Christmas in Ireland; through the Millennium

A thousand years of Christmas - Barely.

Around this time just over a thousand years ago, an army of Gaels and Norse-Gaels marched from Dublin to Slievemargy in County Laois, and then all the way back to Munster. The man at the head of the army, named Brian Ború, would have travelled on to his home just outside Killaloe, on the bank of the River Shannon. Brian was King of Munster, High King of Ireland, and had been besieging the city of Dublin in the hopes of gaining the submission of Sigtrygg Silkbeard and Máel Mórda mac Murchada, the Kings of Dublin and Leinster respectively.

An alliance between the two was causing the rapid unravelling of his shakily unified Irish Realm, which stretched from the very south of the island to the very far north-a feat rarely accomplished by Irish Kings throughout history. It was Máel Sechnaill mac Domnaill, the previous High King who had been bested by Brian Bóru years prior, who requested Brian’s aid against the Leinster-Dublin alliance. Brian’s siege of Dublin in 1013 was unsuccessful; he made camp in early September outside the city with his son, Murchad, but due to a lack of provisions they were forced to undergo the aforementioned march back home around Christmas. When they returned to Munster, they would have been greeted by Gormlaith, Brian’s second wife. His marriage with his first wife, Mór, had ended some time prior. Gormlaith was notably the mother of Sigtrygg Silkbeard, having been taken as Brian’s wife after Brian defeated Sigtrygg in Battle just after Christmas in the year 999, in what is now Ardclough. As typically tense a Christmas that it might have been, it would prove to be the last one that either Brian or Murchad would see-both of them dying in battle in April 1014 during the famous Battle of Clontarf.

There’s a comfort, I’ve always thought, in exploring both the significant and less significant events of history around times like Christmas. As I force myself to bustle round to the shops for a few last minute essentials, I’ll take on the sage advice of my dear mother and look up; I’ll examine the old buildings the ones which haven’t been burned down by Property Developers (allegedly - Legal Team) anyway. I see the weary, wind battered houses and offices that have stood for a century or more, and my mind is cast back through the years. What might they have experienced? If I were to stand in this spot and be transported several hundred years, what would I see? Aside from a pike wielding mob preparing to slaughter me for wearing garish shirts and speaking in tongues (I haven’t learned the middle Irish for ‘what’s the craic’), I always feel a sense of warmth that regardless of what was happening in the world, there have always been people. Families, friends, hopes, dreams, hurt, joy, life. With this in mind, I thought I’d trudge through the last thousand years or so and pick out a few interesting and significant or beautifully mundane moments throughout our history, around this time of year.

Another fella of significance to Ireland’s history-despite not being Irish himself-was born on Christmas Eve about eight and a half centuries ago. His name was John, and 33 years after his birth in 1166 he’d be crowned King of England. Before that, however, he mucked about in Ireland for a while. The infamous Gerald of Wales, who wrote the original ‘Topographia Hibernica’, a marvellously awful description of Irish society in the wake of the Norman Invasion, considered John to have been dreadfully rude in all of his dealings with Irish Kings. This gave way to the much retold legend of John pulling the beards of Irish Kings, an action which would have been unbefitting of the man newly named as Lord of the likewise newly created ‘Lordship of Ireland’, the loose feudal territory that roughly included the lands conquered and taken from Gaels by Norman invaders a few years prior. Around 5 months prior to John’s birth on Christmas Eve 1166, a disgraced, disgruntled and deposed King of Leinster-named Diarmait mac Murchada-set sail for Bristol to seek an alliance with the Normans, setting in course the chain of events which would allow the baby John to be handed a fledging proto-colonial realm of his own. It didn’t quite pan out that way, however. In the run up to Christmas day in 1185, just 8 years after he became Lord of the Lordship, John was sailing home to daddy (in the form of King Henry II) to complain that Hugh de Lacy was far more popular-and more powerful-than he was. Worse still, the plan for him to be given his very own crown to become ‘King’ of Ireland fell through, leaving him as just a little lord.

