Solstice Blitzkrieg. The turning of the year.

Solstice Blitzkrieg

The megalithic tomb of Newgrange has an alignment with the rising sun on the Winter Solstice on 21st December. When the sun rises over Red Mountain in Donore a shaft of light enters the doorway and lights up the chamber 19 metres down the stone passage in the bowels of the huge earthen mound. It’s the oldest roofed building in the world – older than the pyramids - and it’s within walking distance of my house!

This year I rejoined a solstice tradition that dates back 26 years for us modern day solstice seekers and 5,000 years for my ancestors here in the Boyne Valley.

Myself and a handful of other devotees make a day of the Solstice (we call it the Solstice Blitz), starting at Newgrange and visiting other ancient sites in the Boyne Valley during the day – soaking up the magic of sharing the shortest day with the spirits of our ancestors who built these amazing structures. It’s a spiritual experience to see the golden rays of sun creep down the passage in Newgrange. We are sharing the happiness of the ancient astronomers who would have stood in our exact footprints - happy in the knowledge that the longest night is past and the days will now lengthen to Spring and new life in the world.

We started this tradition in 1981 when we walked to Newgrange from Drogheda after a party in town. We met at the park at 4am and, despite someone falling in the canal, got to Newgrange at 6. The sun doesn’t come up til 9 so by 8am the alcohol (and our good spirits) were beginning to wear off. The officials arrived and wouldn’t let us in so we climbed over the fence. The Irish Times declared that Newgrange had been “invaded by cultists” but the next year (and every year after that) allcomers are invited onto the site to witness the sunrise (only the chosen few actually get in to the chamber).

This year there was a live webcast of the phenomenon. It was ok to have the big video screen onsite but the the live ‘commentary” broadcast on a PA broke the magical silence that the sunrise demands. The sound of the rooks in the nearby trees is the same sound that our ancestors heard 5,000 years ago. This year the rooks were silenced and the amplified ‘rhubarb rhubarb ‘ of commentator babble took its place. A bad swap.

After breakfast in Slane we headed over to Tara where the the Irish government in its wisdom has decided to build the M3 motorway within honking distance of the ancient seat of the Irish high kings. We enjoyed the stillness of Skryne – because we won’t have it much longer.

Then it was back to Dowth for the sunset and join the rest of the Blitzers for the end of a magical day.

The year has turned. Bring on Spring.

Back in de 'Dam

IDFA is the biggest documentary festival in Europe and I was happy to be able to make it along there this year being only a chicken’s hop away in Ireland.
Filmmaking is a pretty lonely occupation (well my end of it anyway). Despite the glamourous connotations I find I spend most of my time writing neverending boring funding proposals.
What a joy it is then to be stuck in a foreign city with nothing to do but watch films and talk until the wee hours with fellow filmmakers from all over the planet. I ended up at a party on a houseboat hosted by a Chinese and a Canadian and had drunken conversations with Israelis, Iraqis, Chileans, Yanks, Poms, Kenyans and Dutchmen.
If festivals are meant to inspire you then this was a great festival cos I got well inspired.
The hit of the festival for me was Nitzan Gilady’s “Jerusalem is proud to present”which documented the opposition to the Gay Pride march which was scheduled to take place in Jerusalem in 2006. For the first time ever Jews, Muslims and Christians were united in Jerusalem. Okay so they were united in their opposition to the Queers but for an eternal optimist like myself I chose to see the positive in this comi-tragic situation and celebrate the fact that even these trenchant enemies could find common ground.
A poignant moment in the film came when the Drag Queen from Ramallah was forced to leave the Middle East because the Hamas hardliners had discovered his secret. His final performance at the underground club was so touching. It made me think back to a dance club we put on in my home town of Drogheda in the early 80’s. Boys danced with girls and boys danced with boys and no-one gave damn. I don’t think we ever realized how transgressive we were.
Getting back to the film “ Jerusalem is proud to Present”, I still find it hilarious how organised religion can oppose those who love, while embracing those who fight. It was great to renew friendship with Nitzan (we last met in Sydney 5 or 6 years ago) and go for a drink with the Israelis.
Ps I don’t want to ruin the film for you but the Pride march went ahead in the end despite hate mail, threats and a multiple stabbing. There’s hope for us all yet!

Rockin in Riga

The joy of living in Europe (as opposed to Australia) is that you can jump on a plane and in an hour you are in another country surrounded by people speaking a new language and with a different culture and a different history.

