Life

Nuala McCann: Memories of St Patrick's Day

St Patrick's Day means memories of 1970s family outings on the tricky slopes of beautiful Slemish, writes Nuala McCann

Nuala McCann

Nuala McCann

Nuala McCann is an Irish News columnist and writes a weekly radio review.

Slemish, possibly not the volcano that some children once believed it to be
Slemish, possibly not the volcano that some children once believed it to be Slemish, possibly not the volcano that some children once believed it to be

ST PATRICK'S Day. Home. The early 1970s.

Outside the church, a man would be selling small bunches of shamrock bunched up and wrapped in a crumple of tin foil, laid out on a wooden trestle table.

People pinned a bunch of the green to their jackets. Or they wore green for the day that was in it.

Inside, we'd be at early Mass, anxious for the priest to rattle through it: for us all to stand, chests puffed like proud pigeons for a rousing chorus of Hail Glorious St Patrick.

Sometimes we'd have Faith of Our Fathers too – we were big fans of the dungeon, fire and sword bit. It was fierce.

And then we'd be free to gorge on the full Lenten hoard of sweets because the saint's day was a day off from Lenten penance and it was a day for gummed up jellies and dolly mixtures and Bazooka Joes all saved over the long hard days of Lent.

And it was Lent that weaned me off sugar in my tea. I stopped taking it one year and never went back on again because, frankly, it was putrid.

And back in those days, after Mass and breakfast, a parent drove us to the slopes of Slemish, opened the doors of the old Volkswagen, lent us an old blackthorn walking stick and released us, like wild hares free to range the slopes.

Was it so long ago?

We struggled up our holy mountain and climbed to the top and it was never that easy. But once there, there was always that 'top of the world, ma' moment, the wind whipped the rushes and the view was magnificent – you felt you owned it.

Slemish was forever my holy mountain. Yet it is only a hill.

In early school days, we learned that it was once a volcano – or maybe I imagined it. Sometimes I wondered how we'd cope if it erupted, pouring molten lava on the fields and the sheughs, a miniature Pompei in downtown Ballymena.

But for those first 18 years when I lived and slept with my sisters at the backroom of our house, it was the view from the window, a painting and a backdrop to the dramas of our lives.

At the desk in the bedroom, as O and A levels loomed, mathematical equations danced on the page before my eyes and chemistry was a conundrum I could never unlock.

But I'd look out and rest my eyes on that distant hill and think of the boy Patrick, huddled behind a rock, sheltering from winter winds on the slopes where he minded the sheep.

His national day also spelled Spring. It meant the light was back, the old druid could struggle from his dark cave, the snowdrops poke small noses out of the soil.

So each year, we stormed the slopes and arrived at the top to gorge on our Lenten sweets.

And then, we'd dander down and start in to the long walk home. Was it 10 miles?

It never felt like it. We were fit for it. I see us still, four friends, laughing and larking and dragging a blackthorn stick along the hedges on a country road.

And now one of us is long gone from this world and the others have struggled through their own stormy days, but are still beautiful.

For my mother, the day has another meaning – it was the day long ago when she first met my father. Ah, what a romance was there.

But that is another story and it is hard to believe that 29 years have passed since he died.

Many St Patrick's Days have passed since we climbed the slopes. Once, in recent days, my brother and I took my son and our three nephews to the top and, it must be said, it felt like a hairy enough climb.

We carried the youngest up between us, and my knees screeched 'torture' on the way back down.

But it was worth it for the breeze on your face at the top and the sense of satisfaction.

It is hard to confess that I'm much worse at Lenten abstinence than I was back then.

I fall off the wagon repeatedly and would go to hell for a square of chocolate.

But the sugar in the tea is my back up plan – my sacrifice that is nothing of the sort.

I'm not sure St Patrick would approve.

.

---

This email has been checked for viruses by Avast antivirus software.

https://www.avast.com/antivirus