We can gleefully abandon the squabbling of English Kings to leap forward to the 14th Century, and westward to Loch Rí, one of a handful of Irish bodies of water partitioned between provinces for the cowardice and failure to reinstate the wondrous and long lost 5th province of Meath, stretching west of Westmeath. We’re looking at Uilliam Buidhe Ó Cellaigh, who ruled an area along the border of Roscommon and Galway. Were you to read it, you’d find a little about them in the Leabhar Ua Maine, known also as the ‘Book of Hy-Many’, written at the end of the 14th Century and currently house in the Royal Irish Academy. Interestingly, the Ó Cellaigh goes back to our first story with Brian Ború; the first to bear the name was Tadhg Mór Ó Cellaigh, a Connacht King joined Brian Ború and Murchad at the Battle of Clontarf-where he met his doom. As he crossed swords with Danes and Norwegians (as well as Leinster Gaels and Dubs), he might have been surprised to learn that the anglicised version of his surname-O’Kelly-would become synonymous with revelry and a warm welcome, as with the popular saying ‘an O’Kelly’s welcome.’ This in turn comes from his descendant, Uilliam Buidhe Ó Cellaigh, who on Christmas Day 1351 held a tremendous feast in Galey Castle for all of Ireland’s poets, bards, harpers, jesters, brehons and other distinguished individuals. So vast and popular was the celebration that it is supposedly the root of the phrase ‘an O’Kelly’s welcome’, or simply the ‘Fáilte Uí Chellaigh.’ Typically, however, anywhere in Ireland which spawns joy and merriment would eventually be visited by the English to ensure that their culture of joylessness and stiff conversation be imposed. Galey Castle would centuries later be besieged by Sir Charles Coote, under the command of Oliver Cromwell.

A little before Oliver Cromwell, however, was another war in Ireland. To some it’s the Nine Years War, to others it’s ‘Tyrone’s Rebellion.’ Whatever the case, it was perhaps the closest the Irish ever came to stropping England’s colonial project in Ireland dead in it’s tracks. When the imposition of English laws and customs through violent means spiralled into a rejection of England’s authority altogether, several Ulster lords lead a coalition of Irish armies against the colonial regime in the hopes of reversing it outright. Winning several pitched battles with their newly modernised armies, the Irish Alliance seized much of the island and prospects appeared precariously hopeful. Promised aid from King Philip II of Spain was on the way, England’s armies were on the ropes, and it appeared that there was a chance to strike a final blow. Spanish troops did indeed arrive in Ireland, tucking themselves into the (then) miserable and (now, still) rain-battered town of Kinsale in County Cork-only to be besieged by England, leaving them trapped without hope of escape until their Irish allies arrived to free them. Sure enough, in the wee hours of Christmas Eve 1601, an Irish army lead by Hugh O’Neill, Earl of Tyrone, marched to Ardmartin hill to the north of the town. As countless other people across Europe would have been making their final preparations for Christmas the following day, Irish and English troops clashed in a battle that may well have changed the course of history. I initially wrote here that ‘alas, the Irish were defeated’, only to recall that were it not for England’s victory and the continuance of their brutal colonial project, the plantation of Ulster-the colonisation through which my ancestors arrived in Ireland and without which I would likely not be writing this piece-was allowed to happen. I suppose in a just world, another person would be writing this piece as Gaeilge about the triumphant Christmas defeat of England, the snuffing out of their colonial project, and I’d instead be sitting in Shetland stacking rocks.

