Catholic Ireland

The Republic of Ireland is deeply and ambivalently Catholic.  As one portly middle aged man in his cups said to me at a pub: “Are you Cat’lic? No? We’re all Cat’lic…but sometimes, we’re just…fooock it!”

Catholicism is embedded in Irish identify.  The English occupation was waged by the crown seizing Irish lands, giving them to Protestant settlers (like my ancestors), turning Catholics into tenant farmers, and suppressing their language, culture and the religion to boot. So, independence, cultural pride, and Catholic identity go hand in hand.  The Catholic Church remains influential in Ireland. The church is owner or patron of 90% percent of Irish primary schools, despite those schools being government funded.  In contemporary Ireland, loyalty to Catholic institutions is waning, due largely to well documented abuse of power and cover-ups.  Only 30% to 35% regularly attend Mass today, down from 90% in the 20^th century.  Large majorities of the people recently voted via referendums to make gay marriage and early abortion legal  The Irish Prime minister is openly gay. One young man I spoke with on a train who works in information technology in Dublin told me he is Catholic but “secular” and believes in separation of church and state. He voted “Yes” in both referendums, but was surprised when 70% of his fellow countrymen and women voted to make abortion legal for the first time. “The Irish people who are flocking to see the Pope are the same ones who voted “Yes” on the abortion referendum” opined Tommy Graham, excellent guide for a lively historical walking tour I joined while in the Irish capital.

On an hour-long bus ride from the Ros a Mihl docks at Galway Bay back to Galway City, a radio was playing Irish talk radio and a bus full of people, locals and tourists alike, was hearing frank and angry talk about sex abuse by priests. I could not help but wonder what folks were thinking.  One woman crossed herself a couple times –whether because we passed a church, or because of what she was listening to, I could not tell. Abuse of children in Catholic schools, churches and orphanages has been pervasive in Ireland, and systematically covered up by church and civil authorities, charges well-documented in the 2009 government-commissioned Murphy and Ryan reports.

Meanwhile during my August 2018 visit, Ireland was preparing for the first papal visit in 39 years.  Dublin work crews were busy building scaffolding for events; banners and social media promoted #popeinireland.  According to news stories and a random sample of men I spoke with in pubs, Pope Francis himself is popular in Ireland, even if the institutional church is not. “This is a good man, this Pope, not like the last one” offered a friendly older gentleman sitting at the bar in his noisy neighborhood pub, a place he has frequented for over 20 years, and yet still generously shared with at least a sprinkling of us tourists.  After departing the Emerald Isle, I read that only 130,000 people attended the outdoor Mass celebrated by Pope Francis in a Phoenix Park, compared with 2.7 million who turned out to see Pope John Paul in 1979.  And this Pope’s visit was also met by large protests. Though Francis held a meeting with child sex abuse survivors, advocacy groups said he promised few specific actions.  Then while still on the ground in Dublin, he was personally accused of knowledge and cover up of sex abuse by a highly placed priest. The accuser’s motives are questionable – the man is a former church official, and current member of a highly conservative group of clergy politically opposed to the Pope’s more progressive measures.  But it was surely the icing on the fallen cake of a visit that was supposed to be a homecoming reception in one of the world’s oldest Catholic nations.

• https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murphy_Report
• https://www.irishtimes.com/life-and-style/people/the-pope-s-visit-some-numbers-you-ll-be-sickened-to-hear-1.3598510
• https://www.nytimes.com/2018/08/23/world/europe/pope-francis-ireland.html
• https://www.irishtimes.com/news/social-affairs/papal-visit-to-ireland-protest-over-clerical-child-sexual-abuse-1.3607772

Dun Aonghasa

Kelly and I together at the precipice of the prehistoric 3,000 year old stone fort, Dun Aonghasa on the island of Inis Mor, one of the Aran Islands. No signs or railings here. As someone said to us: “The Irish don’t believe in litigation, just natural selection”

St Stephens Green

Ireland’s St Stephens Green looks to be an idyllic public gathering space with manicured gardens, shaded ponds, colorful playground equipment, families, tourists and well-fed birds all enjoying a rare sunny day in Dublin. The Irish highly value their history and use public buildings and parks to remember their collective stories. Throughout the park are signs in Irish and English describing how during “The Rising” this now peaceful park became a battlefield. The Rising was one of many Irish rebellions during occupations lasting many hundreds of years by Vikings, Normans and finally medieval and modern Britain. While The Rising rebellion of 1916 failed, the execution and martyrdom of its leaders is credited with turning the tide of public opinion that led to the formation of an independent Irish nation. Women played a key role in this rebellion, as fighters and nurses. The park also has sculptures honoring the terrible Irish potato famine and famous intelligentsia, writers and artists, such as Dublin’s James Joyce.

