Being tribal about being in Wexford

Wexford Quays, seen from Wexford Bridge in the rain late on Wednesday afternoon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2017; click on image for full-screen view)

Patrick Comerford

Before moving to Asketon six months ago, I was back in Wexford regularly, for walks along the beaches like Kilmuckridge, Ballymoney and Courtown, walks by the banks of the River Slaney, rambles around Bunclody, Ferns, Enniscorthy and Wexford town, or strolls along the Quays of Wexford.

Although I was born in Rathfarnham, spent part of my childhood near Cappoquin in west Waterford and went to school at Gormanston, near Drogheda, the important, decisive years of growing up and maturing were spent in Lichfield and Wexford, and I still feel very much at home in both Wexford and Lichfield.

When Wexford and Waterford were playing a recent hurling match, I was told I was being very tribal about Wexford. Ancestral roots go very deep indeed, and for the past six months I have missed the way Wexford is so easily accessible from Dublin.

If you can imagine Wexford, Dublin and Limerick as three corners of a triangle, then for me the most difficult side of the triangle when it comes to travel by public transport is the one linking Limerick and Wexford.

On Wednesday [26 July 2017], I was invited to two parts of the wedding of a former student – the wedding service in Saint James’s Church, Crinken, near Bray, and a reception in an hotel in Enniskerry, Co Wicklow. What was I to do with the six hours in between?

Fresh fruit at Green’s Berry Farm in Tinnock, near Gorey, Co Wexford (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2017)

From Bray, it is only an hour to North Wexford, and soon two of us were stopping to buy fresh Wexford fruits – strawberries and raspberries – at Green’s Berry Farm in Tinnock. Those plump fresh ripe strawberries are unique to the sunny south-east, and there is no comparison with the forced, limp imports found on many supermarket shelves. What happy memories I have of the Strawberry Fair, which marked its 50th anniversary in Enniscorthy this year.

A few minutes later we were in Gorey, wondering whether we might stop there for lunch, and whether Gorey still had a Greek restaurant. But I had forgotten how busy this part of north Co Wexford can be at this time of the year. Summer brings a large number of people from south Dublin to the beaches of north Wexford, and Gorey becomes a thronged shopping town.

We found no immediate parking, and decided to continue on, remembering that there was once a Greek restaurant in the old creamery in Ballycanew called Papa Rhodes.

The restaurant took its name not from the Greek island of Rhodes, but from its former chef and proprietor, Ormond Rhodes (‘Roddy’) Hickson, who once ran the place with his wife Maureen. But it seems to have been closed for a years now now, since about 2013 or 2014, and we continued on the road, through Castlebridge, to Wexford.

Wexford is always a beautiful sight to behold, even under grey skies and in a light rain that were more appropriate to mid-autumn than to mid-summer. The water was sparkling along the Quays, and from the bridge along the skyline I could pick out the Opera House, the spires of the Twin Churches in Rowe Street and Bride Street, the Friary and Saint Iberius’s Church. Tucked in the there somewhere is the house I once lived in on High Street.

I was last in Bunclody in January and the previous November. But I think I was last back in Wexford Town during the Wexford Festival in October for a lecture by John Julius Norwich. When you have experienced so much growing up in one place, every detail is etched on your memory, and every change is noted and catalogued in the recesses of memories and emotions.

By the estuary of the River Slaney at Ferrycarrig, on the outskirts of Wexford (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2017; click on image for full-screen view)

We drove through the town for a while, and then headed out to Ferrycarrig for a late lunch by the banks of the river at the Ferrycarrig Hotel. I had planned a short stay here in January, but those plans changed with the move to Limerick.

On the decking outside, a clown was entertaining children and small family groups. The estuary of the River Slaney, which looks like a lake at this point, was placid and soothing, and as our meal came to a close, the grey skies turned to blue.

We lingered here a little longer, enjoying the peaceful setting by the Slaney. We had talked about going back into Wexford for a walk around the narrow streets, but instead we drove along the banks of the Slaney, through Enniscorthy, Ferns and Camolin to the sandy beach at Ballymoney.

The day was beginning to close in, there was a light rain, and only one person was swimming in the sea. I went for a walk alone in the rain, and felt I hand the beach and the sea to myself, to think, to reflect, to pray.

But time had caught up with us. Within an hour, we were back in Enniskerry for the wedding reception. I am back in Askeaton, Co Limerick, this evening.