A defining aspect of Christmas for many young Irish people is travel; coming home, or fleeing abroad. As scattered a people as we are-with there being increasingly little to convince us to stay in the Emerald Isle of rent hikes and cheap flights-there are often heart-warming (or breaking) stories of the great homecoming of Irish people for the holidays. Ironically, by a peculiar coincidence, the anniversary of himself being born in the manger marks several very famous departures from Ireland throughout history. In 1688, King James II-having lost his throne to by Prince William III (of Orange, for the red blooded Boyne lovers amongst you)-attempted to flee to France on December 23rd. He would later arrive in Ireland, hoping to use it as a staging post to retake his throne from the Dutch drop-in. The ensuing war, known as the Williamite War, was another conflict which had far reaching consequences for Ireland. In 1691, Jacobites-Irish soldiers who had fought for King James II-were permitted by the Treaty of Limerick to leave Ireland for France should they refuse to drop their arms. These soldiers were known as the Wild Geese, and garnered a reputation as ferocious fighters across much of Europe-many of their children and grandchildren carrying on the legacy as famous military leaders in France, Spain, Austria, Russia, and elsewhere. The aptly named ‘Flight of the Wild Geese’, the actual departure of these people from Ireland, began on December 22nd when Patrick Sarsfield-a Dublin man-lead thousands of men, women, and children to France. Perhaps there’s something poignant to be said about the contrast of these two historical flights from Ireland, and the annual homecoming of thousands of Irish people from foreign shores that occurs around the same dates in the present day. If there is, I’ll leave it to one of the Sunday Columnists to come up with-just chuck me a fiver in return.

We’re getting on a bit, here. Let’s take another leap, from the end of the 17th Century to the end of the 18th Century. It was the end of the 18th Century that initially sparked my interest in starting ‘Tanistry.’ There I was, a young and uncorrupted son of Ulster, when I was suddenly beset by the news that Irish Republicanism was, in fact, created by Ulster Protestants. Presbyterians, no less! When I had regained my breath and recovered by traybakes from the floor, I dove into the history of the United Irishmen, the Protestant revolutionaries who met regularly in Belfast for pints and plots. There’s that famous story of Henry Joy McCracken, one of the leading members of the United Irishmen, evading capture by the perfidious British soldiers by hiding behind the bar in Kelly’s Cellars. Of course, their reputation for harbouring revolutionaries has recently been overshadowed by a newfound reputation for harbouring ignorant head-the-balls and hapless bores, given that they recently caused a storm by preventing a trans woman from using the bathroom. Regardless, the United Irishmen had cause to be particularly excited for Christmas in 1796; their planned revolution against Britain was to be supported by French troops, sent somewhat haphazardly by Napoleon whilst he carted off to shoot cannons in Egypt at just about everything other than the noses of ancient monuments. Lead by General Louis Lazare Hoche-an decorated and much beloved revolutionary French commander-an expedition of of almost 20,000 soldiers departed from Brest and headed for Ireland. Hoche wasn’t particularly keen on the idea; he believed that the fleet was unprepared and disorganised, and that the expedition was far from ready. Despite his misgivings, the French fleet managed to evade the British Royal Navy and was hurtling toward the Irish coast when it was beset by extreme weather; an unconventionally stormy winter had result in calamitous conditions which scattered or destroyed much of the French fleet. The ships that did survive arrived in Bantry Bay on December 21st, 1796, but were unable to land-eventually returning to France. I’d imagine that Christmas was soured somewhat by such a near miss.

One member of the United Irishmen, William Lawless, was made aware of a warrant for his arrest in 1798 and swiftly skipped out of his home in Dublin and onto the first ship to France-thanks to a warning by the Surgeon General in the Royal College of Surgeons. He joined the Irish Legion-Napoleon’s revival of the Wild Geese tradition-and went on to be personally awarded by Napoleon with the Legion of Honour, the highest order of merit in France. Years later, in 1824, Christmas Day would bring with it his death, aged 52. Thomas Moore described him as quiet, but of determined spirit. One must recall that each Christmas I describe in this article occurred prior to the formation of Wham, preventing any alleviation of the melancholy and loss that we in Ireland have stapled to our holidays and family gatherings like a hastily snatched wreathe from B&M Bargains by an overfed and under-watered Uncle.

