Back from Ireland. I am tempted to add blithely, “back to reality”, but apart from being a useless cliché, I’m not sure it’s true. Why is getting back to work, and sleeping in my own bed, any more ‘real’ than spending time with rarely-seen relatives, and burying my mother? The former activities are certainly more representative of normal life, but if anything are a kind of smokescreen behind which the big important things — death included — play out.
It’s been a remarkable experience, but one that on the whole, went well. Our main fear the previous week was that the weather would impede us. We’d had heavy snow in the south-east, with airports being closed. Most of the family were travelling on a different flight from the coffin, so the worry was that the elements would conspire to stop one or both of us from getting to the church on time. I suppose the proceedings could have taken place even if the family wasn’t there, but a burial without a coffin would have been more problematic. Anyway, it all worked out.
The rituals began in the UK on Tuesday evening, with a service at St Theresa’s Church, Hatch End. This was the most sombre moment of the 3 days: seeing the coffin for the first time, even if it ended up very cheerily over tea and sandwiches, and meetings with long-lost relatives and church friends of my mother. I had been nervous about delivering my eulogy to the congregation, and when, at one point, it looked as though the priest was going to wind up the service without inviting me up, I was secretly relieved. But a helpful sister reminded him via a series of gesticulations, and before I knew it, I was pouring out my tribute. It was by far the biggest audience I’d spoken to, but the adrenaline kicked in, and I had no problems. Going by the handshakes and comments afterwards, it went down well.
Later that night, M and I stopped over at a hotel near Luton airport. Tip: This was a good move. Besides avoiding the worry of getting bogged down in traffic on the way to the airport, we were able to leave the car parked there for just £5 extra, instead of the £50-ish minimum it would have cost to have left it at one of the official car parks — most of which seemed further from the airport than the hotel in any case.
Wednesday morning, in the departure lounge, we hooked up with my father, two sisters, nephew, uncle, aunt and three cousins. A cold morning, but no snow. The mood wasn’t as downbeat as you might expect. We had expelled quite a lot of the emotion the evening before, and we were off on a trip. The flight was delayed by an hour, but that was the only hiccup we encountered.
At Knock Airport, we hired a minibus and set off. I had my sat-nav with me, and followed its suggested route — much to the anxiety of some of my passengers. Instead of heading off onto the motorway, it led us down miles of narrow roads and muddy tracks. I loved it. This was real Ireland. The countryside was raw and rough, the sky grey and cheerless. An hour or so later, we arrived at Westport, where we stayed at the splendid
Castlecourt Hotel. Smart, but very cheap in the low season.
Checked in, then went for lunch. This was the another in a long line of calorie-fest meals I’ve been forced to eat over the past week or two. Every mouthful will come back to haunt me, but for the moment I have to bow to social pressure. Still, the roast beef was excellent. And those roast potatoes…..
A couple of hours later, we were off again on our melancholy journey, this time back to Knock airport where we would meet another crowd of Irish relatives, and the coffin, coming off the 3:30 from Standsted. By now, we had become accustomed to seeing it, but the Irish contingent were seeing the coffin for the first time, and so there was quite an outpouring of grief at this point. We eventually moved off, following the hearse for over an hour in procession to the church in Newport, where there was another service. By the time we reached the church it was pitch black, and the bell was tolling. Very atmospheric. The service was short, designed to be just a sort of receiving ceremony. But the whole event took more than 90 minutes, as part of the ritual is for every person in the church to file past the coffin, and our front pew, and shake the hands of every member of the family. They express their sympathies, occasionally adding a few words of biographical context: “I’m sorry for your loss; I was at school with your mother, and my father helped your grandfather milk the cows”. I reckon I shook hands with about 130 people. The odd thing was that each connection was intense and meaningful. It wasn’t like being introduced to someone at a party. It was quite a profound and draining experience.
Back to Westport to catch the end of the Spain vs England game, and to consume a few pints of Guinness and a large plate of extremely fattening bar snacks.
Thursday was the big day. A half hour drive round the tiny windy lanes to Newport. This is the town my mother grew up in. Well, her house was a mile or so outside, perched between a lake and the Atlantic. I’ve written about it before. It’s a fine town, with a spectacular viaduct, and St Patrick’s Church perched on the hill: Click.
We got to the church early, before any mourners had arrived. The thick fog gave the scene a fitting backdrop. Inside the empty church, we found the priest, Canon Concannon, and ran through a few last minute details. It was a more serious and solemn service than the one in London. The church is much larger, and has a striking echo that makes the priest’s chanted words even more formidable.
As a curtain closer, I repeated the eulogy, though I had to make some changes to reflect the different surroundings. I had to speak more slowly to take account of the echo. The laughs weren’t so loud this time (yes, I did include a few jokes), but I was gratified to get a quite unexpected, and hearty, round of applause.
Leaving the church, carrying the coffin, was a remarkable experience. As the door opened, the doorway was suddenly hit by an explosion of sunshine. Walking through it with the coffin was like walking into a new world. Were I even more sentimental than I am, or more religious, I would say something about carrying my mother into heaven. But I’m not, so I won’t. But the symbolism was powerful, and affecting. We followed the hearse to the tiny Kilbride cemetery out on the Westport Road.
I’ve been to only two previous burials, but I find them astonishing experiences. You can see why so many movies and TV dramas include a burial scene. They are deeply theatrical. I wasn’t expecting to be asked to help lower the coffin into the ground, but I’m glad that I was. It was worryingly heavy, and in the wet mud, was quite a tricky operation. I had to wonder how many people have dropped coffins in these circumstances, or have fallen into the grave. That could be rather embarrassing. But difficult or not, I found the experience rather wonderful. A bit like being present at a birth.
Then to a local hotel for soup and sandwiches, and another round of handshakes and hugs. It took a long time to get away. I’m sure there were some people I said goodbye to half a dozen times. In the emotional mêlée, it was hard to keep track.
But eventually we did escape, and got back to the Westport hotel by mid-afternoon. I slept for a couple of hours before attending yet another set-piece family meal. At least now, with all the boxes checked, we were able to relax. Duty done, we attacked the glorious Guinness, and let my dad entertain us with stories of how he met my mother, and the bizarre courtship rituals of pre-war rural Ireland.
It’s been an intense, occasionally difficult, experience, but there are a couple of positive things to draw out from it. One is the chance to renew contact with long-dormant relatives, or to meet them for the first time. Another is the discovery that there are so many decent people out there. I’ve been amazed at how kind and how sensitive people can be in these circumstances. Hugely heartening. Let me put on record, my gratitude to these people, some of whom will be reading this. You helped me greatly.
Yesterday, Saturday, I got out for my first run in over a week. Yet another short, round-the-block 3.5 miler. I’m under no illusions that my Boston campaign is not in serious trouble. I am in damage-limitation mode now. All I can hope to do is to get round in one piece. Any idea that I might be able to reach for a PB is well and truly defenestrated. I must put in a flurry of shortish fitness runs just to get back into the right frame of mind, then hope to start pushing long again from next weekend — though that is only 8 weeks out from the race.
Tough times are ahead.
