing out the one tome that I could so happily have used right now, thank you very much, Prince Charming. Accompanied by wistful gazing in the direction of the cardboard mountain that is our dining room.


I will continue to resist until after Monday. We will be needing our dePaola, for goodness sake! And I know our felt St Patrick's brooches are at the bottom of the craft box at the bottom of the bed. Somewhere.


In honour of our patron saint, fraise has taken on his traditional colour. Yes, fraise has gone blue. I was at a truly fascinating talk last night by Tim Campbell, director of the St Patrick's Centre, in Downpatrick. He asserts that green became associated with Irish celebrations mostly after Irish immigration to America- post-famine obviously, but also prior to those disasters in the phenomenon of Irish Presbyterian emigration. Everyone missing the green fields of home in the midst of harsh American snow, and wearing their green shamrocks.


As it transpires, however, the colour associated with Patrick in his day was blue. It was a colour of the church and apparently also associated with one particular family who may have been his patrons.


So I shall be wearing blue on Monday. Not my only sign of rebellion. I have previously herein bemoaned the fact that our children never get any time off school for St Patrick's. Well! Now that I am working in an integrated school, and getting the whole day off, we are taking the strawberries out of school to go to the parade in the town of Downpatrick. Even before we got The Peace* Downpatrick was resolutely holding a cross-community parade, with all political symbols banned. Prince Charming and I have always wanted to go- though actually he played in a band once that was on a float in the parade, so it's really only me who really wants to go.


I would promise pictures, and indeed have identified the source of my problems as being cookies. I thought these were things that you ate in copious and gluttonous quantities. So now I just need to eat them all up. In the meantime I am leaving you with an apparently huge picture of The Land of The (sometimes tearful) Strawberries. It is all becoming increasingly emotional, and tears will be shed.


*The Peace. We do tend to talk about The Peace here in the Frozen North as if it was something we had caught, like The 'Flu. "Now that we have The Peace..." we will say. Secretly cynical, or perhaps just aware of how fragile Peace can be. Wishing you all peace in your land x

A Pause in Lent

 

We spent St Patrick's weekend in Wexford with the wonderful Steven. It made me wonder which of the Lenten fasts and feasts would apply on a societal level as well as a personal one. It's interesting that Gretchen's celebration of Forgiveness Sunday coincided with St Patrick's day this year.

 

Fast from apparent darkness; feast on the reality of light. 

 

 

It's certainly a whole different thing being in the South at such a time. There's none of the political demonry hanging about the colours and the images.

 

Fast from the shadows of sorrow; feast on the sunlight of serenity.

 

We were all looking forward to the Parade yesterday afternoon. Jo decided they needed hats. We explained that, given the flags situation at home, we wouldn't be buying anything with flag colours as we couldn't really wear them back in the North (without placing ourselves firmly on one side of the fence we're trying in our small way to work down).

Fast from hostility; feast on non-resistance.

 



What I loved about the Parade was that it was an unbridled celebration of all the ways in which community was working together in the town and beyond. All the clubs and sports folk and businesses and schools and charities were represented. It was a very long parade! Even with the rain pouring down the strawberries stood and jigged and clapped and waved, and then drove happily home to the Frozen North!

 



 

Fast from self-concern; feast on compassion for others.

Things

It's been a quiet week in Strawberry Land, probably because I have succombed to lurgy and my throat is too sore to shout. Mattman got back from his trip safe, sound and happy last week and is still full of tales and excitement.

 Jo finally got to go to football club as an unashamed bribe to keep up his music.

Prince Charming continues to be patient and charming and has not uttered one word of protest when I have woken him in the middle of the night for painkillers and orange juice. I think I may have milked this cold quite well enough now.

And all the squares of Nanny McPhee seem suddenly and wonderfully to be completed. Next week will see the journey into joining, but for now it's a little daily ceremony of pinning and steaming.

Bon weekend, fine bloggistes. I trust you have your Guinness in, or at least some stew on the go, for Sunday x

Happy St Patrick's Day Part 2

Oh all right then! Well done, England! And thank you, Betty for this fabulous leprechaun! I love him! Most gracious of you, given our Six Nations defeat of this evening!

And thank you, Lisa, for the fabulous ancient swamp willow with happy boys! I love it! Today they didn't enjoy quite the nice weather that you give them!

