Remembering a King

It was with great sadness that I learned of the passing of Patsy Dan Rodgers.

Like my own son, he was brought to Donegal as a four-year-old.

When I splosh up my mountain if I can see Oileán Thoraí then I know we will have decent weather that day in Cloich Cheann Fhaola.

Even in summer, the crossing from Machaire Rabhartaigh can be eventful.

On more than one occasion I half expected to see an ashen-faced Tom Hanks beside me on the deck as it pitched and rolled.

When the ferry tied up at the pier the King was usually there to greet you.

The news of his passing made me think of this place as an adopted homeland.

Of course, the decisions that you take for your kids have to be thought out to the nth degree.

They are powerless and will have to live with the long-term consequences of what you decide.

I discussed this with Baby Doctor at dinner this week when I was down in the capital on business.

She was born here, a bump smuggled through customs.

Number One Daughter was only an infant and the Big Fella was the same age as Patsy Dan when he was relocated to Donegal.

The Bean a Tí and I agreed that our four-year-old son was not going to school in Glasgow.

I wanted to move to Mayo, but she wanted Donegal.

I put my foot down as the head of household.

We’re in Donegal…

Whatever Gaeltacht we were taking our young family to Fair Caledonia wasn’t an option.

My son was a 21-year-old Trinity College undergraduate when I wrote Minority Reporter.

Some commentators thought the thesis was overcooked.

It would now appear that Kevin McKenna in the Observer agrees with the strapline of that book.

Modern Scotland really does have a bad attitude towards her own Irish and it seems to be getting worse.

 

Baby Doctor stated with utter certainty that she and her two siblings were in unanimity on what had been decided before she emerged into the world.

Over dinner, I showed her this piece on my phone.

Her response to it was:

“The three of us know it was the right decision dad” as she said this in her musical Donegal accent it had an added resonance.

Because of what her mother and I decided back then there are another three Gaeilgeoirí in the world.

Like Patsy Dan, Donegal has framed their world.

Down in Trinners she sips her herbal tea from this receptacle.

For the avoidance of doubt…

Last Christmas the Big Fella whooped with delight in South Korea when I sent him a genuine Donegal jersey (not a replica) and a sliotar that had been used in anger by the county team.

I used many many bags of Tayto as bubble wrap…

Man out bog, bog out man etc.

In 2002 I spent several utterly memorable days in the company of Patsy Dan on his island.

I was part of a film crew making a documentary about another mighty man, Henry O’Donnell the long-distance swimmer.

The King was the centrepiece of the impromptu céilí and his accordion seemed to run on Red Bull.

Then the following day Patsy Dan confided to me that he was “under savage pressure”.

I asked him why.

“I have to go to Letterkenny next week for a padlock”.

This was at the height of the time poor Celtic Tiger madness and just a few days on Tory Island was a tonic.

The King himself was a key part of that curative.

Dún na nGall has lost a gem.

Suaimhneas síoraí tabhair dó.