Cold But Never Frozen

I always return from international travel feeling I am bursting with observations to report and yet know next to nothing.  There is this intense immersion into a complex country with its nuanced culture(s), and yet you return aware that you have peeled back and peered beneath only the topmost layer of the national onion.

A series of photo essays shall follow on my experiences as a rank outsider visiting this this remarkable country.

Dublin at dusk on the River Liffey  that divides North and South Dublin.  An old joke goes:  “What do you call a person from North Dublin?: The Accused.  And what do you call a person from South Dublin?: Your Honor”

“We Irish are cold but never frozen” quoted the energetic grey-haired guide of my Dublin historical walking tour.  While he was referring to the temperate climate of this island nation, the quote seemed to contain some double meaning regarding the passionate beliefs that enliven Ireland’s national character.

As for weather, during the mid-August week of my visit, while much of  Europe was sweltering under record heat waves, temperatures in Ireland ran from the lower 70’s to the upper 50’s.  Comfortable, provided you were prepared for daily rainfall.  Perhaps as a result, half of Europe and a quarter of the US seemed to be swarming through the streets of Dublin.  For a reasonable cost,  I stayed in the dorms at Trinity College located in the heart of City Centre and within walking distance of everything from historical sites to parks to pubs.  And the town was thrumming with New York City-style crowds and noise. The Pope was paying his first visit to Ireland the following week, stages were being constructed, and tickets were selling out fast in this deeply and ambivalently Catholic country.  As a result of the twin tourist and religious invasions, homelessness in Dublin was expected to spike.  “There are two things the private sector does not do well: healthcare and housing” stated Tommy, matter of factly.  Tommy, our tour guide, introduced himself as a history graduate of Trinity College, the editor of a magazine called History Ireland, and owner of the company that runs historical tours out of Trinity College, usually led by history grad students.  Today, he told us, we had  “drawn the A team”.  It was meant to be a joke, but already we could tell it was true.  And indeed a treat awaited as a small band of us trailed behind him on the busy streets of Dublin.

 

 

Elizabeth’s Ashes

Kelly and I just returned from a wonderful trip to Ireland.  Here are some photos and writing about one part of this trip: hunting for Dr Stoney’s grave and scattering Grandma Lib’s ashes on the island of Inis Mor.   Photos at  https://photos.app.goo.gl/NdemnYKEpBAZt5dYA

Kelly attended a conference in Ireland in August of 2018 and I joined her afterwards in Dublin. We then took a trip together to the island of Inis Mor, one of the Aran Islands and birthplace of my grandfather and Kelly’s great grandfather, George H.C. Stoney. We made it our mission to find the gravestone of his father, Dr. James Johnston Stoney, and to scatter some of mom’s ashes on this rocky windswept island.  In 2004, I traveled to Ireland with my uncle George and mother Elizabeth, then spry octogenarians, and Kelly, then a teenager, and together we had visited Dr. Stoney’s gravestone near the ruins of a Protestant church on Inis Mor.  However, as we prepared for this trip, I found photos but no documentation showing us just where the site was located; nor could we be certain we would find anything recognizable 14 years later.  I recalled the church had been somewhere near the port town of Kilronan, and Kelly found a possible location from an online search.

We traveled by train from Dublin to Galway City, then by bus to the Ros a Mhil docks where we caught the ferry, arriving on the island of Inis Mor on a Friday evening in a downpour.  The following misty morning we walked along a rocky kelp-strewn beach into the small town of Kilronan and up a road leading to Joe Watty’s Bar. Heading up hill, on the right hand side of the narrow road, we saw the ruins of a church with four walls and no roof that looked familiar.  There was signage in Irish (which later translated as for the recycling facility down the road).  So, there was no church related signage, and no official opening in the stone wall except for a rusty locked gate. We entered via a break in the wall behind the church off a side road.  Surrounding the church ruins was a wide overgrown lawn. Two large relatively modern gravestones stood at what was once the front end of the church yard,  while on the side we found a random scattering of what appeared to be older worn headstones, fallen over or leaning to one side.  Then, in a far corner of the yard to the rear of the church, I spied a small square rock, and walked towards it, calling out, “Kelly, come, it’s here”.  And there is sat, a short battered stone, partially covered by prickly vines, with the words “Dr Stoney” still legible on its face. The yard was wet from the rains, full of horse or cow dung, and perhaps it was those animals who had kept the grass down enough that this squat stone was even visible.  Although there is no indication it was by design rather than accident,  my great grandfather’s was one of only three gravestones left standing, and it squatted at the far rear corner of the church yard as far away as one could get from those still-proud modern stones.

