Lords of Slane, Keepers of the Paschal Fire

(Cross-posted from the Fleming Family Blog.)

Last month I spent a week wandering around Ireland. It was a bit of a fluke, really, I wanted to take a week off after finishing at one company and before starting at my current one. A few minutes' search on Orbitz.com, and I found surprisingly cheap tickets to Dublin. Ireland is a beautiful country, and full of vivid and amazing stories. "History should not be bogged down with facts," one gentleman told me, "It's the stories that matter."

Along the way, I visited Slane, a small village north of Dublin in the Boyne Valley. I did not know before-hand the significance of the place, as it was one stop of a historical tour focusing on the Celtic culture. But when we arrived at the Hill of Slane, the tallest hill for ten miles in any direction, my guide patted me on the shoulder and said, "Mr. Fleming, welcome back."

Any Flemings in the US that trace their heritage to Ireland today are descended from two branches of the Fleming Family that came from Flanders via Scotland (where the name persisted as Flemming).

In 1370, following the invasion of Henry II of England, the Barony of Slane was created and given as a reward to Richard and Thomas Fleming for their part in the war. They, and their descendants the Fleming Family, were Lords of Slane for three hundred years. (The other branch of Flemings became viscounts of Longford.) Loyal to king James II, they lost the Barony of Slane when James fell to William of Orange in 1691. Slane castle stood on the Hill of Slane until the Flemings built a newer castle in the valley below.

But there's another story about the Hill of Slane that, although largely apocryphal, is dear to the hearts of many Irish Catholics. My guide told me the following story that day.

Saint Patrick, perhaps the most famous Irishman of all, was not Irish. He was a Roman, born in the British territory to a wealthy famliy living on the west coast of Ireland. The Romans never conquered Ireland, leaving it to the Celts. When he was a teenager, he was captured by Celtic raiders and taken to Ireland as a slave. He spent six years there before escaping back to Britain and joining the Church. As an adult, he saw that Christianity wasn't doing so well in Ireland, the missionaries didn't have the cultural experience he had to really communicate with the Celts about Jesus.

Patrick knew the Celts, he knew their beliefs, and he knew what was important to them. So he returned to Ireland on a mission of his own, and in the springtime went to the Hill of Slane.

Ten miles away rose the Hill of Tara, the seat of the High Kind of Celtic Ireland. Every spring, around the vernal equinox, a great celebration was held on Tara. The High King himself would light a ceremonial fire that would burn for days, and all other fires throughout Ireland were to be put out during this festival. Storytellers from all clans traveled to Tara so they could bring news of the festival back to every corner of Ireland.

Patrick knew this, and so began the biggest publicity stunt Ireland had every known. As the festival began, and the Tara fire was blazing as the only fire in sight, the revelers saw another light struck on Slane. Patrick had lit a fire well within view of the King's fire, and even bigger. The King was furious at this defiance, and immediately dispatched his army to Slane to destroy any rivals they might find there.

The army marched across Boyne Valley, the best and strongest warriors who served the King, some 200 to 20,000 (depending on who tells the story). When they arrived ready to fight an invading army, they found only Patrick, unarmed but running right at them down the hill. They were so taken aback by this show of bravery that they completely failed to kill him. Instead, he convinced them to take him back to the King to explain himself. Patrick told the King about Jesus, about a God so powerful that Patrick knew he need not fear the King's army. The King was impressed, and not only allowed Patrick to live, but allowed him to continue his mission throughout Ireland. (Of course, he was greatly helped by all the storytellers present at Tara who also told the story far and wide.)

Eventually a monastery was built on the Hill of Slane, the ruins of which you can see in the pictures above. Every year at Easter, a paschal fire is lit on the spot where Patrick lit his fire. For three hundred years, the eldest Baron Fleming lit the fire, proclaiming the light of Christianity to the Boyne Valley.

Things Happen So Fast

It certainly does seem that way, doesn't it? So much has changed in just a few short weeks. I left my old job to start at a new company. It was odd, having been there for two and a half years, to leave all the people I've come to rely on every day. But the time was right. The new job is pretty fantastic, and as I'm settling into it I'm liking it more and more.

In between the end of one era and the beginning of the next, I went to Ireland. Why Ireland? Cheapest flights I could find. My friend Andy happened to be visiting us when I made the decision, and as luck would have it he could take a week off too. So we went, with no plans, and very little knowledge of the country or geography. It was great. We found wonderful things to do, fantastic people, and lots of great beer. Maybe one of these days I'll write more about it. But I doubt it. There's just never enough time in the day.