On the beach at Ballymoney, Co Wexford, in the rain on Wednesday evevning (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2017)

A walk on the beach and meeting the extended family in Co Wexford

High tide on the North Beach in Ballymoney, Co Wexford, this afternoon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2016)

Patrick Comerford

I was invited to Hollyfort in north Co Wexford, for the unveiling of remembering the role of Máire Comerford and Aileen K’Eogh in the Easter Rising 100 years ago in 1916.

The stone carvings stand in a new commemorative garden by the small bridge over the River Bann and this afternoon’s commemorations included readings, poetry, flag raising, a reading of the Easter Proclamation and sharing stories by members of the Comerford and Keogh family.

The special guests included the film-maker Joe Comerford, a nephew of Máire Comerford, and David and Simon Keogh, grandsons of Aileen Keogh’s brother.

This afternoon’s gathering was reminded that Máire Comerford and Aileen Keogh were two unlikely revolutionaries.

Máire Comerford (1893-1982) was a prominent Irish republican activist and journalist from Co Wexford who witnessed the principal events in the War of Independence and the Irish Civil War in 1916-1923.

With Máire Comerford’s nephew, Joe Comerford, at this afternoon’s commemorations in Hollyfort, Co Wexford

She was born Mary Eva Comerford in Ardavon House, Rathdrum, Co Wicklow, on 29 June 1893 – although she preferred to call herself Máire after the Irish Civil War. She the eldest child of James Charles Comerford (1842-1907), of Ardavon House, Rathdrum – the owner of Rathdrum Mill and a friend of Charles Stewart Parnell. She later recalled: “My father was a friend of Parnell and they visited each other quite often.”

Her mother, Eva Mary Comerford (1860-1949) was three times tennis champion of Ireland. Eva Mary Comerford’s father, Colonel Thomas Esmonde VC (1829-1872), Deputy-Inspector General of the Royal Irish Constabulary, served in the Crimean War and was the first British officer to enter Sebastopol after the siege in 1854.

He was later decorated with the Victoria Cross for his part in the Battle of Sebastopol. Colonel Esmonde – whose great uncle was the Right Rev James Murphy, Bishop of Cork – was a younger brother of Sir John Esmonde (1826-1876), 10th Baronet, of Ballynastragh, Gorey, Co Wexford, and Glenwood, Rathdrum, Co Wicklow, Liberal MP for Waterford (1852-1876). Máire later laughingly spoke of the Esmondes as a “minor tier of the Anglo-Irish Catholic aristocracy.”

Máire was an observer at the First Dail in 1919. She was present in the Round Room at the Mansion House to hear the Declaration of Independence being read and passed by the 37 TDs present.

She remained a committed supporter of Republican causes until her death in her ninetieth year, and at her death she was described as “the grand old dame of Republicanism.”

Máire joined the staff of Eamon de Valera’s newspaper, The Irish Press, in 1935, and worked as a reporter as well as editing the women’s page six days a week for about 30 years.

She retired in 1964. Later, colleagues in The Irish Press described her as “a granny-woman figure in the newsroom” on Burgh Quay. One of her last letters published in The Irish Times stated: “The Churches have played a part in the despoliation of Ireland. I appeal to them to make amends to the Irish people, and to provide an example of Christian living, by giving up their wealth, and by joining together in unity.”

Máire Comerford died at her home in Sandyford the age of 89 on 15 December 1982. When she died she was described as “the grand old dame of Republicanism.” She was buried at Mount Saint Benedict, near Gorey, Co Wexford, in a plot beside her life-long friend Father John Sweetman and Aileen K’Eogh and on the site of the school founded by Father Sweetman.

Although I did share her politics, I admired her strong feminism and her social values, and I value the open, pluralist and democratic society we have in Ireland today. She was convinced that the Bunclody and Rathdrum branches of the Comerford family were related, although I am not able to prove this. She encouraged my genealogical researches, and I was pleased to be introduced this afternoon as “a member of her extended family.”

Aileen K’Eogh is remembered for a dramatic jail escape during the War of Independence, and was the patron of Mount Saint Benedict, Father Sweetman’s school.

Joe Comerford and David K’Eogh unveil the commemorative stones in Hollyfort, Co Wexford (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2016)

Earlier in the day, I had been invited to preach at the Parish Eucharist in Christ Church, Delgany, Co Wicklow, where the Rector is the Revd Nigel Waugh.