And with the expansion of the European Union there is the possibility of visiting Eastern Europe and see the countries of the old communist bloc. Riga in Latvia was recommended to us as a city of incredible medieval architecture and World Heritage protected streetscape on the shores of the Baltic.

We went for the weekend and stayed in a concrete hotel that was described in the handbook as a “Russian Inservice hostel” ie for members of the Communist Party elite to holiday on the Baltic.

By chance it was Latvian Independence day while we were there and so we were treated to a “Russian style” military parade. One hour of unsmiling ranks of soldiers, one brass band and no jollity.

When I lived in Australia I felt that I missed not only Ireland but Europe. The history of Europe and being in streets that were imbued with the spirit of generations past of which I was a part. The vibe that these streets have seen history unfold and that the stone somehow holds on to the collective memories of those who went before makes me feel I belong here.

It’s a marked contrast to Australia which on White fella terms is such a young country. I feel that the consistent refusal to say sorry has meant that one doesn’t feel a part of the Black fella heritage. This festering sore in Black White relations will continue as long as the status quo remains.

The positive thing about Australia is that there is the opportunity to mould this new country in a way that plays to its strengths – as opposed to the Howard years which was a race to the bottom – appealing to the baser instincts of humanity.

As I look at my photos of the ranks of soldiers marching through the historic streets of Riga and think about the dreadful history of invasion and brutality that surrounds it my mind goes back to a little event that we ran as part of the Remembering Minto project in a deprived area of Western Sydney where we had children from the local primary school singing in concert. To look at the 50 little faces – no two the same colour – and all singing together as one like a little band of angels – I felt hope for Australia which overcame the depression of the darkest days of children in detention, kids overboard and the deathly tones of dead man walking Ruddock. If we can only hold onto the notion of a multicultural future then Australia has got sunny days ahead.

John Howard and the Walls of Derry

It's 5 o'clock on a Sunday afternoon and I pass a group of 10 kids between the ages of 12 and 15 as I leave the town centre of Derry and pass under the gate in the city walls on my way to my lodgings in the Bogside. As I pass them I notice that they have glass beer bottles sticking out of their pockets.

Later I hear that they have bricked a police landrover. Just for the hell of it. The landrover drove off and the kids carried on their way. No arrests. No fuss. It seemed like it was a normal thing for a Sunday afternoon.

Derry seems to be at that point where the full-on police style of old has mellowed out but the community policing (read paramilitary control) which kept the city in order is not yet developed to the point where it can keep order. There's a particular style of anarchy which prevails which is liberating but yet has a dark side to it. Is it progress this uncertain peace?

What would it be like to bring up a family here? It reminded me of Brixton's frontline in the 90's. When we were young and single it was a "colourful" place full of energy and excitement but when you've got to bring up kids there then you tend to focus on the practical things like how to avoid coke dealers when you pick up the kids from school. This then is my litmus test for a nice community - me being no longer single and carefree but a parent with responsibilities.

I met up with Julian Temple at the Foyle Film Festival this weekend and the irony was not lost that here was the director of the Sex Pistol's Great Rock'n'Roll Swindle witnessing a new kind of 'anarchy in the UK' on the streets of Derry.

Rewind back 24 hours and I'm sitting in Belfast Central Station looking at the results of the Australian General Election coming through on Sky News. I've been texting friends and family in Sydney as the results came in that morning and it's beginning to look good for us. I cheer loudly as the news comes in that the Libs are in trouble. When they cross live to Maxine McKew in Bennelong and it's clear that Howard has lost his seat I stand up and ROAR from the soles of my shoes.

I then notice that I am surrounded by Security. "Are you alright fella?"
"We won the election" I say.
"Aye, I think the whole station knows" he replies drily.

I promise not to cheer anymore and they obviously decide I am not psycho.
Howard is gone. I can hardly believe it.
No more being embarassed about Australia and the evil things that he and his ilk have done in its name.
It's safe to go home now.

Big Ideas and Pointy shoes

The local Christian Brothers school was launching it's 150th anniversary booklet this week. As I contemplated the invitation to attend I realised that I was still very angry with the Christian Brothers even 30 years after I'd left the school and I couldn't quite work out why.

Was it because the Head Brother called me into the office to "count the compasses" and then fondled my knee?

There were many stories told on the night of the launch about the Brothers' time in Drogheda and I remembered a couple of my own.

There was the time the GAA-mad Brother took me off the school team because I had kicked the ball the wrong way up the field. We had just the bare 15 players and there was no-one to come on as substitute in my place. In other words they were better off without me. That was the last game of GAA I played for a while.

