I hope you are all having a happy St Patrick’s Day. While I do not begrudge Americans celebrating St Patrick’s Day so vigorously and in vast numbers, I must take umbrage with them for completely ignoring St David’s Day which falls on March 1st. St David is the patron saint of Wales which is celebrated by Welsh people all over the world. According to one fellow writer, the celebration usually means singing, eating and reciting poetry. What, no drinking? Apparently, St. David’s Day meetings are not the boisterous celebrations that accompany St Patrick’s Day and there lies the problem. Welsh ex-pats need to show the world how they can party!
I realize America will never embrace St. David’s Day with the same enthusiasm as they do St Patrick’s Day purely on the basis of numbers. In the 2000 Census, 1.75 million reported Welsh ancestry (0.6% of the U.S. population) compared to 42 million Irish Americans. There are more than seven times as many Irish-Americans as there are Irish residing in “The Emerald Isle.”
St Patrick’s Day has almost evolved into a national holiday with nationwide sales in stores and St Patrick’s Day greeting cards adorning the shelves. But who in his right mind would bother to send a St Patrick’s Day card? Don’t tell me; 42 million Irish Americans! Major cities around the country will hold lavish parades marching to the swirl of the bagpipes, the river in Chicago will be dyed green while bars in New York, Boston and Savannah will be serving green beer. Even the traffic lights remain green on St Patrick’s Day.
Most Irish-Americans assume that St Patrick was an Irishman, but it is not so. Though Patrick’s birthplace is debatable, most scholars seem to agree that he was born in the area of southeastern Scotland known as Strathclyde, a former Celtic kingdom and Welsh-speaking at the time. (However, a few scholars continue to regard St. David’s in Pembrokeshire, Wales as the saint’s birthplace; the tiny city was formerly directly in the path of missionary and trade routes to Ireland).
Don’t get me wrong; I love the Irish. I have visited the country several times and always received a warm welcome. I’ve played golf there a couple of times and if you can put with the inconsistencies of the weather, there’s nothing better than links golf in Ireland. Even the golf starters can add a new dimension to your game. I was teeing off at the first hole one rainy morning and managed to slice my drive into the starter’s hut located at right angles to the tee box. The ball ricocheted several times on the tin clad hut before the starter gingerly emerged with hands on his head and asked in a tentative voice: “Is it safe to come out now?”
I once played a course which ran alongside a cemetery. I was coming to the end of the round and for once we had enjoyed a warm sunny day. The sun was now setting; casting a purple hue across the cemetery. I was standing on the tee box patently aware of the assorted headstones to the right of me. I kept telling myself: “Whatever you do, don’t slice the ball into the cemetery.” Needless to say the ball exploded off the club and headed towards the hallowed ground like an exocet. But fate had a hand to play. My ball decided to play ping pong with several headstones before rejoining the fairway approximately 100 yards from the tee box; much to the myrth and admiration of my playing partners.
I love the quirkiness of the Irish which is infectious. My wife and I were staying in Cork a few years ago and enjoyed a night out in one of neighboring Kinsales’s several gourmet restaurants. We were taking a night stroll attempting to shake off some our food excesses when we heard live music coming from a pub. It was fairly late but we decided to check it out with a view to partaking in a night cap before returning to our hotel. The place was jammed to the rafters and we weren’t sure if we would be able to get a drink before they called time. We needn’t have worried. Closing time duly arrived but we were locked in for the night. We were found seats and happily succumbed to the craic (a Gaelic word which loosely translated means fun, entertainment and enjoyable conversation) generously provided by the locals. We emerged five hours later to witness the sunrise above our hotel; tired but enriched by the experience of an Irish lock-in.
The lure of Ireland’s hospitality led us to Dublin where we had another enjoyable weekend. Before catching our flight back to London we decided to have a Sunday lunchtime drink in a bar dubiously called the “The Hairy Lemon” and I ordered two pints of Guinness. The barman declined to serve me Guinness because Murphy’s (another Irish stout) was conducting a promotional campaign and their beer was free which caused my wife and I to quickly down four pints each of the alternative black stuff before leaving for the airport.
Guinness is available worldwide in draft , bottles, and cans housing the mysterious widgets, but there is something special about the black stuff in Ireland which can’t be replicated anywhere else. It has a rich, smooth, creamy flavor with no aftertaste. On our last visit to Ireland we toured the west coast, and almost every pub we visited had a middle-aged leprachaun sitting at the bar sipping a pint of Guinness.
The moral of my story is Irish-Americans owe a debt of gratitude to the Welsh. Not only did we provide them with their Patron Saint, we were also responsible for providing them with their ancestors. I will be flying my Welsh flag on March 17th in honor of the Welsh St Patrick, my fellow Celts and the sheep that made it all possible. Yachi Da (good health.)
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