It is St.Patricks Day and Paddies the world over, of all shades of opinion and hue, will lay aside their differences and contentions, at least for the day. They will, as I will, be celebrating their heritage, donning the shamrock, drinking Guinness, and singing dirges that would bring a tear to your eye for more reasons than one.
St.Patrick whom it is told was taken into slavery and spent his time as a shepherd on the slopes of Slemish, a volcanic plug in Co.Antrim. Annually pilgrims traipse up and around the mountain, come rain or rain, working up an appetite for the indulgence later. It being the lenten season you may be forgiven for thinking that those souls who are in alcohol quarantine will indulge only in prayer, novena, and bible reading. No, no, we are much too civilised for that in 21st century Ireland. A 24 hour amnesty is a prerequisite of undertaking such an insane obligation. The good Saint must be celebrated since it was he who taught us the mysteries of the Trinity, Christianity and to abandon animism. So no more fairy trees, holy wells, and certainly no more leprechauns. Shamrock? That may not have been entirely successful.
It is reasonable to assume that the saintly captive whilst minding his herd would have heard, along with other voices, the voice of nature summon. The saintly arse would have been exposed to the elements to answer that call. So it is not uncommon to see Pilgrims scanning the landscape with the latest technology in the hope of finding that saintly coprolite.
“If you’re Irish come into the parlour
there’s a welcome there for you….”
I wouldn’t get too exited the parlour’s tiny.