I’m driving through Recess out in Connemara at the weekend. The whole lands under the peaks of The Twelve Pins cleanly washed by a summer shower, the birds singing. Again I am troubled by the whole concept of Dying for Ireland. Its a difficult one. I’ve always been selective in my patriotism. There are areas of this land, in short, that I would not willingly die for.
Anyone with a Celtic soul would find it easy to die for the Lakes of Killarney or the Hilll of Tara. Or Shan-don with its bells singing. Or for Glendalough, whispering with the spirits of monks.
Aughrim, still mourning the dead of the sycamore-fringed battlefield.
Westport, with the great Croagh Patrick rising up behind it towards heaven. Anyone could easily lay down their lives for areas of Ireland like this. But I would have great difficulty in dying for dour Dowrs, it’s grey backside hunched up against the Cavan rain. Or for Kilrush in the wintertime, the winds whistling around its bare comers. Or Ballinamallard, back in my home county, its walls daubed with orange slogans, even its curbstones painted red, white and blue. Likewise, the dangerous wee town of Desertmartin, not all that far away, I would find difficult to die for. And, above all else, 1 could not see myself voluntarily surrendering the only life I own for any part of Sandy Row, chimneys reeking ancient bigotries.
King William riding across its Boyned redbrick gables. Do ye see what I mean?
Great patriots like Pearse and Connolly had no problem at all about loving all of Ireland equally. It is possible that this is more difficult for many lesser mortals like myself. Pearse dreamed up the revolution in a beautiful cottage in Rosmuck, here in the heart of Connemara. It is now a national monument.
You can go inside the small kitchen and sit in his chair. All the windows are daubed with the images of a lovely Ireland that anyone would find easy to sacrifice himself or herself for.
But things might have turned out differently for all of us if Pearse’s Cottage had been located elsewhere. Even the ardor of a great patriot could be dampened down considerably by an Elphin on a wet Wednesday, for example, or Portadown on a Sunday morning, every face set firmly, every doorstep sharp and severe. Have you ever seen Milltown-malbay on the tenth of December when the wind is from the East and all the fiddlers are away home? There is a chill there, sharply to the bone. You would not be inspired to die, either, for Fermoy in the early spring, by Piltown or Kilmacthomas, any day of the year, by Castlerea, in Roscommon, or by Roscommon town itself.
Galway City has such a vibrant soul and character that it would be easy to die for. The same is true for Cork and, from my point of view, for Waterford, the strangest and somehow quaintest of all the Irish cities. But I’d find it bloody difficult to die for the Liberties of Dublin, where I have never felt at home, or for its pushy-yuppy Grafton Street, or for its Sean McDermott Street and Gardiner Street, around which, local wits claim, they still eat their young. And there is no street in the City of Limerick for which I would willingly lay down my life. Not even one.
In the whole critical area of Dying for Ireland we should be permitted, all of us, to specify those parts of this great nation for which we would NOT die. It would make the whole concept easier to live with. I am reminded of my lack of real patriotism, for example, in Recess, by discovering with some shock that it is the one area of Connemara for which I would have great difficulty in shuffling off the mortal coil. There was a school boycott in this village for four recent years. It was directed against a young local teacher and, eventually, led to the closure of the school. You can still feel the chill of the boycott as you drive through on a summer day. And I would not wish to die for Recess.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in the May June 1993 issue of Irish America. ♦
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