A Year of Festivals in Ireland by Mark Graham

Author:Mark Graham
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New Island Publishing
Published: 2014-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

I was halfway through my quest, and I was well and truly hooked. I’d been chatting to a truck driver from home around this time, and he quizzed me about my adventures on the road. As I was banging on about some of the things that had been happening, barely pausing for breath, I saw him crack a wry smile. I stopped and gave him a quizzical look. ‘The road can become addictive, you know?’ I was beginning to appreciate exactly what he meant.

After the almost spiritual experience in Kerry, some grounding was needed, so I pencilled in two festivals with a bit more built-in hedonism for the next leg of the adventure. I was heading for the legendary Tedfest on Inis Mór, and for Ireland’s first Sex Festival. Hold on to your habit, sister, this could be a bumpy ride.

10.30 a.m. On Friday morning, the ferry pulls out from Rossaveal, Co. Galway, heading for Inis Mór, referred to henceforth as Craggy Island. This ferry was carrying a cargo of crazed clerics to Tedfest – a celebration of all things Father Ted.

10.45 a.m. A young fella dressed as a priest arrived on the top deck of the boat and announced, at the top of his voice, ‘We’re all going to Heaven!’ to which he got the appropriate response, ‘Wayyy-Heyyyy!’ Evidently, for some, we were.

10:50 a.m. The first chorus of ‘My Lovely Horse’

broke out.

11.00 a.m. The weekend was pretty much in full swing as the sun shone down on the top deck of the ferry where Nuns, Brothers, Bishops, Priests, Pat Mustards and Mrs Doyles were downing cans and smoking fags in a frenzy that suggested Father Jack was on his way.

Overheard on the deck of the ferry: ‘It’s our anniversary this weekend. Some fellas would take their Missus to Paris. I take mine to Inis Mór and dress her as a priest.’ Sounds like a pretty healthy relationship to me.

It’s probably worth mentioning here, for any poor unfortunates who have never experienced this facet of Irish culture, that Father Ted is the holiest man ever to have lived in Ireland in the recent past. So holy and amazing was Ted that he doesn’t just get a feast day, he gets a whole weekend in February. Soon he will be made Saint Ted (based on the ‘That money was only resting in my account’ miracle, among others), and will then be the new patron saint of Ireland, and Saint Patrick’s Day will be celebrated only within the confines of the Guinness Storehouse by tourists wearing appropriately branded clothing. Capisce? Sound.

My plan was to head to Craggy Island for the day and catch the last ferry off the island that evening, and strike out for the Micho Russell festival in Doolin that night. That was about as good a plan as the night Bono turned around to the Edge and said, ‘I know, why don’t we make Spider-Man into a musical?’ Lemon! I was actually making my way towards the pier for

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