Cúige Chonnacht 5,000 years ~ an observation

As the Tom Waits song goes, God is indeed away on business and who I have to ask myself, as does Mr Waits, who were the ones that we kept in charge, killers, thieves and lawyers?

The problematic in modern Ireland is simply that of 1920’s Chicago unfortunately we as a nation have not, as yet, produced the likes of an Eliot Ness or his reputable, gang, of Untouchables. Ness, as with most historical figures and our perception of them is more generally undertaken through the auspices of Hollywood moving picture shows or state propagandized films; rather than any actual facts attributable to that person, most often, still alive, as those already in receipt of personalized demise.

History is written or rather re-written to suit the occasion unless I as professional cynic in those last fifty years or so of my mortal life, I have remained, as the character of Oisín from the fable Niamh and Oisín, asleep for those intervening years of his life’s progress, and I like he, awoke just yesterday to find myself, a stereo-typical, helpless, ineffectual and aged, old man? As every Irish child should know, Oisín falls in love with the beautiful Niamh and leaves with her on her snow white horse to Tir Na nOg - the land of the ever-young. Missing his family and friends he asks to pay them a visit. Niamh lends him her horse warning him never to dismount and he travels back to Ireland. But three hundred years have passed; his family and fellow warriors are all dead. Some men are trying to move a boulder. Oisín reaches down to help them. The girth of the horse's saddle snaps and he falls to the ground; before the watching eyes of the men Oisín becomes a very, very old man.

Approaching, sixty two years of age, I do not consider myself and I am sure neither does Tom Waits, coincidently born, as I was, on the 7^th of December 1949, consider ourselves to be neither old nor very, very old, as did those new found contemporary’s, witness to Oisín’s failure to enjoy the benefits of retirement back home in Tir Na nOg having failed to learn, as I have done, to remove boulder’s from life’s road, at the gallop.

The thing I love best about Ireland is that the real Ireland, still remains a secret, its geographical location thankfully is as elusive, as the legendary Tir Na nOg, itself or indeed such evidence of incorrupt governance, throughout the entire island of Ireland, that may eventually be proven by historical fact long after I and my fellow warriors have long since paid the ferryman his rightful due.

During the summer months, I usually take my family back home, to the home-place as is said, in the county Mayo. As well as fishing, attending my families graves; as one does on holiday in Ireland, I took some beautiful photos of the surrounding countryside, all the while thinking that life and my own Clan Ceallach has been around for so long in the west of Ireland and the contribution it has made over generations and was made more evident in the County Mayo in that area that borders that of Galway to the south known as Connemara, as I drove along the highway.

I had invited my daughters for an early evening drive; the day before we left for home in the county Louth, over to Westport Music Festival then drove on to Leenane and back home via the scenic route through Connemara, landing at the home-place well past midnight, in the heart of Ireland.

The scenery there is best described, as fantastical, my real and spiritual home, it was as usual pouring with rain and the misty covered mountains, described so often in song, replete with cascading waterfalls and raging rivers, as always, proved magical and inspiring, in the ensuing half-light.

In the secret Ireland that I love and cherish, one can really understand why such modern minions of state induced power fail miserably in their campaigns against the people of Ireland; as did those historical figures such as Oliver Cromwell and his New Model Army found, to their abject cost, in their attempt to usurp, the spiritual power of the Clans.

Oliver’s Army did indeed intend to stay, much like those successive Irish governments, who themselves on average, have lasted less than twelve months in political domination and overt pillage of the wealth of contemporary society; much the same as, young Cromwell did, on his way to Hell, so very long ago, in deference to and knowledge of the spirituality of our sacred province known to this very day as, Cúige Chonnacht.

© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011