Charlie’s Boy

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Medieval High Cross, Sleatty, Co. Carlow
Medieval High Cross at dusk, Sleaty Church, Co. Laois

One of the first things you noticed about Charlie Doherty was that everyone had, or wanted to have, a word with him. He appeared to know almost everyone at conferences. He’d slip quietly into rooms and theatres during presentations, trying to be inconspicuous, and then spend the next few minutes nodding and acknowledging furtive salutes from half the audience. I remember attending a lecture from a visiting scholar once. Charlie arrived in and took a seat at the back. After it finished, there were more people looking to talk to Charlie than the visiting scholar.

One of the other things you noticed was how fast he walked. For such a relatively small man, he could move like the clappers. ‘I have to be somewhere, walk with me,’ he’d say after a lecture, and a clatter of undergrads would then follow him around a maze of corridors in UCD, he answering questions on the fly and giving pointers to further reading. I realized early on that he probably did this from experience because it was the only way he would ever get away from the end of a class without a thousand queries. Oftentimes, I struggled to keep up with him. A man over twice my age. Chasing him around, he introduced me to lesser-travelled campus shortcuts I never knew existed.

We had all heard of Charlie before we met him. He was regularly cited in other people’s lectures and assigned readings. “Early Medieval Ireland?” people would say, “Have you had Charlie, yet?” Following my introductory baptism of patrician fire, I knew that for the next few years, I would be taking every early medieval module that was possible. Back then, Early Irish History as a dedicated subject was being phased out, if it hadn’t already gone. However, with judicious selection of the modules on offer between Charlie Doherty and Elva Johnston, one could essentially get an Early Irish History degree at the expense of also having to take a few boring compulsory modern history classes in addition. That’s what some of us did, anyway.

The first class we actually had with him wasn’t part of the History course but rather Celtic Civ. He, along with others, was a guest lecturer and gave an introduction to Early Irish literature. Sitting quietly at the top of the class, glasses perched on his nose, he welcomed us with a soft Derry accent, twinkling eyes, and a gentle smile. Within 5 minutes, I was addicted to his enthusiasm. When he found out that not all of the class were American JYAs chasing Clannad, and that a few of us were archaeology students too – who were also taking early medieval modules – he started to tailor the classes to fit us. By the time we came to his own medieval classes proper, he’d already given us a solid grounding in advance.

Charlie’s regular module handbooks were collector’s items. Unlike everyone else’s plain black and white A4 sheets, Charlie’s were in landscape, with bright colours and text over transparent fading background images from medieval manuscripts. He delighted in full-screen illuminated PowerPoints, playing around with and admiring different fades and dissolves between slides. He was interested in the potential of new technologies, regularly enquiring about the latest archaeo tech coming down the line. He was very impressed with one of his former students who went on to work in computer games. The student had sent him a 3D model mock-up of St. Brigit’s Basilica in Kildare as textually depicted by Cogitosis. “Isn’t that fantastic?”, he’d say. “You never know where Early Irish History is going to bring you.”

Patrick. Brigit. Columba. Early Irish Hagiography. Hagiographers. Armagh. Rome. The Cult of Relics. The Cult of the Saints. Early Irish Church in context. Peregrinatio. Pilgrimage. Proto-monastic towns. Ecclesiastical Familia and their Machinations. The Book of Armagh. The Liber Angili. Vikings. High Kings. Bishoprics. Dynasties. Territories. Annals. Charlie literally introduced me to everything Early Medieval Irish. More importantly, he showed us how to approach and interrogate the material with eyes wide open to political and economic contexts. Excavating texts so as to read between the lines.

