unironedman

A gag has been doing the rounds recently, online. It features an American gentleman on tour in the old sod, and he asks a young girl holding a ‘brolly if it ever stops raining in Ireland, and she replies ‘I don’t know… I’m only seven.’ Ho. ho. Well, it feels like it has rained forever here of late, and this morning was no exception. Spilling down. Hammering on the Velux which sits right above our sleepy heads in the bedroom. The rivers rage, and many have burst their banks recently. Towns and villages have been feeling the familiar cold wrath of flood waters. Homes and businesses ruined.

It suits the mood.

On Saturday 7th February, my brother Robert and I attended a funeral in Co. Roscommon. I have been to far too many of late, but this was by far the saddest. It was the son of a lifelong friend. Only 25 years old, he was a Captain in the British Army and he was killed during a live firing exercise in the UK. There are a lot more details of his all-too-brief career here on the official British Army website.

I met Gilbert once in the home of his grandfather. He was a lovely bloke; even that short time in his company was enough to confirm why he would have made captain so quickly. The funeral will stay with me for some time. Even the drive up with Robert was quite the journey, and the midlands of Ireland, especially as you move west and north, seem quite hollowed out. Poor Rob; he’s been quite spoiled living in Italy for so long. He was hoping to get a decent coffee before we arrived in the small village of Ballinameen, but there was simply nothing to be had en route.

We had plenty of time when we parked up, but already it seemed as if every living soul within twenty miles were out to pay their respects. We found the only pub in town, and the landlady made us tea and offered us a plate of biscuits. She wouldn’t take a penny.

Outside the church, a long honour guard had formed up the road. The coffin was carried from the house to the church by his comrades in full army uniform. A large screen had been set up outside to provide a live feed. The large church was packed and we stood at the back. There were about fifty British Army personnel there all told, including the regiment’s chaplain. A bishop led the service, supported by a host of clerics. Gilbert’s two sisters delivered very touching eulogies, and as the service drew to a close, the priest confirmed that the tradition of mourners filing past the family in the front pew would be upheld, and so hundreds of folk from all walks of life made their way slowly up the central aisle to pay their respects. Rob and I were some of the last to do so. Immensely emotional.

Out, then, and the burial took place a few yards from the church door in the adjoining graveyard. It was very much a military affair with a bugler playing the The Last Post. Tears once again as officers presented Gilbert’s parents with his cap and medals, a flag and sword. The only thing missing was a firing party, but I suspect that geography may have played a role in this, or perhaps the family did not want one.

I had a gig that night, so I couldn’t go on to the hotel for the afters, but I was able to drop Rob there.

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.

---

Running has been patchy at best. My heart hasn’t been in it, to be honest. I had had a decent run with Gary the weekend before, but then a combination of family guests from Galway, France and Italy, along with the awful weather, kept me away from my duties. I ran with Mark over the weekend just gone, but it’s been a poor return. I am sure the enthusiasm will come back as the evenings stretch on and the sunlight penetrates the gloom. But the week’s forecast promises more of the same cold, wet and windy weather, so I’ll have to take some of my Dad’s advice at times like these. ‘Give yerself a lash!’. he would offer, when he found me dawdling. So I will do so this week. After all, it’s lashing out there. I may as well add some lashings of my own…