Greetings from the Hallowe’en capital of the world, Derry-stroke-Londonderry, where we take the ancient festival of Samhain very seriously indeed.
‘Derry wans’ don’t do things by halves. The population is seized by a collective all-encompassing madness that extends from grandparents to the baby in a buggy and the family dog.
It’s considered very bad form indeed to appear on the streets not having made an effort to render oneself unrecognisable, usually at considerable trouble and expense, dispensing with dignity and comfort in order to remain in character for an entire evening outdoors in the vicinity of the river Foyle with a wind coming off it that would cut coul’ iron. You get the picture.
In the days before we imported sophisticated Americanisms like pumpkin-carving and trick-or-treating, things were a lot simpler. ‘Scobin’ a turnip’ to put a candle inside was a day-long task with a blunt knife and not worth the bother.
As children in the fifties at the country school I attended, the big excitement was: “What kine of a fissick are ye getting’ fer Hallowe’en?” The ‘fissick’ or false face, was a flimsy cardboard mask anchored by a feeble piece of elastic that snapped after half-an-hour’s wear. This, plus a worn-thin sheet with holes cut in it, a hand-me-down coat or dress, a cast-off shawl or hat and a basket to carry the spoils was the height of our creative endeavour.
Weighed down with warnings to go only to the doors of people we knew, we’d rap in expectation demanding “Any nuts or apples?” And nuts or apples were all we got. Maybe a few rockets were let off in someone’s backyard, a couple of furiously spinning Catherine wheels nailed to a post and a sparkler each to make patterns in the dark. Then home before eight o’clock to a drop of tea and, in our house, an apple-tart, fresh from the oven. Hidden within were a silver sixpence (for wealth), a curtain ring (for marriage), a button (for bachelorhood) and a nut (for consolation). Not realising how deprived we were, we went to bed content.
I’ve no clear recollection of when Hallowe’en became a big civic thing. From simple beginnings it grew year on year and now enjoys a space of days, with all manner of events and entertainments, culminating in a spectacular firework display on the night itself. Streets, stores and private houses are festooned with cobwebs and lanterns; witches, ghosts and ghouls peer out of dark corners; blood and gore drip from mock-Gothic walls and the repulsively realistic heroes of hardcore horror movies stalk the shopping malls.
As someone who, as a child, emerged traumatised from the ghost-train in Barry’s Portrush, I think some of it is the stuff of nightmares, with a particularly unhealthy emphasis on monstrosity, death and decay. I suppose a generation reared on Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings and sci-fi fantasy are used to being terrified and quite enjoy it. Still, computer-generated imaging has a lot to answer for.
But I’m talking myself into a gloom. At the time of writing, every Derry granny who ever worked in a shirt factory is clattering away on a sewing machine. Local suppliers have long since sold out of sequins, glitter, face-paint and fangs and hotels and BandB’s report 98 per cent occupancy.
I must make special mention of a phenomenon unmatched elsewhere. Derrymen, whatever their other well-documented shortcomings, rise magnificently to the challenge of glamorous cross-dressing. Word has it there’s not an extra-large pair of fishnet tights to be had between here and Ballymena. Beyoncé and assorted Kardashians are strongly tipped to be popular this year.
Most affecting sight at midnight on a previous Hallowe’en – a fellow dressed entirely in cardboard boxes, three on each arm and leg, torso encased in a large carton, head encapsulated in a smaller one. He was all angles, arms and legs akimbo, his mates tenderly holding a beer bottle to his lips. Derry at Hallowe’en – rivalling Philadelphia as the city of brotherly love…
