FASTNET by Virginia Hainsworth

Farewell, my dear children.  Look at me one last time, then turn away and don’t look back.  Look out over the ocean and let your thoughts follow your gaze out towards the horizon.

If you could reach out and dip your hand into the deep waters which hold your future, you may find that your grasp will bring forth pearls.  Or your fingers may be bitten by the sharp crab claws of fate.  Or both.  I hope that whatever life has to show you, you will find, above all things, balance.  Balance in every aspect of your life.  It is the key to success and happiness.  I have not been able to achieve balance for myself.  I have emerald gowns aplenty, yet not enough food for you, my sons and daughters.

As I cast you out across the seas, I ask one thing of you.  Send your children back to me.  And your children’s children. Just let them stay with me for a while and I will return them to your adopted homeland.

So keep going, beyond Fastnet.  Keep looking ahead.  But remember me.  For I am Ireland and, although you have left me, I will never leave you.

Fastnet Rock gives its name to the shipping area.  It is a small islet in the Atlantic Ocean and the most southerly point of Ireland.  Due to its location, Fastnet is known as ‘Ireland’s Teardrop’ because it was the last part of Ireland that 19^th Century Irish emigrants saw as they sailed towards North America.

Hebrides by Clair Wright

She was only a girl when they left. My grandmother

Pointed on the map, to the faintest dot in the square of blue

And it seemed to me to be made of the sea itself.

So alone,

So far from its orientating neighbour it could be anywhere

Or nowhere.

A speck outside the sheltering embrace of the Hebrides

Flung into the fierce Atlantic,

It is a place I have never seen, never touched,

Yet I felt the bite of the salt and the spray in my lungs.

She told me of the infinite sky and the scoured land

And I felt the spring of heather and of kelp under my feet

And heard the clamour of gannets.

She told me of the squat houses crouched along the shore

Now roofless,

Home to wild-eyed sheep,

Moss reclaiming the stones in a smothering shroud.

She told me how they left their doors unlocked, and a gift -

A handful of oats

For their strange and zealous gods

Who were as much of the wind and waves as of

The Book

Laid open at Exodus,

And I wonder

If their flight led to a promised land

Or if they all, like my grandmother, dreamt

Of their far off home, adrift still,

Where the sky sinks weeping

Into the sea.

Driving Lesson by Andrew Shephard

Oncoming cars in the middle of the road -

my father dear, insurance man, to me advice bestowed:

keep looking out for traffic, don’t stare at girls in woad.

Damn! Oncoming bus in the middle of the road.

Oncoming bus in the middle of the road -

keep your brakes well serviced, make sure your speed has slowed.

Concentrate that one-track mind, read the Highway Code.

Cripes! Oncoming truck in the middle of the road.

Oncoming truck in the middle of the road -

watch how you handle that articulated load.

Make sure those mounds of much are well and truly stowed.

Blast! Oncoming girl in the middle of the road.

Oncoming girl in the middle of the road -

Elegant and fashionable, and in a bluish mode.

I offer her a careful ride towards her chic abode,

and now there’s children playing in the middle of the road.

Oncoming child in the middle of the road -

always fear an accident from any episode.

Drive as if you’re going to meet a drink-fuelled Mr Toad

and you can get home safely down the middle of the road.

This poem is best read out loud. My wife has always chosen holidays in the most remote, sticky-out places in Britain, and driving to the cottage or campsite often involves several hours in the car and roads which get narrower and narrower until meeting a local bus or tractor becomes a test of nerve.

Gunpowder Treason by Annabel Howarth

“Never look into the fire,” my grandfather used to say, “you’ll see witches in there.”  And I did, as my eyes were drawn into the orange core, on Saturday night.  I had to avert my gaze, as I thought of what at one time might lie at the middle of such a pyre, and my back and shoulders prickled with that familiar pang of guilt and confusion, and I thought, as I always do, “Why are we all here?”

Remember, remember, the fifth of November,

Gunpowder treason and plot,

I see no reason, why gunpowder treason,

Should ever be forgot.

It is the same moral dilemma, each year.  Do we embrace this odd, macabre tradition, join in and make the best of it, or stay away completely?  Are we denying our children something special by not joining the crowds who have been drawn to this event for over four hundred years?  We have avoided it for many years.  Our daughter is almost 8, our son almost 6.  They’ve seen fireworks through the window at home, at a distance, and I bought some sparklers a few years back to enjoy at home.  It was fun, for a moment, but not without the nervousness of the potential danger of what would happen if one of the children picked up the hot end.  Who could ever forget the child’s scream in those 1980s TV safety warnings?

In the run up to the weekend, I found myself perplexed as always, by the notion that we criticise the Americans for their laws relating to guns, yet at this time of year you can go into your local supermarket and buy a host of incendiary devices.  We fear terrorists setting bombs off, yet anyone “over the age of 18” can easily buy fireworks.  You need a licence to have a dog, but no licence is required to have these “bombs” in your possession.  And there is no limit on when or where you can use them! 

Aside from the safety, what is it that we are teaching our children, by perpetuating this event?  Earlier that day I listened to my daughter relay to my son, what she had learned at school.  A familiar story to us all, but hearing the description of torture, being hung, drawn and quartered, fall from her innocent lips, leaves an even greater sense of distaste.

Despite my concerns, this year we joined the hundreds of people, at the Sands in Holmfirth.  We deliberately chose an organised, public event, knowing that the organisers would have everyone’s safety in mind.  And they did this well, supplying glow sticks rather than sparklers, with gates surrounding the fire, and the fireworks set well away from the crowds.  Thankfully there was no Guy atop the fire either.  Not even an effigy of Mr Trump!

But, as I stood in the crowd, lifting my tired little boy into my arms, I still wondered at the madness of it.  Why had we chosen to stand there on a bitterly cold night, in a muddy field, daring ourselves to get ever closer to a blazing inferno to warm frozen fingers and toes?  There was an eerie silence as we all stood waiting for the loud whizzing and banging to start.  So many conflicting assaults on the senses, brought in a flood of memories and past emotions, but still at times I was simply bored.  The fireworks were pretty spectacular, and the length of the display certainly meant we had our monies worth, but I was honestly willing it to end, so I could get us all home and defrost our feet.  And though it all looked so pretty, I couldn’t help thinking about what this waste of gun powder was doing to the environment.  Although I was glad in the moment that my children had at least once been a part of this traditional experience, when shepherding their weary, cold, tired and crying bodies over a crowded bridge at the end, I set my mind to try to give it a miss for a few years, if we can get away with it. 

Last night, whilst contemplating it all, I wanted to find a mustard seed of hope, a valid reason for keeping the tradition going all this time.  One that wasn’t based on something seemingly sick, celebrating torture, burning effigies, fuelling hatred toward Catholics (as it transpires it was for a time).  For a moment, scouring the internet for more information, I thought I had found it.  The original fires were lit because the King had survived - not to celebrate the killing of the men who plotted to kill him.  There was my ray of light.  Celebration of life. 

Then, sadly, I read the related headlines.  In other parts of the country on that same Saturday night, a 14 year old girl suffered terrible facial injuries because of fireworks; firefighters were attacked with fireworks as they try to put out fires caused by fireworks; and not least of all, everywhere, innumerable pets were terrified, ran off, and were still lost, because of fireworks!  Surely there must be a better way to celebrate life!

So, I’m sorry to sound like a complete kill joy at this time, but…

Remember, remember, the fifth of November,

Gunpowder treason and plot?

I see a reason, I see many reasons,

It should forever be forgot.