December 2001

A.G.M. of Derg Community Games Aspects of Scariff Book Festival 2001 – Library News

Car Keys Found Christmas Fair Fas Clinic G.A.A. News

Have you heard of the Raheen Rough Riders? Poets Corner Results of October Draw

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Aspects of Scariff

HUNTING THE WREN

"The wren, the wren, the king of all birds

Saint Stephen's Day he got caught in the furze:

He broke his bones and he couldn't see

So we carried him hone on a holly tree

Up with the kettle, and down with the pan

Give us a penny to bury the wran".

There was a great tradition of Wrenboys in Scariff, as far back as I remember. I was totally astonished the first time I ever saw a group of them outside our door. They were all dressed in a fantastic array of outfits and eyefiddles; a kaleidoscope of colour and music which was like magic to me. When I heard them singing, I thought it was the Carol singers from the previous night, which Fr. Ryan, PP. organised each Christmas, but when I opened the door and saw the wren boys for the very first time, I could only stand there in the doorway with my mouth open. I had never seen anything so wonderful, and never forgot it; and later when my grandmother explained what they were, I determined to take part in this fantastic custom as soon as I was old enough to be let go.

I was nine years old when I first went "hunting the wren". It was even more exciting for me than Santy. I had learned a handful of songs; Jingle Bells; the Santy Claus Express; Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas. Everyone knew Silent Night, but for some reason I never remembered actually learning it.

Anyhow on that memorable day, myself and my two great friends of the time, Joe O'Brien and Emmett Henchy, took off on that magic adventure. It was wonderful, we sang like canaries around the houses of the town and in the pubs we did really well. I have no idea how much money we got and it never bothered me, I felt rewarded enough by simply being part of a living tradition and I loved every second of it. Strangely enough, I always seem to remember Emmett and Joe in this context best of all. God help us, they are both dead now which puts me in mind of a favourite song of mine which goes ". And now there's no-one left but me / so I'll praise them while I can / those boys of Barr na Sraide / who hunted for the wran.

In more recent years I took part in Wren hunting with John Joe Bolton's group. This sound man gave the proceeds towards financing certain comforts for the elderly patients in Raheen Hospital. We got great value from our day out; we upheld an ancient tradition; enjoyed entertaining other folk with music and song, and at the end of the line, a lot of elderly people could look forward to some little improvement in their lives. You can't get much more value out of a day than that.

THE CHRISTMAS CONCERT

There was nearly always a Concert in the town hall around Christmas, either a short time before, or a short time after the festive season. Jim and Joanne Darcy, Pakie Mack, Collette Q'Sullivan, Timmy Hayes, Sean O'Berine and Frank Mc Mahon to name but a very few, were very much to the forefront of this enterprise. The concert consisted of music, dancing, singing, and ended up with a comedy play or two. There was always a raffle held on the night, and often the prizes got a bigger laugh than the comedy sketch.

First prize usually got you a bottle of wine or a box of chocolates, but the "booby" prize could get you a giant sized knickers or a plastic chamber pot; this latter was, believe it or not, quite a rarity in Scariff at the time; everybody used the enamel type.

SCHOOL HOLIDAYS

We always got about three weeks off school around Christmas, but unlike the holidays at Summer, we didn't mind going back after Christmas so much. We really looked forward to meeting our pals and swapping stories of our toys and all the goodies we'd stuffed ourselves with over the few weeks. But best of all were the stories of those who bad been lucky enough to be allowed to go hunting the Wren on Saint Stephen's Day.

I see very few Wren Boys these days, and the few I see at my door neither sing nor play a note of music, but nevertheless, they are welcome, and who knows, in a few more years they might have mastered the accordion or something like that.

POTCHEEN

It the truth be told, potcheen is as much part of the Irish Christmas as Santy Claus. Christmas would not be the same without it. For some remarkable reason it is a hugely popular beverage, in spite of the fact that it smells something awful, and tastes even worse. Perhaps its main attraction is in putting one over on the Law, along with the fact that it is traditionally very cheap in comparison to legal spirits. Whatever way you look at it, it is a cheap way of getting really very drunk, and staying that way for a very long time. The 'craythur' as it can be known, is considered the true spirit of Christmas. I remember my Grandmother telling me one time about a certain Parish Priest here in Scariff, who was a really humane and understanding person. Every year he heard the confession of a certain parishioner, whose main claim to fame was that he made potcheen for the Christmas market every year, in order to supplement a small income. The confession of this man, and the penance he received each year rarely varied- a decade or two of the Rosary and a pound into the Poor Box, had him once more on the straight and narrow. Well this particular year there was a Mission, and your man knew nothing about it, and arriving in to confession, coming up to Christmas Eve, he nearly died from the fright when he saw the Missioner in the confession box. It is well known that the Jesuits are the no-nonsense wing of the Catholic Church, and are dab hands at giving you a fright to encourage you to change your ways. Well, there he was, humming and hawing, and afraid of his life of admitting to the potcheen making. The missioner knew he was holding something back, and by the process for which they are famous, he eventually got the story of the potcheen making from our hero. Well, the missioner nearly threw a fit; he was totally anti alcohol, but potcheen making!!!. He was so beside himself that he couldn't think of a penance half hard enough for his victim. "Hold on there you reprobate" he says, "I'll soon get the man to sort you out". Out he goes to the Sacristy, where the PP was saying his office. "Father," says he, " I have this fellow in the confessional who says he makes potcheen, what will I give him?" "Don't go over a pound a pint." says the PP.

And there is the true Spirit of Christmas.

Michael O'Gorman.