A funeral in county Mayo

 

On Monday my last Irish-born and Irish-resident aunt died, in the Mayo village where she and her eight siblings (including my father) had been born. She in fact died on the same day of the year on which my father, her eldest brother, had died forty-eight years previously. 

She died quite suddenly, at the age of 89 but the Irish (and our relatives there) are very used to the whole process of funerals, and myself and my five siblings all ended up on the same Ryanair flight out to Knock (the miraculous airport on a bleak plateau in central Mayo), only three days after she had died. 

The way in which funerals are arranged in Ireland is a bit different from England, but I was very impressed and moved by the whole thing, starting from the night when you visit the home of the person who has died. We knew that from 5pm (already dark by then), it was open-house to visit our aunt's home, and as we passed through the middle of the village we saw a temporary street sign pointing to 'funeral'. And when we reached the house a couple of minutes outside the village, there was a huge lighting rig powered by its own generator and three men in high-viz jackets helping the dozens of cars to get parked. 

As you went in you came into the sitting room where my aunt was lying in an open coffin and the family were there to greet you and talk to you about the person who had died. Everyone seemed to actively greet and speak to my aunt and some touched her face. Everyone smiled at her as if to say 'safe voyage'. It was completely warm and not at all odd, even though I have friends who would run a mile at the thought. After you had viewed the body and given your condolences, you were directed through into the kitchen and dining room to tables loaded with sandwiches and cakes and with calls of 'Two more teas there, Molly' ringing out. 

Everyone stayed about an hour at the house, talking to friends and relatives and fellow-villagers. It seemed that everyone in this village of about 500 knows everyone else by sight, and it was only us out-of-towners who had to ask. The fact that my aunt had taught at the village school for 45 years did mean that even more people than normal knew her, and I talked to a 73-year old who had been taught by my aunt in primary school!

The next day was the church service, which was warm and personal, and was accompanied by lovely singing from a choir (some of it in Irish) and lovely playing from two musicians on whistle and guitar, playing Irish tunes at various parts of the ceremony. And when we went out into the typically drizzly November Mayo day, I realised that most of the mourners were going to walk the half mile to the cemetery, following the hearse. In cases of extreme grief, I had heard that the village would sometimes carry a coffin the whole way in relays. And as we went up the main street there were people at their windows and (appropriately) schoolchildren lining the street. 

Up at the cemetery there were about a hundred people grouped around in the rain and at the end of it, in proper Irish style, we said a decade of the rosary, with those less experienced in such matters choosing to mouth the quick responses to the prayers rather than risk saying them out loud. And after the burial, many of the family went to look at the graves of other members of the family interred in the same place.

And after the subsequent tea and soup down at the local golf club, my siblings and I all took the chance to sit in a cosy pub drinking Guinness and talking life and relatives to the midnight hour, near enough.

The whole weekend made me think of that phrase "It takes a village to raise a child". Well maybe it also takes a village to see you properly off this earth, in which all the people who knew you in your daily life make sure that they turn up for at least one of the ceremonies to mark your passing.