IT WAS THE DAY PATRICK DIED – and no doubt went straight to Heaven to be with the One God which became the Bishop’s Feast Day. The pagan folk may have seen him as another kind of Druid. Patrick had an understanding of the customs and language of the Irish people because he had been kidnapped as a boy by Niall of the Nine Hostages.
The War Lord and High King from Ulster had a big litter – resulting in half of Dublin being direct descendents of, and according to Y-DNA my husband is not from the seed of Rob Roy…He’d always thought he was Scottish, but the science proves his great grandaddy had many roots in Ireland.
Patrick eventually escaped guided by Godly visions. My Grandmother gave my mother a very Irish name as the Birmingham Blitz of bombs fell from the Nazgull. JRR Tolkien went to the Oratory Church in Ladywood where new-born Kathleen Patricia was taken to be baptised.
Patrick had established the early Celtic Church in Ireland, though I don’t think the leprachauns and fairy folk were allowed in, and there would have been some who resisted.
If I have any worth, it is to live my life for God so as to teach these peoples; even though some of them still look down on me.” -Saint Patrick
4000BC – the sacred site of the ancient rulers of Ireland was the Hill of Tara.
THE PAGAN PHALLIC STONE OF DESTINY is said to have been touched by the 100
High Kings of Ireland (before the revels), guided by Druids.
Adjacent to this hill-top on the hill of Thane in 433AD Patrick lit an Easter fire to challenge the power of the old religion.
1970’s Birmingham UK. What do the Irish mean to me? During my Brummy childhood most of my neighbours were Irish Catholics who migrated in the early 1950’s. Mum’s Avon Lady would turn up with talcum powders and little bottles of holy water from her trips to Lourdes.
‘I’m not Catholic, ‘said my mother. ‘I’m not Irish, my mother was Scottish, ‘she said. Well now we know she is both Scots and Irish = Celtic
I knew my friends went to a different school and learned Latin, were proud of their communion dresses and accessories, plus I walked to St. Edward’s RC Church on Raddlebarn Rd as she had to confess to the priest every week. The kind of things she said, like not eating chocolate at Lent didn’t sound like a sin to me. It was alien to me.
I also accompanied my friend Pauline from across the road to Irish dancing class and taking down the numbers for a lottery fund-raiser at St Edward’s hall. Like my Mum’s mum who married a Polish post-war Catholic, Pauline’s mother Mary met and married a Polish Catholic man too…but mine married a Brummy Protestant which is why I was christened at St Wulstan’s Church of England conveniently on the corner of Exeter Rd.
I don’t remember any St. Patrick’s day parades or celebrations – probably because there was a lot of I.R.A. activity. For more info link to:
My Mum, Kathleen enjoyed any time with an Irish whiskey and a sing-song somewhere in a Birmingham club or pub! Always she would sing her sentimental favourite:
BUT SHE WASN’T IRISH, even though she had red hair and was dragged up by Nuns…and then recently she met Patrick her adopted brother who had been kept secret. He was born on St. Patrick’s Day 1944 in Ladywood or what the locals called “Little Rome”.