The Patrún of Dromin

As a child, the start of autumn was marked by my two younger brothers birthdays, then my mother’s birthday and then, the Pattern (Patrún)of Dromin.  Dromin is in Co Louth, too small a place to even call a village, having only a church and a pub.  The Pattern is a day of religious celebration with mass, blessing of the graves and devotions.  My mother’s parents and other family members are buried there in an old graveyard.  There was always a fascination with the falling-down headstones, trying to decipher the engraved names, noting the ages at which people died, particularly the children.    

We always went to Benediction in the church at 4pm.  It was a real novelty to climb the hollow sounding wooden staircase and sit up on the gallery, where you could peer down on the congregation underneath, stare at the people on the other balcony facing you and get a bird’s eye view of the ornate silver chandelier.   If you were lucky enough, you got to sit on the benches closest to the front, getting the best view, but also the added danger of maybe falling over the edge. 

The benches had an odd varnished finish, a squiggly comb effect to make it look like wood grain, even though it was wood.  We always sniggered at the priest chanting hymns without any music accompaniment.  The scent of the burnt incense was intense and it filled the church as the priest rocked the thurible back and forth, making a rhythmic tinny noise.

My mother’s Auntie Biddy lived immediately across the road from the church.  To me as a child, she seemed like the oldest person in the world.  She was like a tiny bird, with fine white hair, always in a bun, the most beautiful bone structure and deep brown eyes.  Sharp as anything, she held court in the sitting room, sharing local news and historical facts.   She also had one of the thickest Louth accents that I had ever heard, one that sounded a roll on the tonsils.     

The only food that I remember on offer was ham sandwiches, the ham with the yellow crumb edge.  All of the sandwiches were spread with mustard, making little allowance for the gang of children there.  I always said that I hated them, but I ate them anyway, the strong tang on my tongue, the white bread soft and fresh.

The apple tree in the back garden, laden with apples, had a swing.  There was always a polite queue for a go, only polite because we didn’t know some of the older second cousins that well.  Auntie Biddy’s granddaughters were teenagers.  Darene, dark and gothic, Sally, blonde and cheery.  Both equally fascinating to me.  From the back garden, we could smell the alcohol wafting from the pub, the muffled laughs and cheers that sounded simultaneously, exciting and scary. 

Next, off to 'Dermot and Rose’s' house to play with their three girls.  Rose was Mam’s friend since Mam lived and worked in the Post Office in Dunleer for her Auntie Ceil.  The Post Office was a gathering place at the time for young singletons.  Rose visited Mam there so often that some people thought that she worked there too.  I remember looking at Rose’s elegant slim legs in her high-heeled, slip-on shoes.  I wondered when my legs would be as long as hers.  When my feet would touch the ground when I sat on a sofa.  Her soft Roscommon accent.  Eating hand cut chips.   Catching my fingers in the kitchen door - I can still feel the seering pain.  Her gleaming Waterford Crystal.

I went to Dromin yesterday with my children for Patrún Sunday mass at 11am.  In our hurried walk to the church, I pointed out Auntie Biddy’s house, which was sold after her death.  Now renovated, it is a fine big house, but I was sad that I could not see the apple tree in the back garden. 

We climbed the hollow wooden stairs to the same gallery seats and joined my mother and cousin Nicola, who were saving seats for us.  The wood benches still have the same squiggly pattern and were as uncomfortable as I remembered.  As this was not time for Benediction, there was no incense.  I longed for the priest to give it a go, for old times’ sake.

A van selling tea and coffee is parked outside, which seems odd and somehow disrespectful, but the people standing outside looks appreciative.  The old graveyard is as lovely as ever, most graves dressed lovingly with fresh flowers for the occasion.  My grandparents grave takes on new significance now that my aunt Aine is buried there.  Meeting my Mam’s cousins and friends.  Could it be a whole year since we seen each other last ?  People that Mam knew from the Post Office.  She still remembers their four-digit phone number.  ‘Drogheda 3-2-6-7’, she says. 

A bald headed man calls to my Mam - ‘Young Bellew, is it you ?’ and we all laugh.  For today, I am ‘Kay Bellew’s daughter’ again.

The ‘new’ graveyard is more poignant now.   Rose is buried there.  Soon after I started in my job in Kildare, I got a distressed phone call from my Mam, telling me that she had been killed in a car crash.   Lovely, lovely Rose.  When I got the call, I was standing in front of a man, who I had just met.  I suddenly felt homesick.  I’m not sure what I said to him, but I’m sure that I told him about Rose’s handcut chips. 

POST SCRIPT

My cousin Nicola has recently started a new tradition, inviting the relations to her home after the Patrún.  The new generation of cousins and cousins cousins.   My lucky children, but they don’t even know it.  Not yet anyway.