Ooh arr from Somerset then St Patrick?

CHRISTIANITY AND CRAIC

DELIGHTED that St Patrick’s Day is coming up. The one day of the year when I allow myself to drink as much as I do ever other day of the year. And I suspect that’s true for a lot of you out there.

But of course, as I enjoy my Guinness I always like to mull over the historical and ecclesiastical implications of our patron saint’s life. Again, like most of you out there.

The trouble is, we don’t really know a lot about the Apostle of Ireland (as he likes to be known on formal occasions), so contemplation of his life can be patchy.

St Patrick’s birthplace is something of a poser. He was almost certainly a Roman, and most historians put forward the west of Scotland as the likeliest birthplace. Yes, he really was a Roman in the gloamin’.

Wales has also been suggested as a likely birthplace.

However, there seems to be a plausible case for St Patrick being a Somerset lad. The village of Banwell, five miles east of Westonsuper-Mare, could be the saint’s birthplace.

A late Roman settlement is known in the area and it contains an undated, unexplained earthwork in the form of a cross.

Irish monks – of whom there were many in the area from about the 7th century onwards – perhaps constructed the cross as a monument to Patrick. This would have been a few centuries after the saint’s birth, but the memory of the birthplace of such an important personage would have survived, or so local historians believe.

So come tomorrow, maybe we should celebrate St Patrick’s West Country credentials. Maybe down a few glasses of cider, and perhaps get The Wurzels onto RTÉ to give us a bit of scrumpy & western music.

Wherever he was born, Patrick was probably brought by pirates to Ireland. After serving time as a slave while still a teenager, he returned to Britain, only to return a few years later to the Emerald Isle – as it wasn’t known back then. Patrick reckoned that he heard the voice of the Irish people asking him to come back.

OK, he said, and headed west again – although without wearing a ‘Kiss-Me-Quick-I’m-Irish’ hat, and probably not carrying a bottle opener. He was there to convert the people to Christianity, and landed in County Down.

Patrick’s remains probably lie in the grounds of Down Cathedral in Downpatrick. A large simple granite slab with his name is all that marks the grave, despite the fact that Ireland’s other two other patron saints, Brigid and Colmcille, are reputedly buried here as well.

But it seems likely that none of the bones of these saintly personages occupy the tomb. Because, rather incongruously, the site was picked out and erected at the start of the 20th century by the Belfast Naturalists’ Field Club. Despite this, it’s likely Patrick is buried somewhere in these grounds.

Apart from being Patrick’s last resting place, Down Cathedral has had something of a tumultuous history – destroyed by earthquake, pillaged by the Danes, burnt by the Scots, pulled down by the English, it lay in ruins for the best part of 200 years.

Nowadays it is hard to imagine a more peaceful place, with views across the Quoile to the ancient Cistercian Abbey of Inch, and south to the Mountains of Mourne.

St Patrick’s Day in Downpatrick is a relatively sober affair here, with the emphasis on prayer and blessings.

My schooldays were spent in Downpatrick, so I’ll pay a visit and probably listen to a few Nat King Cole records. Yes indeed.

Tomorrow, March 17 is the 100th anniversary of the birth of the great jazz singer and pianist Nat King Cole. A phenomenally popular performer, he was born on St Patrick’s Day, 1919. He should have been called Pat King Cole.

SAINTLY ATTIRE

MY brother has a special St Patrick’s Day suit.

It’s exactly like all his other suits, except it’s got his name and address painted on the back.

It’s unlikely St Patrick wore anything similar. In fact, we have no idea what his clobber was when he landed in Saul, near Downpatrick, or indeed why he actually came.

It seems he may well have arrived in Ireland incognito, so it’s possible he was wearing a disguise. Researchers at the Department of Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic studies at Cambridge University believe that Patrick may have been a tax collector for the Romans in Britain. But not fancying the job at all decided to skip across to Ireland, possibly trading in slaves to pay his way.

You can see his point. Taxing unhappy Welsh or Scots can’t have been much fun. ‘OK, that means you owe us £IV per sack of Welshus Rarebitus; so that’s £XXVII in total. Pay up.’

Of course, there’s a possibility that Patrick may well have come to Ireland for the express purpose of seeing whether the collecting of taxes in Ireland on behalf of the Romans was feasible.

Either way, a false red beard and a leprechaun hat would have been just the thing to help him make good his escape.

EASY STRIDER

IT stands in the middle of the Sierra de Aljibe range, but you come to it rather unexpectedly. Just round a bend in the road, and there it is – a great slab of limestone, El Picacho, two-and-half thousand feet tall, shimmering almost purple in the afternoon sun. About an hour’s drive from Cádiz, this area is known as ‘the last Mediterranean jungle’ and from the road it seems an apt description – tangled woods and scrubland cover an uneven rocky landscape stretching to the distant horizon. I used to live nearby; I’m heading there again soon, and, a word in your shell-like – you should consider it too. Any walk in the Sierra de Aljibe is more like an ascending journey through hundreds of landscaped rock gardens. Rockeries that might cost upwards of €5k to get them blended into your garden back home in Ireland act as platforms as you steadily ascend –jacaranda, juniper, lentisk, honeysuckle and oleander spill from the path into deep glades. There’s a subterranean waterfall just where the walk starts – it sounds like someone has flushed a gigantic underground toilet. Oh, sorry to wax all Yeatsian there for a minute.

I’m on the trail known as the Sendero de El Picacho, which, according to the official guide book, is 6 kilometres long, rises to 882 metres, and has a degree of difficulty pitched at ‘media-alta’ – medium to high.

The lower reaches of the walk are through an olive grove surrounded by a tangle of wild roses. Hunters have tramped along here, fugitives too, because here are the lower reaches of one of the main mountain passes in the south. Farmers, deer, cattle and even the odd tourist have helped hard-pack the walking surface. The path, strewn with acorns, gets steeper, and the valley falls away on the left allowing a fine view of the Mediterranean.

As I rounded a corner a fox looked very surprised to see me, not expecting anyone to approach from the river. He lost the run of himself, defacated, and headed up the mountain. It’s been a long time since my arrival anywhere has caused such excitement.

There are cork trees here too – Spain and Portugal supply most of Europe. But eventually the woodland grows thinner and the open mountainside is in sight.

Look south and you can see the formidable crags of the southern Andaluz sierra nudge the Med. Looking west, the town of Alcala de los Gazules appears like a confetti pile of white houses tumbling over the hills. Rivers babble their way down the mountainside – for this part of Spain, not being a plain, sees a lot of rain. Everywhere is an intoxicating combination of colour, light, moving water and landscape.

Higher up the mountain the only signs of life are a couple of Griffon vultures wheeling overhead. Concluding that I’m too robust to provide them with dinner, they change direction and soar away towards Africa. I turn, and head back down the hill. Tapas and rioja await.

If you’re used to walking in places where the rain falls at a slant and you can only see an arm’s length in front of you, use any excuse to come here.