After seeing other church yards and grave markers on Aran, I now think that there is something strange about this gravestone that cannot be explained by age and weathering. Gravestones here of similar age list dates of birth and death, full name of the deceased, include embellishments like “beloved father” and “erected by his loving son”.  This grave marker simply lists his title “Dr Stoney”, nothing more. It is possible there was more that has worn or been covered, but it does not seem that way. It looks like a simple stone erected, not by family, but by someone who gave him at least the respect of his title.  One of several differing stories told about Dr. Stoney’s death was that he became sick with the flu while treating others, took an overdose of laudanum and died. Because “he was considered a suicide”, the story goes, and suicide was considered a sin in the eyes of the church, he was buried away from all the other graves in a distant corner of the church yard.  The appearance and location of the gravestone we found would match such a story. Another version, as told by Mrs. Annie (“Granny”) Hernon in an oral history recorded by George, is that Dr. Stoney “was treating himself for the black flue, took too many tablets and was found in a coma”. Worried about contagion, people put him in a coffin at once and carried it to the cemetery.  Some of those carrying the coffin felt the body move and said so, but other people, afraid of contagion, told the bearers to lower the coffin into the ground anyway.  Mrs. Hernon added, “Wasn’t that awful? And my Mother said he was an awful good doctor who never neglected any sick person  who would need him”.  Still another story holds the men carrying the coffin felt the body shift, but it was the Protestant minister who insisted, “Bury him anyway, there’s a rumor he’s turning Catholic!”.  This is how we heard it told on our 2004 trip to Inis Mor from an old man who heard our family name, and with wide eyes asked, “Have ye heard the stories?” before blessing us with this colorful tale.

In 2018, we did not run into anyone who knew of Dr. Stoney but in our brief time there perhaps we didn’t ask the right questions or the right people.  An old man at Joe Watty’s bar pondered the name Stoney, but could only come up with someone who once lived there and moved away during his lifetime. My grandfather was born in 1868.  Dr. Stoney died a year later in 1869. His second wife, Ellen Cashel, moved soon after with her four young children to live with family in Dublin.  Miriam, the young receptionist at Aran Islands Hotel who grew up on Inis Mor and “came back”, knew there was an Old Protestant Church ruin in town, but was surprised to hear there were any graves there.  Rory, a mini-van tour driver in his 30’s, and a couple of older pony trap drivers we spoke with asked our family name, but did not recognize it.  Rory did say that after the Protestant church was abandoned, the thrifty residents recycled materials from this edifice to construct a Catholic church nearby – hence the complete absence of a roof on the remains.

There are ruins of houses, churches and forts all over Inis Mor, and clearly they are valued both for their history and because they are tourist attractions for an island once ruggedly reliant on fishing. These days, 75% of the economy is tourism and 25% is fishing (such as prawns, anchovies, pollack, and mackerel).  While we were visiting Dr. Stoney’s grave, a young tourist couple stopped by and entered the church yard just as we did to see one of the island sites they had found online.  So, it’s on the map.  This offers some hope that the old Protestant church ruins and our humble family gravestone may perhaps be left alone, not be bulldozed for development, and may still be locatable the next time someone in our family visits.

Despite the poetic nature of our mission, it is ironic that in preparing for this journey, I learned – or was at least reminded – that in truth our Aran roots do not run deep.  The Stoneys were English emigrants, occupiers and landowners in an area of Ireland called Borrisokane for at least two centuries before Dr. Stoney moved to Inis Mor with his second wife in 1858, leaving behind a first wife and numerous other children.  An educated man, the only doctor, and one of the few Protestants on the island, James Johnston Stoney lived there for only 11 years until his untimely death, and his youngest son (my grandfather) while born on the island, resided there only until the tender age of one or two. As George points out, there are mysterious gaps in this story: “Why he (Dr. Stoney) would forsake an established career so late in life for what was then a culturally and climatically hostile locale remains an intriguing quandary”.  Perhaps it is the mystery and legend of Dr. Stoney that continues to pull us back?

At any rate, our poetic mission was completed.  Kelly brought a small canister of her grandmother’s grey-white ashes, and I dusted the green grass around Dr. Stoney’s grave with a handful.  We carried the remainder on a misty morning walk along the lower coastal road. We scattered Elizabeth’s ashes at a picturesque and peaceful cove with a lovely view of the gray-blue sea and emerald rock-walled fields in the distance. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. May my mom and our ancestors rest in peace.