A legacy handed down
Dangan, my home village. Daingean, the Gaelic term suggests fort or stroghold. Yes, a close-knit community holding strong to traditional values ad home grown politics. The older generation leave a legacy handed down to the younger generation like teenage larvae, with a vision and style unmatched today.
As I traverse the boreens to my village, I view the chunks of stone fencing to the fields and paddocks interspersed with hawthorn and overgrown mosses. A picture of true stillness creeps through this colourful canvas. The lowing of the cattle, the bleating of the sheep. In soliloquies like this, lies tranquility. The younger group greet you warmly with “How’s it going?”, “How’s she cuttin?”, “How is life in the big smoke?”
I know every blade of grass …
My smile speaks volumes on my return to Dublin. I wear the badge proudly of my village carrying with me the customs of home. They stab my breast with warmth and ardour. I know every blade of grass, every sod of turf, every bramble and briar. These are indeed my Colonels. The ghosts of my ancestors bear semblance for me, as I carve out my destiny daily.
Once my village, always my village
Bless always my homely throne and my family and good natured neighbours. Once my village. Always will be my village, my stringed quartet indeed!