His introduction to Múirchú’s Vita as a corporate commission by Áed of Sléibte was incredible, tying Patrician hagiography together with the Additamenta, Cáin Adomnán guarantors, Annals, and Leinster ecclesiastical power dynamics. My brain melted with the scale of interconnectivity if you had a wide range of exposure to Early Medieval sources in context. A few minutes later, he had moved on to how Múirchú’s opening included a playful textual pun on his own name. These people came alive, along with all their motivations, biases, and predilections. On several occasions, he’d even surprise himself. He’d suddenly stop in mid-flow and take off his glasses, wiping them and staring at us. “You know, I’ve never made that connection before. I must write that down.”

I will never forget an afternoon in October of second year. We had moved on to Tírechán. Charlie was pointing out just how dense the text was despite surface appearances. Full of names, places, and landscapes to unpack. He paused, again mid-flow, took off his glasses, and looked directly at me. “Of course, nobody has really done any work on this. ‘Someone’ should.” Right then and there, before I even knew that I would go on to need them, or even realized that I was looking for them – he presented me with MA and PhD topics.

On another occasion, at the end of second year, he paused again, took off his glasses, and looked wistfully out the window. “Do you know what’s incredible? We have all the sources we are ever going to have from Early Medieval Ireland. The last one came to light about 200 years ago. We’re never going to find any more. We just have to make do with what’s come down to us.” A few weeks later, I opened a newspaper to see the startling announcement of the discovery of the Fadden More Psalter in an Irish bog. On our first class back with him in September, we awaited his arrival, grinning widely. He walked in, put down his bag, and took off his glasses. “Well,” he said. “I’ve never been so glad to be so wrong.”

Somewhere near the beginning of third year, I missed the only class of his I ever would in over two years. I heard afterwards from my classmates that Charlie had walked in, put down his bag as usual, and looked around. “Where’s Vox? It’s not like him to miss a class. Is everything all right?” Henceforth, they referred to me as ‘Charlie’s Boy’ in time-honoured Irish slagging fashion. I laughed it off but was secretly delighted.

By the end of third year, through attrition and other specializations, there were just five of us left in his class. On a beautiful warm May morning, we dutifully herded ourselves along with hundreds of other students into the RDS stadium for our final examinations. Back then, we were required to write longhand essays in three hours from a selection of questions on the final paper. Being just five students in an obscure specialist module, we were naturally shunted around from one section to another, and eventually placed, last minute, in a godforsaken corner of the arena, where we received our scripts. The exam started at 9 am. All heads down. Forty-five minutes later, I heard soft footfall from behind. Presuming it was an invigilator, I paid no heed. A voice in my ear, a soft Derry accent, enquired, “Is everything okay with the paper?” I looked up at Charlie and gave him two thumbs up for the two Patrician questions. He smiled and checked with all the other students before heading off. He had spent the last 45 minutes walking up and down all the rows of desks in the RDS until he found us. Five students. There were lecturers who had 50 people in their classes who didn’t do that.

The following year, I found myself back in his office. He had promised me for ages that he would give me an academic recommendation for an application. Being eternally busy and popular, he never quite got around to it. I nabbed him one day passing the photocopiers. “Charlie, the deadline is today.” “Oh right,” he said, “Walk with me.” We sat in his office for the last time and he started typing out a reference. Twenty minutes later he was still typing, stopping every now and then, to look wistfully at me, before going back to the keyboard. When he was finished, he printed it from his little portable printer, folded it in three, put it into an envelope, and very pointedly sealed it. “There you go, all the best”, he said with a knowing smile. I had to submit it as is. To this day I have no idea what he wrote. I got the application.

Fast forward several more years, and I was presenting at a conference. Always outwardly confident, I was shitting myself inside. For some reason, several heavy early medieval hitters had shown up, despite there being far more important and interesting parallel sessions elsewhere. A few minutes into my spiel, Charlie slipped quietly into the room, trying to be inconspicuous, but spent the next few minutes nodding and acknowledging furtive salutes from half the audience. I knew then that everything would be all right. It gave me an opportunity to do something I had long wanted to do. Citing him for an obscure identification he had made years before based on an even more obscure text and showing him why it worked on satellite imagery too. For just a brief moment, we swapped roles, and I got to tell him something new.