It was Christmas Eve in 1889 that brought one of the greatest scandals in Irish History; the filing for divorce from Kitty O’Shea by her husband, William. Kitty Wood-or Katherine, to the treacherous and seditious men of the world-was an English woman from Essex who had married William O’Shea, an Irish Captain in the British Army and MP for Galway Borough. A career in the Hussars appeared to do little for our Kitty, who instead entered a relationship with Charles Stewart Parnell-leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party and firebrand for land reform and the Home Rule movement. Their relationship bore three children, and as Parnell and his allies dominated the Irish (and, on occasion, the British) political scene with the call for Ireland to have her parliament restored, the affair continued to blossom. It was a scandal in waiting, but one evidently worth the risk for Kitty and Charles. On Christmas Eve, 1899, William O’Shea filed for divorce and Parnell declared that he planned to marry Kitty O’Shea. Whilst the affair had been the subject of much private gossip prior to this point, the public confrontation of so scandalous an event (for the time) was a major contributor to Parnell’s eventual political downfall. Kitty O’Shea would swap the Captain’s surname out for Parnell’s when se married him in June 1891.

At last, we arrive in the 20th Century. It’s easy to forget, when bouncing from century to century, that we are in essence glancing over the lives of millions of people. As Brian Ború marched from Dublin back to Munster, he’d have travelled through or past countless villages and towns of Gaels preparing for a feast on Christmas day. Only a few years prior, in 1013, Sigtrygg Silkbeard himself attended a Christmas feast that doubled as a political summit, and whilst Easter was unsurprisingly the larger of the Christian holidays Christmas remained a time of broad festivity associated with revelry and tremendous feasts. I wonder if the families that were hurried aboard ships to France just a few days before Christmas thought of home as they prepared for their voyage; they’d think of the table upon which they’d eat their food, the neighbours they’d never see again, the land which was no longer their own. As the upper crust of Dublin were aghast at the revelation of the affair between Kitty O’Shea and Charles Parnell, did they have any notion of the ramifications it would have for Ireland? How many friends and family would gossip about it over dinner and drinks?

There are dozens of things I could mention regarding Christmas day in Ireland in the 20th Century, but I’ll likely save them for another time. I’ll conclude this article with the words of Sean O’Neill, a Captain in the Galway IRA. He was a hunger striker who was released temporarily under the “Cat and Mouse Act” (allowing for Hunger Strikers close to death to be released to regain their health before returning to jail) at which stage he returned to Galway. As per the law, he was arrested again three weeks later toward the end of 1919. These were his words on the matter;

’Christmas in jail was not a very consoling thought, and here in Galway on a damp depressing Christmas ever I spend my day as an assistant to Hartney, the trade’s warder. It meant for me bricks and mortar rather than the mead and honey and sweet cake and glass of wine so customary at home.’

‘But there was at least one consoling thought. Trade’s Warder Hartney promised to bring me a packet of Woodbines; I would at least have a smoke on Christmas Eve. His promise proved as empty as my cell was of champagne. I did not ask him for cigarettes, but a broken promise on Christmas Ever is not easily forgotten. An ex British soldier turned warder gave me a small orange; the Englishman opened my cell door quietly, unbuttoned his greatcoat, and gave it to me. I thanked him but he told me to be careful about the skins in case anyone would smell or see them. Good luck to him, whoever he is.”

I’ll be working this Christmas Day, and then heading home to see my family. I am privileged to be able to do so.

As uncharacteristic as it may be to the rest of this relatively innocuous article, I would like to note that-as many are keen to forget or ignore-whilst we are enjoying our Christmas dinner and our warm homes, Palestinian civilians will be spending Christmas under siege by Israel, as the Zionist colonial project continues in its quest to genocide the Palestinian people. In Sudan, millions starve and flee their homes as thousands are butchered and raped by the Rapid Support Forces. In the Democratic Republic of the Congo, human rights abuses continue as young children are forced to work in dangerous conditions to mine for cobalt and other materials, whilst western destabilisation and interference has left much of the population subject to what can only be called a silent genocide. I can only hope that this time next year, when we once more make our journeys home, we do so in a world where action has been taken to bring a conclusive end to these injustices.

Some will accuse me of ending this light-hearted article on a dark note. In my view, anyone ending the year in a state of anything other than anguish for the state of the world is delusional or complicit.

Happy Holidays.
Cheers.