Things happen so fast.

Lynn and I, in an attempt to curb our parents' calls for an expanded family, adopted a kitten. We're calling him Louis, after Satchmo, of course. He's an all-too-adorable little tabby cat who's fearless around people and loves to cuddle—that is, when he's not tearing something apart.

Now that the summer is stretching out ahead, we're hoping things will calm down a bit. We have no plans this weekend, and that's a welcome change.

Sin é

I'm in Cork, Ireland, on a week-long trip through this country with my friend Andy. Yes, we do confuse people wherever we go. This is an amazing country. Not only is it exactly as beautiful as everyong, and especially the Irish, describe, but there's a very unique kind of history here. They aren't the Celtic nation because they were the first Celts, rather they were the last to survive. They aren't an independent Irish nation because they wanted it, rather they fought for it--and in some ways, still are. All of this comes together to build a sense of identity I haven't seen anywhere else. I've known the Irish are a proud people, but I haven't understood why until now. I feel a little more connected to my name, though my branch of the Flemings have been in America for too many generations to have held onto much more.

I'll have to write more about the trip later.

How Does My Garden Grow?

This weekend, a couple friends came to visit up from Baltimore. We were hoping they'd help us pick out some flowers for the garden, but they jumped right in and together we completely over-hauled the entire back yard. Saturday morning, unusually warm for April, we all walked up to the farmers' market in front of Borough Hall. We picked out some hanging baskets, a flat of Impatiens (which I had always assumed to be spelled and pronounced "Inpatient's") and a few other brightly colored blossoms. A quick stop to get some spades, gloves, and soil, and we were all set.

Back at the apartment garden we began digging out the seemingly unending tangle of roots hiding just below the surface. Throughout the day we rooted, weeded, finished a red brick border around the patio, cut back the vines growing up the walls, cleaned out excess dirt, planted all our flowers, cleaned off all the patio furniture we inherited, and enjoyed a beautiful day with excellent company. It was a remarkable amount of work, but we now have a beautiful garden to enjoy all summer.

We celebrated by firing up the grill for the first time, and making a feast of brats, burgers, salad, corn, and asparagus. Dark by then, we still ate outside basking in the elation that comes from hard work done well with good friends.

Frankie Manning

Frankie Manning died today, at age 94. He was the heart and soul of the swing dancing scene. Inventor of air steps, pioneer of the dance for two eras, and inspiration to thousands of dancers all over the world.

I was lucky to have taken a few workshops with him years ago, and to have been a part of the NYC scene. You could always find Frankie out in New York dancing, not a care in the world but what fun step he could still do after all these years.

Tonight we celebrate his life in the way he would have insisted--dancing to his favorite band, the Harlem Renaissance Orchestra at Swing46.

Back from Boston

Watching the marathon was surprisingly good. I had sort of figured I would wander around Boston until I had a chance to see my uncle run past and that would be it. Instead, I ended up staying along the rail on the course the entire time until he came by. It was fascinating to watch all the runners, 25,000 in total, come through. Even more fascinating were the variety of attitudes. Some were weary, some determined, but many were downright celebratory. A large number of the runners were smiling and waving to the crowd. One guy even did a cart-wheel to the cheers of the spectators. I was amazed at the amount of positive energy, and that made it a lot of fun to watch.

I know, being a New Yorker, that it's my duty to downplay Boston as the quaint little town it is. But I have to say, when it comes to the subway, I found it to be pretty lacking. From where we were on the race course (near Boston College), we took the green line into the Back Bay area where the finish line was. Outside of "downtown" this train is on the street level, and it stops for every traffic light and any pedestrians who feel like standing in front of it. It took us more than 45 minutes to travel a distance of four and a half miles. There were two women jogging along the street parallel to our train, and they pulled ahead of us at each stop for about six stations before they were so far ahead that I could no longer see them. Boston, you need express trains.

The attempt to live blog the marathon turned out alright. I couldn't get the "Publish" button to appear on my blackberry, so I had to create new posts instead of editing the first post I created with updates. And as my battery wore down quickly during the day, posts went from short narratives to as few words as I could use. Once I find a better delivery method, and another event worth of the effort, I'll try again.

Live Blogging the Boston Marathon

I'm travelling to Boston to support my uncle running in the Boston Marathon. I'm going to try something new and see if I can live blog it from my blackberry over on the family blog: Boston Marathon