I saw him less and less after that. I’d run into him very occasionally at his local supermarket near my parents’ home. Always thought it was funny to discuss early medieval tidbits in front of the spuds. A few years ago, I found myself, quite by accident, passing Sléibte/Sleaty, Co Laois. I stopped at the church for a poke around and thought back to that very day with Charlie and Áed when I had nearly ‘suffocated by imperfect deglutition of aliment‘. Brigit begat Patrick. Tírechán begat Múirchú. FJ Byrne begat Charlie. I took a picture to prove I had eventually made it there after all this time. It’s the title picture of this post.

***

I was greatly saddened to find out that Charlie Doherty passed away recently. My deepest sympathies to all his family, friends, and colleagues. We genuinely will not see his like again. I wish I had far better words to express how much of an influence he was on me, on my research interests, on my learning and development. He is largely responsible for anything and everything early medieval I have ever attempted. Including starting this blog way back in the day. It’s nothing compared to the decades of students he taught who thought the world of him. I’m just one of many.

Requiescat in pace.

I have always been, and always will be, Charlie’s Boy.

Pagans and Paganism in the Writings of (St) Patrick [Part 2]

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…Continued from Part 1.

Welcome to Part 2 of an attempt to gauge how much, if anything, we can actually derive about authentic Irish paganism from within the fifth century writings of the Historical Patrick.  

The last time we left off, we had taken a look at some of the more (in)famous references to alleged pagan ritual within his texts; and how, when examined for biblical allusion and metaphor, it becomes readily apparent that the actions and events he depicts were firmly intended to be read and interpreted against a biblical background. As such, they cannot, and should not, be held up as being representative of any genuine elements of authentic Irish pagan ritual. However, there are further, lesser known, references to pagans in his writings, some of which have been utilized in the past to suggest a possible kernel of truth. And so, for the day that’s in it, lets take a deeper look.

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Pagans and Paganism in the Writings of (St) Patrick [Part 1]

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A man in a goat mask, with hairy cloak holding a staff

Image: Billy Mag Fhloinn (Used with permission)

Introduction

The writings of the Historical Patrick are quite honestly remarkable.  As the earliest surviving documents known to have been written in Ireland, they represent the very start of recorded Irish History itself. As the only primary sources from either Ireland or Britain for the entirety of the fifth century AD, they contain the earliest historical articulation of a collective Irish Identity alongside a complex and fluid sense of Insular Romano-‘Britishiness’ and Imperial ‘Romanitas’.

Its not perhaps always appreciated, despite the obvious, that Patrick’s writings also represent the earliest – the only – contemporary historical source from a Christian actively engaging with Insular Irish Pagans in late prehistory. As someone who had spent several years as a slave in Ireland as a youth, and who then returned to evangelize as a missionary in later life, Patrick’s writings also represent a unique textual witness to the start of the end of Irish prehistory, and what I like to call: ‘honest to gods’ authentic Irish paganism.

Perhaps even more remarkable is that, unlike some other Christian sources, Patrick provides us with a profoundly respectful, and altogether realistic treatment of insular Irish pagans and their society. Patrick speaks of regularly going out of his way so as not to bring the new religion, or any of its practitioners, into disrepute among those pagans he was continually living and working alongside. He mentions paying over the odds to local judges to allow him access new territories in peace. He references entering into alliances with local pagan kings and the deliberate hiring of their sons as traveling bodyguards, for both physical (and perhaps more importantly, social) protection. As someone whose mission was perilously existing on the fringes of insular Irish society Patrick seems to have gone to great lengths in all his dealings with actual pagans, ever conscious of not offending them in any way, appearing to intrude on their territories, or causing them to react with hostility to his missionary activities. 

Over the years, some scholars have occasionally tuned their attention to this aspect of Patrick’s writings in order to seek out tidbits of information as to genuine pagan Irish beliefs and practices – all of them with varying levels of success. Some of this has even permeated into popular culture and consciousness and is occasionally regurgitated uncritically by modern authors, bloggers and journalists. Much of it, if not all, is complete and utter bullshit.

