I remember Palm Sunday 2020.
I had Blessed Palm and was dropping it round to the neighbours.
Where there were no neighbours home, or the gates were closed for the fear of The Covid, I popped it onto walls or gates, for protection.
They thought I was losing my mind.
At mass today, at the Church of the Holy Family, Killeen, outside Louisburgh, Co Mayo (next stop America) the priest in his sermon gave an edited version of events 2,000 years ago, the story of Palm Sunday.
“The people welcomed Jesus to Jerusalem, waving palm in honour of his arrival,” he said.
A few days later they had crucified Jesus, mocking him as ‘King of the Jews’.
There was a reason I was driving around delivering Blessed Palm like a mad woman, four years ago. I knew what was coming was a disaster. I knew none of the details, just the disaster, because fear does not come from God.
I knew by the behaviour of my own profession, the media, that this was a manufactured fear, consistent as it was every hour of the day; the propaganda.
In between commercial ads paid for by the Department of Health, the presenters were bolstering fear, announcing with grave intonations the first case, the first death, the deadly horror of it all.
In a real state of emergency, the media does not stoke public fear. Consider how the Irish people learned of the disastrous Bank Guarantee back in September 2008 - the most controversial financial decision in the history of the state - via a radio broadcast on the national broadcaster - the morning after the fact.
That decision made the Irish public responsible for billions in commercial bank losses and arguably changed the course of Irish history forever.
It was an actual crisis.
I didn’t really know then, at the start of The Covid, that the goodwill of so many would be manipulated to turn them against others, but I knew something bad was brewing.
In recent weeks, one of these neighbours that was poking fun of my door to door Blessed Palm delivery, stopped by my house, which is unusual for him, a busy man.
“You weren’t wrong you know,” he said, as if by way of apology. “I wasn’t right for months after that vaccine.”
In Search of Sash Windows
During the cottage renovation in Co Clare, I was working during the week in Dublin. At weekends I stayed with a couple in Fanore, who I met through a search for short-stay pet-friendly accommodation.
Early mornings were often spent tracking across the old green road through the rocky limestone terrain of the Burren, high above Black Head lighthouse with its views across Galway Bay.
Months prior to buying the house I had moved back my old family home where I stayed mid-week, to save money while working in Dublin. Literally every penny was going towards the house, where I was investigating the possibility of restoring the original single pane timber sash windows, rather than replacing them.
Only one or two of these beautiful windows were still in working order. Some were propped open, others had lost their fragile glass and were boarded up, others were just badly rotted. The conservation contractor (among others) told me they were too far gone but that didn’t stop me trying to find a craftsman with the skills and patience to carry out a sympathetic repair job. The wood could be removed where rotten and replaced with profiles that replicate the original. There are companies that that can add double glazing to old sashes without destroying the look of the original window. The conservation architect for County Clare, Dick Cronin (now retired) had compiled and published a list of craftsmen suitable for heritage and conservation work and I went through this seeking a suitable professional. These trades are thin on the ground, some had retired and the work is time-consuming and expensive. Relative to large heritage projects, this job was not really worth anyone’s while. Being an outsider, I had little knowledge of what suitable tradesmen were available in the area.
Every builder that arrived to price the roof, along with all visitors and the odd unfortunate passer-by, was made inspect the rotting windows and offer their opinion on whether they could be saved.
“Too far gone,” was the consensus.