All started sunnily enough- for a picnic with Nedboy and co at Navan Fort. Here in days gone by the warriers of Ireland met and feasted, and Cuchulainn became the Hound of Ulster, and Macha cursed the men of Ulster. All good grim stuff! This morning we just had to contend with the Willows feasting on our quiche, as real warriers do, apparently, eat quiche.

On we continued to Armagh: city of Saints and Scholars, Ard Macha after she of the chariot race and the twins and the curse. Also, as the sign says, a town of opposites. Aren't we cheerful in the rain? Mattman is licking it, and I don't know what Cooking Catherine is doing with it.

Here comes St Patrick leading his parade. Behind him his modern day successors- both Archbishops uniting opposites at the front of the procession. This did nearly make up for the irony of us all being held back by orange rope (the parade had been re-routed because of a bomb scare further down in the town)!

Happy, bouncy leprechaun, and then lots and lots of animals, which must have been this year's theme. I think they had heard that the Willows would be there! The boys were, however, safely out of the elements, for fear that more of poor Mole's ink would run!



This is St Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland. Our book says that he drove out the snakes as he had driven out sin. Well. I wish he had driven out Macha when he was about it- here she is screaming fury at us all! I unfortunately took her photo just as she caught my eye- and now she has me cursed along with the men of Ulster! Suggestions for avoiding disaster in the comment box below, please- we don't need any more lachrymose! Angela and Betty- I shall be posting the boys out of harm's way this week!

Patrick Pilgrims (and this week's Pause)

We're gearing up for next Saturday's big celebrations! The Willows will be on their way to England soon- but there would be no point in leaving Ireland before St Patrick's now, would there? This afternoon we made our nearly annual pilgrimage to the St Patrick's Centre in Downpatrick*.

There will be a Rend CD for a comment that explains why pigs are in the middle of the exhibition! I've been thinking about pilgrims a lot this week, which is why it amazes me that Pom Pom has this post this weekend and also that Cooking Catherine came down tonight with this book for me to read! (I'll read it quickly, Fred!)

We built a beehive retreat for the Willows to give them a taste of Irish hermit life. Though we couldn't row them out into the Atlantic for the authentic salt waves.
They did walk up the steps of St Patrick's Breastplate, and Jo held them securely down in the wind whistling over Patrick's stone. (Don't want to lose anyone...)
Friends, this world is not your home, so don't make yourselves cosy in it. Don't indulge your ego at the expense of your soul. 1 Peter 2:11 The Message

"I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ." Quote attributed to Ghandi that may or may not go on to question the materialism of affluent Christian countries. PC told me about this quote after I finished Catch 22 yesterday, and was telling him how much I loved the fact that, despite the anti-God tirades from characters in the book, the chaplain is portrayed so positively throughout. Pilgrim on earth, come on, my soul. (*Fans of our vernacular should note pronunciation of "down"!)

Well, who else?

Jenny's Alphabe-Thursday post for today, W, links to one of the alphabetting bloggistes who is in Japan.

It feels frivolous to be pre-posting this as the news resounds with still more fear and terrifying possibilities.

But then, who else could we focus on here today of all days? Especially with this as starting point.

And most especially with the words of his Breastplate resounding back.

Patrick's Day

My children haven't yet had so much as a half-day off for St Patrick's Day. Their school is a middle-class Protestant primary school, where Mattman says there wasn't a mention of our earliest recorded missionary today.

Last year, not teaching on 17th March, I raced them straight to Slemish after school for a picnic and stroll with the other pilgrims. The sun was streaming over grass and snowdrops, so he must have turned the stone just for us!

I teach in a Protestant secondary school. So, unlike the grammars, we don't get a half-day for the rugby final of the Schools' Cup. Not even today when the town's Academy chased off all the usual suspects to face the city's Academy- and indeed they won! Well done, the outsiders!

So, no family celebrations for us at all today. I feel quite bereft. Thankfully we had a day at the St Patrick's Centre on Saturday, rounded off with a mini pilgrimage to Saul and (one of) the first reputed churches of Patrick! Tonight we had our annual reading of Tomie dePaola's brilliantly researched and gorgeously illustrated "Patrick", and I'm off now to think about our latest missionaries... (Irish missionaries all wear green wraps!) I hope you've had some Guinness!