After lunch and warm hospitality at the Rectory with Nigel and Heather, two of us drove through the Glen of the Downs and the beautiful Wicklow scenery, for a walk on the beaches in Ballymoney, north of Courtown, Co Wexford.

There are two beaches in Ballymoney, and I was last on the beach there in August last summer. But the waves were so choppy and the tide was so high it was impossible to check out reports that much of the North Beach has been washed away by recent storms.

Standing on the cliffs between the two beaches looking out at the rocks and the waves, was such a refreshing experience this afternoon that it could be described as “nature’s power shower.”

Most houses in Ballymoney are holiday homes and on a sunny, summer bank holiday weekend, these beaches can be crowded, and long queues form up outside the local shop. Some of the housing estate are full of holiday houses and have only a few permanent residents. So it was a gentle surprise to see so many local people there this afternoon for a walk on the beaches and to enjoy the waves and the tide.

After this afternoon’s commemorations in Hollyfort, we returned through Gorey and the Glen of the Downs.

Rocks, sand and rolling waves in Ballymoney, Co Wexford, this afternoon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2016)

‘I will not be pushed, filed, stamped … briefed, de-briefed, or numbered! My life is my own’

Has ‘The Prisoner’ come to Bray … is this Rover on the beach? (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2015)

Patrick Comerford

Four large white markers bobbed along the surface of the water close to the shoreline at Bray late this afternoon.

Perhaps they were there as markers for a boat race earlier today. But as I looked out to the Irish Sea I realised that 138 km east as the crow flies, beyond the horizon and on the west coast of Wales is Portmerion, and the large white spheres reminded me of The Prisoner.

I posted some photographs on my Facebook page, with the caption: “The Prisoner comes to Bray.”

One Facebook friend said: “Time we had a re-run of the marvellous Patrick McGoohan and l am not a number l am a free man.”

But another asked “Who is Number One?” and then posted later: “YOU are Number One!”

Of course, no-one knows who No 1 was, no-one knows who No 2 was, in his various guises, or would want to be him. And No 6 would say: “I am not a number, I am a free man.” Or: “I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, de-briefed, or numbered! My life is my own.”

I realised my thoughts are condition by time and place. Perhaps the comments could only be understood by people of my age, and have cultural relevance only for people who grew up, like me, watching television in the 1960s, on these islands. My comments and the discussion, perhaps, are meaningless for friends across the Atlantic.

The Prisoner, a 17-episode series, was first shown on ITV between 29 September 1967 and 1 February 1968, starring and co-created by Patrick McGoohan. He not only starred as No 6, but was also the creator and driving force behind the series. Many well-known actors had guest roles, including Leo McKern, Peter Bowles, Eric Portman, Patrick Cargill, Mary Morris, Paul Eddington and Donald Sinden.

It was a spy fiction, but had elements of science fiction, allegory, and psychological drama, fantasy, and a taste for the counter-cultural and architectural imagination and beauty. The series is rich in imagery and visual impact. The surreal architecture of the village with its Mediterranean atmosphere, is enriched by high-tech interiors, tannoys, surveillance cameras and piped music to create a bizarre combination. There is great attention to detail, from street signs to cans of food to village credit cards, Mini Moke taxis and staff uniforms.

A reminder of ‘The Prisoner’ on the beach in Bray this afternoon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2015)

The long-awaited final episode, “Fall Out,” had one of the largest-ever viewing audiences. But ITV’s telephone lines were blocked by the many millions of viewers who phoned in desperate for an explanation.

The Prisoner is the surreal story in a surreal setting of a secret agent (No 6, Patrick McGoohan) who is abducted and held prisoner in a mysterious coastal village where his captors try to find out why he has resigned abruptly.

He is held captive in a mysterious seaside village, isolated by mountains and sea. Large and menacing balloons, referred to as “Rover,” patrol the perimeter and capture or kill anyone who tries to escape. Captors and captives alike are known only by assigned numbers. The Prisoner who gives his name to the series is No 6, but he repeatedly rejects the label.

No 6 is monitored by No 2, who acts on behalf of No 1, who is never seen.

No 6, for his part resists defiantly: “I am not a number. I am a free man.” Or: “I will not make any deals with you. I’ve resigned. I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, de-briefed, or numbered! My life is my own.”

