MEMBERS OF THE NEW ROSS CREATIVE WRITING GROUP
would round us all up to take our positions in the kitchen to absorb and enjoy this annual hooley.
The Wren was made up of about 12 locals, mostly young men, dressed in the most peculiar and colourful garb, their faces blackened, bunches of straw sticking out of large laced-up boots. They had hats with large white feathers and some of them wore skirts, though they weren’t trans anything. They were just out to have fun and amuse us. A number of them played musical instruments, rattling out Ms McCloud, The Mason’s Apron, and a few more good reels, while others of them danced figures of the Caledonian Set and glorified the season with their authentic brand of sean nós, reaping full value from the flag floor.
My mother, to show her appreciation would let out a shout of ‘mind the dresser’. They would have a song too. Always a good one, usually a bit bawdy and though the satire was often lost on us children we found it all hilariously funny and uplifting.
The one that comes to mind is a hideously vulgar version of Galway Bay, composed and sung by two brothers from a neighbouring family, who shortly afterwards left for America, where they reportedly enthralled the yanks and made their fortune using only their voices and a little vulgarity.
THE PURPOSE of the Wren (because everything has to have a purpose) was a noble one: it was to collect enough money for a ‘soiree’ which would be held about a week later in a local barn or suitable venue. Each household contributed generously because the success of this community spree was predicated on the amount collected. All the adults in the family were thereby invited to a night of contemporary culture. Kegs of Guinness, bottles of poteen, sherry for the ladies and lemonade for the Pioneers would be procured in great measure and all the chickens, ducks, geese and turkeys who had escaped the Christmas massacre would now be rounded up and become part of the fare for this once-yearly extraordinary night of hilarity and sheer pleasure.
Good shoes for dancing were polished up and all the local musicians were notified in good time. When the night came it was wild and nobody went home till the sun came up and the cows came asking to be milked. Going to your first soiree was magical, your first taste of adulthood, the beginning of the rest of your life. Whatever antics you got up to belonged to that night. And then along came Facebook.