I remembered some other incidents which are probably best forgotten. They concerned the Brothers' fondness for corporal punishment and the consequences for the poor unfortunates at the receiving end. On reflection it is the memory of the naked violence which sticks in my throat and still makes me angry. The dark side of the Christian Brothers experience which I witnessed and which shocked me to my core.

As I listened to the stories unfold I was reminded of my own parents' struggle to bring up 14 children and what a blessing it must have been for them to have the Brothers and Nuns - who did not turn children away for want of money - in the town in the days before free education came in in 1968.

I realised that I saw the Brothers through the prism of my own personal experience of their worst excesses whereas my parents would have seen the positive aspects of their family receiving an education. I came away from the night a little more reconciled with the demons of my past.

....One last story of mine on the Brothers concerned the sixth of my eleven brothers when he turned up for his first day at school in the mid 60's. The Head Brother, a powerful man with a Kojack haircut walked down the line of new boys and stopped in front of my brother. "Aaaahh Mr. Murray", he said to the diminutive boy. "Your brothers were here with their big ideas and their pointy shoes".

Sorry for your trouble

We buried Junior Brannigan on Monday. He was my friend Brazz's dad and I knew him from the terraces of United Park when he brought his grandchidren to the Drogheda United home games. A cold North wind blew across St. Peter's cemetery as the cortege entered and we stood around the gravestones as Junior was laid to rest. I looked around at the faces of those around me. Friends and relatives of Junior down through the years. I recognised many of them despite having been out of the town for 22 years. They were older but still the same deep down. We shared some memories of times gone by as the family received condolences. "Sorry for your trouble" is the standard greeting at a time like this. It's an innocuous salutation but we both know what we mean.

The day before the burial I was in West St. in the town centre at a civic reception with 1,500 other townspeople celebrating the Drogheda United team winning the League of Ireland soccer trophy for the first time in their 44 year history. Many of the same faces were present who turned up for the funeral the following day. When I ask myself what makes living here so different from Sydney it's the totality of the lived experience. One gets to experience joy and sadness, celebration and mourning - life and death - they all make up a part of the daily rich ritual of life.

Junior would have loved to be in West St. to celebrate the Drogs but we were there for him. "Sorry for your trouble".

Me and the Reverend Ian

Standing in the Long Hall of the magnificent Stormont building, the seat of government in Northern Ireland is a strange experience for a Southern catholic given the history of the place as a bastion of Protestant loyalism. I was there on November 6th for the launch of singer Dana's biography.

Looking at the mob who were standing on the stage was even more surreal given the conflicting politics of those present. Onstage were political heavyweights the Loyalist warhorse Rev. Ian Paisley, Sinn Fein's Martin McGuinness (acknowledged as a past prime mover in the Provisional IRA), former Irish Premier Albert Reynolds, Nobel prize winner John Hume of the SDLP and Dana (Rosemary Scallon) who was an 18 year old slip of a girl from the Bogside in Derry when she won the Eurovision Song Contest for Ireland in 1970 when the Northern Ireland Troubles were reaching a crescendo.

Now here they are laughing and cracking jokes together. Paisley is feted like a popstar. I must be the only person in the room who hasn't had their photo taken with him.

That these people would share a room never mind a podium was unthinkable for generations and even 10 years ago it was an impossibility. I have to pinch myself to make sure it's real.

That this gathering was happening in front of my eyes is a concrete example of how times have changed in Ireland during my time overseas.

Should I shake Ian Paisley's hand? Should I shake McGuinness' hand? Do I move with the times and embrace a new chapter in Irish history or do I fall back on past attitudes. I found myself asking what would my dad have done? This is generational change. This is history.

I shake John Hume's hand and tell him how much I admire what he has done for peace and justice over the years.

As we drive home we take a wrong turn and end up in a housing estate with political murals on the gable walls. As we progress we realise that the murals are UVF. We turn the car and quickly find the road for Dublin. Ireland has changed but not THAT much.

Failte roimh Cawk! - Welcome everybody!

On 13th June 1985 I took the boat from Dun Laoghaire to Holyhead. From there I went to Sydney in 1996.

On 23rd July 2007 I came back to Drogheda with my Australian wife, Monique, to spend a year here and introduce my two girls (2 and 4 years old) to their granny and explore what it is that connects me across 3 countries, 2 continents and 12,000 miles to the place I left behind 22 years ago.

You are very welcome to join me in my journey and my musings.

Go neiri on bothar linn (may the road rise to meet us).