Return to Father Ned

By bike to Kilfenora in Springtime

Three weeks now without a car, living alone, in the countryside. In a way that Eamon Ryan might not appreciate, it has been, rather lovely. The bicycle has become my main mode of transport and since Kilfenora is my nearest village, I’m taken to returning there for morning mass with the inimitable Fr Ned. One of three brother priests in the Crosby family, along with a nun sister or possibly two, all hailing from the county of Mayo, Ned is an esteemed treasure around these parts.

I am aware attending daily mass is an eyebrow raising activity among progressive, establishment Ireland. It’s one of the reasons I go. I encourage everyone to join me there, even if for no other reason than to experience the end of an important era. It’s a counter-cultural undertaking now, we are the rebel faithful. There is an age gap between myself and my fellow attendees, it only matters in that I mourn the loss of each one as they go. I love their living faith. I don’t think society benefits from eschewing the inclination toward prayer. The demise of the daily mass is a phenomenon that is happening quietly, in rural parishes all around the country. Here in north Clare, in nine years time we will have only 15 priests under the age of 75 to serve a total of 39 parishes. At 83, Ned continues to serve the parish well into his retirement. He was previously much appreciated by the community on Clare Island, his native Mayo, where he was the last resident priest serving islanders there and neighbouring Inisturk.

An unusual piece of church trivia - the Pope is Bishop of this parish, under a Papal Dictate that dates back to 1883. The Bishop of Kilfenora was a separate episcopal title until 1750 when the Catholic church united it with Kilmacduagh, Co Galway, where my own ancestors rest.

Back at the outset of the covid, Ned was the first to address the issue, perhaps unbeknownst to himself. It arrived in the form of a direction from the Catholic Church, to cease the practice of sharing the sign of peace through shaking hands. In his characteristically charming way, Ned made light of this, by telling the faithful assembled we should begin practicing the art of The Bow. Hands pressed together, he instructed us on how this should look, communicating our wish for God’s peace in the hearts of all present, delivered with a mischievous smile. Ned, being so wonderfully far removed from modern media, was largely unaware of how the covid was being presented to the world at large.

Early in March 2020 the holy water disappeared from the fonts. After mass, Ned was introduced to hand sanitiser by a well-meaning parishioner, a look of profound confusion on his face. Not long after, mass went out the window when government orders shuttered the churches, scaring the daylights out of the living faithful and leaving the rest of us to find solace elsewhere.

I met a middle aged lady recently who’s words I will not forget. During lockdown, she drove across two counties to attend daily morning mass, departing her home in a midlands town at 6am.

“How did they not catch you!” I’d squealed in delight.

“I think the angels blinded them,” she replied.

I didn’t realise until this week that driving blinded me to many things. Traversing the road to Kilfenora by bicycle brings all manner of blessings. I had deflected from morning mass in Kilfenora in 2021, with the arrival of a new priest in Lisdoonvarna and the initiation of daily mass there. Geographically it made more sense to follow our morning ablutions, plunging into the cold Atlantic at Doolin, with daily mass in Lisdoon.

Returning to Fr Ned on St Brigid’s Day last week, I was late, having overestimated my biking skills. Our thoughtful sacristan clocked my arrival and offered me a late Holy Communion, for which I was most grateful. When Fr Ned saw me he was right over with a warm welcome and one arm extended and I was so glad for the privilege to shake his hand. He wanted to know where I’d been and if I’d made lots of money in the meantime.

Ned is a little less stable on his legs than before, though no less enthused about the Gospel. Ned’s is a mass where you can sit and let the words seep into your soul, thanks to his frank comparisons of Biblical events to our own individual actions. Often he will pepper his sermons with the words of an obscure South American poet, or Aristotle perhaps. You wouldn’t get this at university. I notice now that some of my darling fellow morning mass goers are missing.

I am afraid to ask where they are.

On the road back from Kilfenora yesterday I stopped at a derelict homestead. A neighbour tipped me off about a magical scene of snowdrops planted by hands a hundred years ago, maybe more. On closer inspection, I found two different types of snowdrop and a revelation. The hidden inner intricacies of these flowers are housed in their delicate faces, pointed back toward the earth that holds them dormant for most of the year. A serene scene of peace and calm that, in all the driving past, I had never seen before. What else is here around us that we dismiss without exploring? 1

The car remains in the garage. This evening I asked the latest mechanic how things were going.

“It’s driving, I am still working on it,” he said.

“I will say a prayer for you both,” I said.

“Do please,” he replied.

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