Most of the series was filmed in Portmeirion in North Wales, although this was not disclosed until the opening credits of the last episode at the request of Portmeirion’s architect, Sir Bertram Clough Williams-Ellis (1883-1978), who built Portmeirion (1925-1976) on his own private peninsula on the coast of Snowdonia.

However, with wonderful cricket this weekend, this was also a weekend to recall that the cricket match in one episode, “The Girl Who Was Death,” was filmed at Meopham Green in Kent. In this comic episode, first broadcast on ITV on 18 January 1968, the cricket match ends in the murder of a player (Colonel Hawke) with a bomb disguised as a cricket ball.

No 6 is on an operational assignment, perhaps in real time, perhaps before he came to the Village, or perhaps in an induced hallucination. Secret messages are passed to him at a shoeshine box. He picks up where Colonel Hawke left off in another match, but manages to avoid the same fate.

In the end, though, it turns out that the adventure was no more than a bedtime story No 6 was telling to children in the Village nursery. After putting the children to bed, he turns to the hidden camera and cheekily wishes: “Good night, children ... everywhere.”

On the beach in Bray this afternoon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2015)

The series asks more questions than it answers.

Why is No 6 being held?

Why did he resign?

Who is No 6?

Who are his jailers?

Who is No 1?

The village is run by No 2, but why does his identity change from episode to episode?

Was No 6 the victim of a nervous breakdown?

Or, like us, is he a prisoner of himself?

Is this an allegorical conundrum or is it a statement about personal freedom, democracy and social engineering?

On the beach in Ballymoney, Co Wexford, on Saturday afternoon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2015)

The beach in Bray this afternoon was my second beach to visit this weekend. Earlier, two of us had a late lunch in Carpe Diem. On Saturday afternoon, before a wedding reception in the Seafiled Golf and Spa Hotel Hotel, I went for a late afternoon stroll on the south beach in Ballymoney in north Co Wexford.

This small, quiet – almost hidden – beach has white sands and interesting rock formations, and received Green Coast Awards for 2015. It lies between the busy North Beach and Clones Strand.

The new sections of the motorway make Seafield only an hour or even less from Knocklyon.

Between these two beach walks, I was at the Cathedral Eucharist in Christ Church Cathedral, Dublin, this morning. The celebrant was the Revd Garth Bunting, the preacher was Canon Robert Deane, and the setting was The Short Communion Service by Adrian Batten (1591–1637), sung by the Christ Church Consort.

At the Cathedral Eucharist, I served as deacon, reading the Gospel (John 6: 35, 41-51) and assisting with the administration of the Holy Communion.

Having attended the Eucharist in Saint George’s Anglican Church in Taormina last Sunday and written about John Henry Newman’s visit to Taormina, I was brought back to Sicily as I listened to this morning’s offertory hymn, ‘Praise to the Holiest in the height’ by Newman, sung to the tune ‘Gerontius’ by JB Dykes.

We also had a feast of Orlando Gibbons this morning: the Communion Hymn, ‘Here, O my Lord, I see thee face to face’ by Horatius Bonar was sung to the Tune: Song 24 by Orlando Gibbons, and the Communion Motet was a setting by Gibbons for the Collect for the Third Sunday of Epiphany:

Almighty and everlasting God,
mercifully look upon our infirmities,
and in all our dangers and necessities
stretch forth thy right hand to help and defend us;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.

In Christ Church Cathedral, Dublin, this morning (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2015)

Our final, Post-Communion Hymn this morning was an adaptation of words by the 17th century Anglican priest-poet George Herbert (1593-1632):

Let all the world, in every corner sing,
My God and King!
The heavens are not too high,
His praise may thither fly;
The earth is not too low,
His praises there may grow.
Let all the world, in every corner sing,
My God and King!

Let all the world, in every corner sing,
My God and King!
The Church with psalms must shout,
No door can keep them out;
But above all, the heart
Must bear the longest part.
Let all the world, in every corner sing,
My God and King!

During those two beaches during this weekend it was easy to repeat those words by George Herbert:

Let all the world, in every corner sing,
My God and King!
The heavens are not too high,
His praise may thither fly;
The earth is not too low,
His praises there may grow.

A welcome to the Seafiled Golf and Spa Hotel Hotel, Ballymoney, Co Wexford, on Saturday afternoon (Photograph: Patrick Comerford, 2015)