“Lá Fhéile Pádraig sona dhaoibh” (pronounced “law fay-leh paw-drig sonna deev) – Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all!*

*Mike Collins
mike@youririshheritage.com
Your Irish Heritage, Old Abbey, Waterfall, County Cork, Ireland

I thought this would be an appropriate and a fun read for today.

The following post is taken whole, or in part, from a posting by Mike Collins’, Green Room,
Your Irish Heritage, Old Abbey, Waterfall, County Cork, Ireland.

Saint Valentine of Dublin.

“If you ever have a chance to visit Whitefriar Street in Dublin City, do take a few moments to head into The Church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. The chances are that you will not be alone. It is likely that you’ll see a few couples through the day – stopping at a shrine on the right side of the church. This is where you will find the remains, and relics, of Saint Valentine – many couples come here through the year to ask for his guidance in their lives together.”

The Light Comes with a February Flower.

“Very little is known about Saint Valentine. In fact, it is unsure as to whether he was a single person or a combination of a few early Saints. However, we are not going to let the facts get in the way of a good story! One of my favourite legends of Saint Valentine goes something as follows.

Valentine was a Christian citizen of early Rome who possessed special healing abilities. One day, a jailer arrived to see him, accompanied by his young daughter who had been blind from birth. He had heard of Valentine’s healing powers, and was wondering if he could cure even this permanent situation. Well, Valentine gave the man ointment for her eyes and asked for her to return each week.

Over time, he also became a teacher to the little girl – he described the world around them, and the world of books – and over time she learned to see the world through his eyes. Even though the little girl’s sight was never restored during this time, the girl and her father returned each week. One week, Valentine was no longer there – he had been arrested for his religious beliefs, and his medicines were destroyed by the authorities. He had also been sentenced to death. From his prison cell, Valentine wrote one last note to his little friend – and handed it to the jailer for his daughter. Valentine was executed the following morning.

The jailer went home and gave this note to his little girl. She opened it and felt a flower inside – and, as the little girl pointed her eyes down to the flower in her hand, she saw the brilliant colours of a yellow Crocus flower for the first time in her life! Her eyesight had been restored. She asked her father to read the message. All it said was: “From your Valentine.” And so we have the tradition of giving tokens of friendship and love at this time of the year. Now, isn’t that a story worth believing? Perhaps all those couples in Whitefriars church in Dublin are looking for a similar light in their life together.”

Happy Valentine’s Day, Everyone!

Kathleen Agnes Riley Mulligan was born in Pawtucket, Rhode Island on this day in 1899 – one hundred and twenty-two years ago.

see blog post dated April 15, 2019

In this morning’s Providence Sunday Journal (3/21/21), the following article appeared. It was written by John Walsh, who frequently authors thoughtful reflections for the paper’s readers. I thought you might enjoy his latest, especially if you have had the experience of visiting Ireland’s countryside.

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‘Sláinte!’ Appreciating random act of kindness in Ireland 

John Walsh Guest columnist

Dan Slattery and I stood on the side of the road, 19 miles from Killarney, where our train was scheduled to depart in less than two hours. On break from school in Dublin, we had spent a week hitchhiking around the Ring of Kerry, the famed route on Ireland’s southwestern coast. A slate-gray sky was quickly turning charcoal; soon it would be dark.

The rev of a car engine teased us; the green Escort was traveling in the wrong direction for our purposes. As it barreled by, the driver and passenger waved out of open windows. “Good luck!” one shouted.

“I guess we could go to the church,” I said, pointing to a solemn steeple rising above the town of Kenmare in the distance.

Dan wiped the afternoon’s “soft rain” from his glasses with a handkerchief. “They’d have to take us in, right?” he said. He didn’t sound convinced.

I’d found myself marooned in Ireland before. In September, on the first day of classes, I had been standing at a curb in Dublin for 20 minutes when a white compact car pulled up.

“Waiting for the bus, are you?” the man at the wheel said, craning his head out the window. I nodded.

“Drivers went on strike last night,” he said. “Where are you going?”

The kindly Dubliner gave me a lift to school. When I asked him if the bus drivers had announced the strike beforehand, he cackled.

“Why would they do a thing like that?” he said out of the side of his mouth, his lit cigarette waving at me like a teacher’s ruler. “Defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

It had been my very own “We’re not in Kansas anymore” moment.

Back on the side of the road with Dan, time passed, but few cars did. A cow mooed from a nearby pasture.

“She’s mocking us,” I said. “Moooove!”

It had taken us two days to hitch our way out of Caherdaniel, a small village on the outer reaches of the Ring, and we had to break the law to do it. After our repeated pleadings for a ride, a lorry driver delivering milk to the village’s only store finally relented.

“Lie down in back and keep your heads low,” he said, pointing to his truck bed. He told us the Gardai – Ireland’s national police – would revoke his license if they caught him transporting anyone.

The milkman brought us to his next stop, a chic hotel. There, Dan and I pooled our last soggy pound notes and hired a taxi. We had enough fare to reach Kenmare, one town short of our destination. The unsmiling driver opened the back doors of his black Mercedes Benz for us, bedraggled

as we were. The car’s warm cabin and soft leather seats were an instant narcoleptic.

“Here you go,” the driver said half an hour later, waking Dan and me. We clambered out of our temporary sanctuary and onto the roadside again.

It was 1980. There were no cellphones, no Zipcars, no public transportation circling the Ring of Kerry. At this point, Dan and I were wholly dependent on the kindness of strangers.

And then two appeared. The green Escort that had sped past us in the wrong direction now returned.

“Still here, are you?” the driver said, his car idling.

We explained our predicament.

“Hop in,” he said. “We’ll get you to your train alright. Might even have time to stop for a jar.”

Before dropping us at the quaint Killarney railway station, our rescuers treated us to pints of Guinness at a nearby pub.

Dan and I raised our glasses – to the lorry driver, to the black Mercedes, and especially to the fine lads sitting across from us. “Sláinte!”

John Walsh (john@walshadv.com), a monthly contributor, is a partner in the East Greenwich-based communications firm Walsh & Associates.

JOHN WALSH