And so, for the day that’s in it, and in keeping with blog tradition, I thought I’d take a deep dive on the very same subject and ask the eternal question: How much, if anything, can we actually derive about authentic Irish paganism from the writings of the Historical Patrick?

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The Archaeology of Mammies

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Sitting in a high chair in the kitchen as a raw infant. My mother trying to get me to focus so she could gently spoon some mashed potato into me. Trying to distract me by pointing up at a high shelf where the fancy crockery was. To a larger-than-life garishly-coloured monstrosity of a milk-jug in the shape of an Olde English Town Crier. White rolled wig. Big crooked nose. Mouth open wide and and in mid roar.

Maybe there was someone else there, or maybe she had the radio on – but for some reason she let out a large loud belly laugh, right in the middle of a mouthful. Startled and not knowing or expecting this, I thought it was coming from the Milk-Jug Monster and promptly burst into tears.

That was the end of the Milk Jug. Except its still at the back of the ‘good cabinet’.

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Scandalized Women in the Writings of St. Patrick

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Preface

A day late, but in keeping with time-honoured blog tradition, I nevertheless present my annual Patrician-themed rambling extravaganza – a deep forensic examination of lesser spotted aspects within the writings of the Historical Patrick. This year, I thought I’d take a look at one of the more neglected passages in his Confessio (Chapter 49) concerning women. Despite initial appearances and a lack of previous (male) scholarly attention over the years, Chapter 49 when fully appreciated, actually contains far more than meets the eye.

Before jumping in though, and for anyone approaching Patrick’s writings for the first time, there are a few things worth bearing in mind.

Patrick letters are a kind of open bulletin to multiple audiences and recipients. He was primarily writing for elite Christian audiences in Britain, but he sometimes changes focus within and addresses some of his Irish converts and supporters. Its helpful to be aware of whom he was addressing at any one time as certain themes or episodes would have made little sense to one or the other. His multiple audiences in Ireland and Britain, despite being under a shared umbrella of Christianity, knew little to nothing of each others daily cultural or political realities.

Patrick can be read via several layers of meaning. There are the actual words that he used; and there are the words/phrases within those words that are designed to hint or reference certain biblical passages that would resonate among an elite Christian audience. Throughout his writings, Patrick uses sub-textual references to reinforce his arguments, his sense of righteousness and sometimes, as an sub-qualifier or comment on his own text. A lot of the time, it is these biblical allusions, or expansions, which are key to understanding his underlying meaning.

With that, lets take a look at the matter at hand.

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St. Patrick: The Man From Nowhere

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St. Patrick’s Window, Tuam Cathedral. Image: Andreas Borchert (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Introduction

If there’s one aspect of the Historical Patrick that really gets certain people agitated, its the academic issue of his ‘episcopal’ status. St. Patrick is not only a national icon, saintly superhero and patron saint – he is also a figure of much personal devotion.  For many Irish people, he represents a very important tenant of the early reception of their faith and the very foundation of their national ecclesiastical identity. To this day, Irish church hierarchies still maintain that their religious authority and legitimacy stretches right back to his very personage. To question such a long and entrenched tradition naturally runs the risk of offending modern religious sensibilities. One doesn’t do so lightly.

Nevertheless, its remains important to. For several reasons.

Firstly, because we can. Not so very long ago, such an endevour would have been seen as utterly scandalous and I would probably have been denounced from an altar, hosed down with holy water and/or run out of the country, for even daring to.

Secondly, because we should. Academically separating the original historical Patrick from the later mythical ‘Saint’ Patrick serves to clarify the historical context and importance of both the man himself and the later literary culture, dynasties and ecclesiastical federations who championed and embellished his cult, whilst simultaneously preserving his actual writings. Ironically, their efforts now enable professional heretics such as myself the opportunity to work with such wonderful source material.

