The Wrenboys

On St. Stephen's Day 2007 I happened to hear that there were Wrenboys gathered down at the river.
Wrenboys, (Lucht an dreolin) are people who dress in straw masks and colourful clothing on the 26th. December and "hunt" the wren. The wren celebration is part of ancient Irish culture and dates back beyond pre Christian times, to life in Celtic Ireland. The druids are said to have studied the flight of the wren in order to make predictions of the future. The Irish word for wren is dreolin which translated means, Bird of the Druids.
In the intervening years, the wren has mainly been associated with treachery, betraying Irish soldiers who fought the Viking invaders, in the late first and early second millennia. The wren is also said to have betrayed the Christian martyr, Stephen after who the day is named. Traditionally, the wren was hunted, captured, killed and tied to the Wrenboy leader's staff but this aspect of the hunt is no longer practiced. Sometimes a fake bird is used instead, and the Wrenboys, accompanied by traditional ceili music bands parade the streets. They stop in all the pubs and generally enter by one door and leave by a different one.
I hurried down, and walked with them as they began their march through the Main Street, continuining this ancient tradition, that still resonates deeply to this day.




The Wran, the Wran the king of all birds,
St. Stephen's Day was caught in the furze,
Although he is little, his honour is great,
Put your hand in your pocket and give us a trate.
Dreoilin, dreoilin where is your nest?
Its in the bush that I love best,
Behind the holly and ivy tree,
Where all the birds shall follow me.
As I was goin' down to Youghal,
I saw a wran upon a wall,
I up with my stick and I knocked him down,
Then brought him back to Mitchelstown.
Mister Brown is a very fine man,
It was to him we brought the Wran,
You'll have luck throughout the year
If ya give us the price of a gallon o' beer.
Raise up your glasses, your bottles and cans
We toast your subscription to bury the Wran,
Up with the kettle and down with the pot,

Give us your money and let us be off!

If you subscribed to the Wrenboys they might give you a feather from the wren and you would have good luck for the coming year. If you refused to make a contribution they might bury the wren in your garden and you and your family would be cursed with bad luck for the following twelve months.

The First Christmas

In 1978 we moved in to our first home as a family, with our new baby boy, Jeremy. It was a Church of Ireland house and I had been appointed sexton of St. John's Cathedral, a post I remember warmly to this day. I remember meeting a lovely priest at the time in John Street, Fr. Christopher Jones who is now Bishop of Elphin, and he jokingly remarked, "I hope you are still practicing." We were Roman Catholics. I replied, "Of course we are Father." We laughed all the way to the house when Mary told me that she thought he was enquiring if were still practicing at being a married couple.
That first Christmas was a special time. We decorated the house, put up our tree and placed all the early presents from America beneath it. We were as cosy as church mice and my memories of that first Christmas are those, that only nostalgia can conjure up, many years afterwards. When you are newly married, with a child to share the holiday season, Christmas becomes new again. A child's first Christmas rekindles the wonder and delight of this special time of the year.
One of the gifts we opened that Christmas morning was a crystal-type tree ornament. It came packaged in a blue felt bag and depicted a small boy standing before a Christmas tree. On the outer box was written:
"The Christmas tree is an enchanted vision to a child; an almost awesome revelation, to be approached with breathless wonder.....eyes wide and aglow. And below the tree, spangled-paper wrappings hide mysterious marvels to be explored individually, with bubbling delight.
Later Christmas's are joyous too, of course; filled with laughter, gifts and greetings that build a bright collage of memories from one year to the next. But a child's first Christmas is a separate, precious thing....a kind of miracle, which lucky ones among us sometimes share."

Translations

Last night there was a retirement party for Joe Kirke, a colleague of mine. He had taught for thirty two years in St. Macartan's College. It was a very pleasant occasion, tinged with some sadness of course.
It brought back memories to me of a play performed in 1985 by Accompany Theatre in the college theatre. Accompany Theatre was a group founded by Tony Hennessy and myself the year before. We had ambitious plans for staging impressive theatrical productions in the Monaghan area. Tony was the Director and I was the Stage Designer. Between us we did everything else too, including lighting, financing, sound, publicity, make-up and performing. They were very exciting times. Our first play was Alan Ayckbourne's, Bedroom Farce, followed by the musical, Annie. Our third production was Brian Friel's , Translations and Joe had the main part of Captain Lancey.
At the retirement party last night, Joe was accompanied by his two children and his wife Mary. Mary was in Translations too. She played the part of Maire Cathach and and the romance that blossomed on stage between the two main characters continued off stage and Joe and Mary soon married.
I played the part of Doalty Dan Doalty and it so happened that the Dj last night was Martin Markey, who had played Lieutenant Yolland.



I loved the set we made for the show but I felt there was something missing. I told Tony it needed hens, real ones, to wander around the stage in the opening scene. Lovely white hens materialised at the dress rehearsal. A technical problem arose when the house lights went down. The hens got confused and fell off the front of the stage and strolled among the small group of invited friends. Amidst chuckles of laughter they were lifted back up but promptly fell back down again.
Our current parish priest: Fr. Hubert Martin was a teacher in the school with us at the time. Fr. Hubert came from a farming background and I explained the predicament I had with the hens. Without blinking an eye he conjured the solution instantly. "Put the hens downstairs in the dressing room on the day of the performance and don't give them anything to eat. When they are due to go on stage sprinkle plenty of feed for them at the back of the stage" We followed the instructions and on the opening night the hens pecked away happily downstage until it was time for them to make their exit. For the remainder of the performances, they continued to perform impeccably and never once fell into the audience.
The photograph above includes Joe (Captain Lancey), his wife Mary (Maire Cathach) and their two children. Martin Markey (Lieutenant Yolland) is the Dj in the background. I (Doalty Dan Doalty) am not in the picture because I took the photograph.
The photograph below is the set for Accompany Theatre's production of Translations.