Looking So Sharp?

One for my non-Irish readers but one which has amazed me since I have been 'over here' - Funerals are MASSIVE. When a funeral takes place, at least in the rural areas EVERYBODY goes - the whole village and for miles around. Everybody who is even remotely connected to the departed. It is just part of the culture. It is what you do, what is expected and how you have to show suitable respect to all those in your local area. In my 55 years so far I have probably been to no more than half a dozen funerals. John Deere Bob, our near neighbour has probably been to around 3 or 4 a month for as long as we have lived here and presumably for most of his life. Driving through the local towns and villages I am amazed at how often we come upon an obviously BIG funeral - scores of parked cars lining the streets around the church or cemetery and every church with a huge car park, maybe 40-50 spaces or so. There are whole websites for death notices and all the papers and local radio stations do big sections on funeral details.

With tongue in cheek, when I moved here Liz passed me a superbly amusing book, "How to be Irish (uncovering the curiosities of Irish behaviour)" by David Slattery ( Orpen Press, ISBN 978-1-871305-24-1, pub 2011). This very funny book gives lovely insights into what makes the Irish tick and has a long and detailed chapter on the etiquette around funerals. It covers the important stages of the process. First the corpse is 'laid out' and 'reposes' either at the house or in the funeral home. Second is the 'removal to the church' where the coffin is processed from funeral home to church. The next day will be the funeral service and burial (or cremation, but normally burial in rural parts; the nearest crematorium may be as far away as Dublin). David Slattery also divides the funeral 'guests' into levels of importance a bit like celebrities, the Immediate family being 'A-list mourners', wider family and close friends being 'B-list' and so on down to 'D-listers'. Today and tomorrow we are definitely D-list mourners.

Half a dozen doors down the lane lived a gent named James Harrinton, 100 years old when we moved in and 101 this year, living with retired nurse daughter whom we guess will be in her 70's. James (Jim) passed away on Wednesday evening and when JD Bob phoned us to tell us we took that as a heavy hint that our attendance might be expected. We have never met the chap, so we'd be D-listers but knew we had to be there.

The 'repose' and removal were this evening down in the local village of Loughglynn so we ate fairly early and then scrubbed up and headed out. I still have an old dark business suit which almost fits, plenty of shirts, a black tie and shiny shoes. Liz has a nice black Jaeger two-piece, dark tights and black shoes, plus the vintage mink coat.

We arrived to find a huge queue waiting to go through the funeral home - there are two doors and you shuffle through the rooms and corridors, pay your respects to the departed (open coffin) and then pass along a line of seated relatives (15-20) shaking hands and mumbling 'Sorry for your trouble' to each. Then you shuffle out past the book where you write name and townland. On any other day than Good Friday, Liz tells me you adjourn to the pub to await the 'removal' at (in this case) 20:30 pm. Pubs are shut here on Good Friday though and there is a bitter NE wind blowing up the main street so the consensus seemed to be that you can hop back into your car and drive home, possibly returning for the removal or maybe waiting for tomorrow and the service and burial.

So that was that, for now. As I said, a lot of this is about respect between village folk, so we were pleased that we had a chance to sign an on-line condolences list, and to sign the real book at the Home, plus that we were seen by Mike the Cows and then, on the way home, by Tony who keeps the local shop/post office. Tony was amazed and delighted with us, saying to Liz that I "shine up well" and saying to Liz that he "had never seen her looking so sharp". Tony (and his wife and post office lady, Anne) have only ever seen us dressed in farm grunge. Finally, I wondered whether anyone would have thought to tell Vendor Anna so I texted her and she thanked me for the news. She went to school with "all of Mr Harrinton's children" and will be coming to the funeral tomorrow.

So, there you are. Our initiation into a great piece of Irish culture.

 

Pie and Mash (Twice)

AS part of neighbour Jim's ongoing 75th birthday celebrations, he and the Angel Betty are off to re-live their London-bred youth with a traditional Pie and Mash meal at local pub The Ship in Ospringe. Betty hails from Dagenham and then Westham, Jim from Customhouse, so they are London through and through, both having made trips down here at hop picking time along with thousands of their neighbours while they were young and then moving down here to live and to own pubs in the area.

Bet and Jim are going with some friends locally and when Mum and Dad express an interest in this trad food they get invited to join in. In fact many of the London-born but now local folk enjoy these nights, and descend on the pub for this, once a month, including Bob, who used to own a Pie and Mash shop in Canning Town. There is plenty of banter between tables as they all know each other.

The food is (Meat) Pie, with, Mum and Dad, a water-based flaky pastry, mashed potatoes and a greenish-white parsley sauce which was traditionally made with the liquor from stewing eels - this is called 'liquor'. Bet says you would sprinkle vinegar over the mash, and Jim also adds pepper. So delicious that Dad piles through it, starving and then when some of the guys decide to go round again (leaving out the mash), Dad goes round again including the mash. Respect!

The beer is good too, says Dad (Fuller's London Pride) and it's great company so they all enjoy themselves and have a thoroughly good evening.

Who ate all the pies?

Deefs

Jim, Gigot and Mademoiselle

Up early this morning and off on a nice long walk round the boat yard and back through town. We meet up with neighbour Jim and brown cocker Megan (no relation) - very confusing to have 2 Megan's next door to each other; "ours" keeps hearing Jim talking to "his" and thinking he's calling her. But Meg-next-door was a rescue dog and came already named, so there was no getting round it.

We also meet Gigot's family out for a stroll as we're crossing back across the Rec. Gigot (see his sad story in an earlier post) is obviously thriving in his new family and looks extremely well. He's just been clipped and groomed too, so he put us raggamuffins to shame with his gorgeous clip. Maybe it's a "show" clip, I'm not sure, but he even had his ears almost shaved except for a little frilly pom-pom on the end of each. (Dad - don't even THINK about it!). Out with him are his housemates, Truffles and Storm. We also see the Jack Russell "Bindy" and have a great chase about.

Once we're back, Dad's shot off to Preston, east of Canterbury to find his 2CV mates to finally start work on the club's project car, known as "Mademoiselle d'Armentieres". Today, they tell me, they're in destruct mode, taking off doors, bonnet, roof, bootlid, removing engine and gearbox, and starting to cut out rusty floors and bulkhead. And all in among those lovely farm buildings where we have such fun when we're on 2CV camp.

Dad comes home freezing cold and starving, to be revived by some Mum soup. It feels like it might snow. It's cold and damp, and with the wind chill we can all beleive it. The news is full of snow reports in places up north like "Snake Pass" and even down as far as Kidderminster.

Winter's here alright

Deefer

One for Sorrow

Good Friday, and we're all sitting around on the terrace. The humans are sipping a merlot and chatting. Uncle Jim from next door has dropped in for a glass of wine. They are commenting (How dare they!) on the fact that I am a bark-y hanimal compared to the quiet, chilled out Meg and H-Man, and I am just about to be quiet to show them it can be done, when a magpie flops in. It seems to be fully grown and fit enough but either can't or won't fly, so it swoops and hops from bush to bush down the fence line, "cha-cha-cha" ing to a band playing.

Well - that's just too much temptation for a Deefer dog, and I take off in hot pursuit, prancing around on my hind legs at the trunk of every tree and bush (and fence post) where the magpie is doing his stuff. Eventually he fly-hops back across the garden and disappears out through the beech hedge. The humans, superstitious lot, are all looking around for a second magpie to get from "sorrow" to joy, but maybe the merlot will see to that OK

Deefs