Thirdly, because we must. Over the next year or so, ahead of the papal visit in 2018, we will surely be treated to increased PR spin concerning the early history of Irish Christianity and Rome – from those who naturally have a vested interest in maintaining certain narratives. St. Patrick will have a starring role. Much of it will be badly written, poorly researched and historically inaccurate. Almost all of it will be a travesty of the Historical Patrick’s own words, theology, actions and experiences.

And so, for the day that’s in it, I thought I would take a forensic look at the evidence of the Historical Patrick’s own words concerning his own episcopal status.

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17 Things You (Probably) Didn’t Know About The Historical (St) Patrick

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St. Patrick’s Day is almost upon us again. To celebrate, here’s an flagrantly shameless click-baity 17 point listicle (I like to think of it as a ‘histicle’) on aspects of the historical (St) Patrick which are not widely known or usually discussed in modern media. His two surviving documents (and their respective manuscript versions) can be read in a variety of languages here.

1 – Recorded Irish History Starts With Patrick

Before being grossly inflated to within an inch of his hagiographical life by early medieval authors, the man we call ‘Patrick’ was an actual historical person. He lived sometime in the late 4th/early 5thC AD. Copies of two documents written by him survive. They are the earliest surviving texts known to have been written within Ireland. As such, recorded insular Irish ‘history’ (the study of the written word) starts with Patrick. There’s absolutely nothing earlier. Nor indeed, anything after him, for more than a century. The very fact that his writings managed to survive at all is pretty feckin’ amazing.

2 – Growing Up, Patrick Was A Spoiled Little Shit

St. Patrick didn’t call himself ‘Patrick’. Or ‘Saint’. He identified himself as ‘Patricius‘. His father was both a deacon and a type of Roman Town Councillor. His grandfather was a priest. His family’s villa estate had servants. In modern day parlance, Patrick was a spoiled little shit. With a maid. Despite the families ecclesiastical connections, he didn’t have a very religious upbringing at all. He says himself that he didn’t pay much attention to priests in general. Too busy gallivanting and drinking Frappuccinos probably. There’s a good chance his father only took on the role of ecclesiastical deacon in order to help mitigate the families imperial tax liabilities. ‘Tax avoidance, your honour. Not evasion. That money was just resting in my account’.

3 –  Rude Britannia

Many people, past and present, have laid several modern nationalist claims on Patrick’s ethnicity; despite the fact that Patrick clearly identified himself and his family as being Britons from the island of Britain. This means he would have considered himself British (in the late antiquity sense of the word). His native language would have been Brythonic. Despite this language being the precursor of Welsh, he would not have considered himself as such. He couldn’t have. A coherent welsh identity didn’t yet exist.  They still had all their own vowels for fecks sake. His (unidentified) home town was, in all likelihood, somewhere in North West Britain, not far from the Hadrians Wall frontier zone. Despite living near the (modern day) Scottish border, he did not identify with the inhabitants there either. In fact, he expresses a particular hatred for the insular peoples of Scotland, i.e. ‘The Picts’, essentially calling them worthless, unworthy, blood thirsty, evil thieving bastards. Seriously. He couldn’t stand them blue arsed pagan feckers.

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Brexit Stage Left: The Historical Patrick, ‘Britishness’ and Imperial Romanitas

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Image: William Warby / Flickr (CC BY 2.0)

I recently had the pleasure of reading an interesting article by Andrew Gardner which has just been published in the  Journal of Social Archaeology, entitled: ‘Brexit, boundaries and imperial identities: A comparative view’ (January 17, 2017). The paper set out to explore the dynamics of imperial identity formation, both past and recent present, via the background of Brexit, Border Studies and frontier frameworks. In doing so, it draws upon several chronological examples, the most interesting to me of course being that of Insular Britain in the 4th and 5th centuries AD.

