The traditions of Lá Fhéile Pádraig

In Ireland we always love the fun; we love the banter, the scéals, the history, the traditions and the craic. There is a switch inside us that loves any opportunity to be turned on by music, fun or laughter, a switch sometimes ignited by the youth, by the community, and by keeping the spirit and our traditions alive. Just like on St Patrick’s Day.

When I was young, the accordion was out for weeks beforehand practicing for the parade. The discipline, the precision, the timing required for representing our school with pride, the reel and slip jig rehearsed around the kitchen every night until it was perfected. I loved Irish dancing and competed at a high level. On St Patrick’s Day the legs performed like no other as this was the day to show our talents, to show our hard work and our love for the tradition of Irish dancing. Those skills learnt all those years ago are never forgotten and once the music comes alive, the on switch is ignited. Just like my love for running, the adrenaline flows and one keeps going.

The friendships, the hard work, the dedication and all those fun times taught me life skills. It is with a huge heart of happiness I watch the youth of today prepare for St Patrick’s Day with pride and determination to do their part representing their schools, clubs, families and, most importantly, themselves.

Like all houses on St Patrick’s Day, different traditions are celebrated and for my husband it is the float. For weeks beforehand, the lads and himself are coming together with the ideas, the plans and the costumes. Of course it’s top secret, hidden out in the shed, and one does not enter!

In the middle of lambing season, not much sleep is gotten between the law of the land and the law of the parade, but that is the fun part. The hype, the rooting around for costumes, props, some old, some new, the craic is had and it always comes together.

It is this community spirit, the participation, volunteering, the organising of local people that helps keep the celebration of our national day alive. The fun and excitement for the children of partaking in the parade; up on a pedestal marching through the main streets of the towns, representing their clubs, schools and villages with pride, being cheered on by all the neighbours and local support. The thrill of seeing the array of floats, figuring out who the characters are, jumping to catch the sweets and hanging with their friends. A simple but fantastic day of celebration.

For me this year, it’s a very early start. The only way to get a morning run in on Lá Fhéile Pádraig is to be up and gone before anyone’s about and back before the commotion begins. Today I have a need to roam around St Patrick’s tracks and so I head to the nearest place he frequented – my home village of Kilmaine. There’s always a rivalry existing between Kilmaine and Shrule; on leaving Shrule one mile out I take a sharp left turn down the boreen passing through to Kille Abbey.

There is a magical atmosphere around there, a sense of peace and happiness exists. Running towards the wall, I see the stone with an opening as wide as one’s fist. As a youth I was told that if I stand away with arm outstretched, close my eyes and walk towards it, if getting my fist in the hole my wish will come true. Always believing in the tradition, the fist fits through.

Passing the graveyard, one forgets about the present and thinks of those gone past, a mindfulness exists. This is one of the three churches that legend says St Patrick built while in Kilmaine. Running another 100 yards I pass the ancient foundation of St Patrick’s Kilmainebeg which it is believed at one time belonged to Shrule. The Little Middle Cell (Cill Mean Beag) is now in the parish of Kilmaine and is where the bishops of Donaghpatrick’s two sisters were placed by St Patrick. One gets a sense of the local rivalry.

A left turn onto the main road leading me Kilmaine way, there is not a car about on an early Sunday morning except the odd tractor, truck and van making final preparations for the big day ahead. I pass the home house, dumping the jacket and cap as it is 10 degrees. A wicked humid morning but rain’s on the way – typical St Patrick’s Day weather.

I head down memory lane and the castle is in sight. As a young lass spending many a fine summer’s evening, hanging, exploring and climbing through the tunnels and steps, we knew every twist and turn, seeing for miles around. We heard the stories. Whether true or false, it provided summers of entertainment for the youth of the area. Simple but learnt times. Turin Castle was built in 1574. As a deference to a sacred landmark, many times were spent roaming around, finding a small room off the main spectacular hall, peeping out on our knees through a lancet opening. As one can only view out from floor level, the lancet directly aligned with the summit of Croagh Patrick.

The sun is shining beautifully on the castle today. Surrounded by greenery, it is located in the Barony of Kilmaine; Cill meaning ‘Church’ and ‘Mhean’ meaning middle.

The area at the time was controlled by the Cuil Toladh tribe. The De Burgo family built a chain of castles throughout this region for defence and protection. It was the location of the castle that is most significant; aligned with the top of Croagh Patrick and Knock Ma. On running to the top of both I have seen the sites. The castle was abandoned for 250 years and its restoration began in 1997.

On running up towards it I remember fondly times gone by but also admire how magnificent it looks today. I think of the many times we climbed the flight of stairs to the top, skipping the few missing steps to reach the summit so we could see all round for miles. I meander my way around the twisting, turning winding roads of Turin avenue eventually passing the ringfort beside my cousin’s land. We spent days roaming around this fort, searching for treasure, feeding ourselves on apples and berries. Being told an underground passage tomb linked the castle to the fort, lots of times trying to search for the underground way.

In the 16th century, Kilmaine was one of the biggest agricultural and trade areas in the county. Today, it has a big agricultural hinterland, largely suited to sheep faming, ideally located between Castlebar and Galway. I pass the homeland, the cattle are grazing, a quick count in, they’re all intact. On a morning run lots of jobs can get done.

I continue the four miles towards Shrule and the road is now busier; the vintage cars, the floats, the yellow vests all appearing in preparation for the big day. On entering the rival village I run down the graveyard way to reach Shrule Abbey. We’re told Christianity was brought to Shrule by St Patrick in the fifth century when he crossed over the Black River, passing over the Shrule Ford, leaving Galway behind and entering Mayo.

We have few traces in Shrule but he founded a church at Donaghpatrick and founded three in Kilmaine. History informs us he crossed the Black River. St Patrick’s Hill lies across from the river and St Patrick’s stone near the ancient abbey of Cloghvanaha in a field just west of Shrule.

My journey continues. Turning the mile road for home, Croagh Patrick is in sight. I’d like to be there but today’s adventure ticks all the boxes. I hear the music, the traditional Irish songs, some as Gaeilge, I hear the laughter. The craic has begun, the last-minute parade preparations and the kids overjoyed with excitement on finally seeing what the float entails and searching for the four-leaf clover.

The Irish reel is hopping, igniting the on switch. I fly in the driveway and there is no need to practice. The Irish dancing is alive, the steps belted out the backyard by all, and the kids and friends are now partaking in the celebrations. The tradition is being passed down to the next generation, the float is ready, the music is pumping, the craic is ninety and the traditions are alive.

A happiness is ignited in both young and old through simplicity, fun and innocence, through inclusion for all in a celebration of culture, history and a bit of craic. Long may that light inside us stay on.

The early Kille Abbey fist wishes came true this morning. The sites and memories of St Patrick’s trails were trekked on today. The history and fond memories revisited and ignited. It is important to take time out to celebrate our traditions.

Sometimes the hidden trails of the past open magic doors for the present and the future shines bright for Lá Fhéile Pádraig.