I have always been particularly interested in the creation, interplay and maintenance of multiple identities in the North Western Frontier Zone of Britain, South West Scotland and the Irish Sea during the same period – especially given the areas importance when it comes to Early Insular Christianity. Sites such as at Kirkmadrine, Whithorn, Maryport, Kirkliston et al, provide fleeting evidence for an early western regional Christian activity, commemoration and identity expression, not to mention the placing and effect of Hadrians Wall on peoples on both sides.

Indeed it is from this same area that the Historical Patrick  most likely hailed from, and within whose writings we can find a complex articulation and cognition of multiple religious and cultural identities – Irish, British, Pictish and Roman. Gardner’s interest in exploring the role and impact of ‘peripheral’ locations in the articulation, maintenance and transformation of larger imperial ‘core’ identities  is well placed and the  wider region’s geographic, political, economic and social interfaces in the 4th and 5th centuries provide an ideal vehicle for doing so.

Of course, we do not need to look very hard in the modern world to see that distinct cultural, religious and ethnic polities which border one another often result in a more visible and articulate ‘peripheral’ self expression/cognition of ‘core’ identity. Having a clearly defined and regular ‘other’ in plain sight provides ample social and political opportunities to develop cognitive and cultural distinctions of ‘Them’ and ‘Us’. And it was, naturally, no different in the past. The writings of the Historical Patrick provide a rare, but valuable, window on the same.

Imagine my surprise then, to find two rather strange, almost throwaway statements by Gardner (albeit referencing others) on the very subject of the Historical Patrick’s own sense of identity – namely, that “he appears to have abandoned the idea of being Roman’ and that “he did not associate his religious identity with ‘Romaness'”.

I quote both below, in context (with my bold for emphasis).  Although I suspect the second example may not have been intended by the author as a direct reference to Patrick, I include it for clarity anyway – mainly due to it echoing the original statement and also the fact that Gardiner references the same author’s book in both cases.

More clearly, there is actually evidence for the continuation of both ‘British’ and ‘tribal’ identities after the end of Roman administration in the early 5th century, particularly from some of the small number of insular written sources, such as inscribed stones (White, 2007: 154–176, 202–207), and the 5th/6th century writings of Patrick and Gildas. It is especially notable that both of these authors appear to have abandoned the idea of being Roman (even though they write in Latin), but do identify as Britons (Higham, 2002: 39–73; Jones, 1996: 121–130).

Gardner (2017), ‘Brexit, boundaries and imperial identities

Whether such patterns fully provided the resources for a ‘British’, as opposed to regional, identity is difficult to judge, partly because few artefact types survive the economic changes following on from Roman administrative withdrawal, and partly because our later ‘British’ written sources do not clearly articulate this identity in material terms, but rather in terms of Christianity vis-à-vis the pagan Saxons, and indeed the role of the church in social relations at this time is probably very significant (Higham, 2002: 59–72). However, it is ironic – but quite telling – that these Christian writers do not associate their religious identity with ‘Romanness’.

Gardner (2017), ‘Brexit, boundaries and imperial identities

While this is no doubt true of the likes of Gildas, such a statement concerning the Historical Patrick would not, in this decade, find much support among anyone with a passing familiarity with his two surviving 5th Century documents. In fact, not only  can such a view be shown to clash considerably with Patrick’s own words, in-text allusions and inferences; it fundamentally misunderstands the very motivation behind Patrick’s lesser known document, the Epistola, or ‘Letter to the Soldiers of Coroticus’ – a document  which, while promoting a somewhat idealized Christian version of Insular British Romanitas, nevertheless rests on Patrick’s own sense of his privileged background, status and entitlement as an Imperial Roman citizen.

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Winter Solstice In Ireland, They Said…

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Be Grand, They Said…

 

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Image: Annie West

 

Made for me this very day, by the wonderful and illuminating Annie West who specializes in Historical Irish Funnies.  I have it on good authority that in a previous life, she was responsible for all those feckin cats in the Book of Kells.

Happy Solstice.