At the end of last week, circumstances took me to a pretty cemetery outside Dublin, at the seaside town of Greystones, Co Wicklow. From the Redford Cemetery, the lovely expanse of Dublin bay can be seen, and the Irish Sea shimmered in an azure Mediterranean hue.
We were laying to rest the ashes of my late sister-in-law, Louise, who had lived a long and fulfilled life and had departed this world in February, when the funeral took place. The ashes ceremony was accompanied by simple prayers and psalms and all went well.
The cemetery had seen a burial the previous day which had drawn the attention of television cameras and a crowd of about 120 people. “We thought it was a celebrity funeral,” said one of the locals. But it turned out to be the small white coffin of “Baby Alannah”.
The body of Alannah, about a couple of months old, was found on May 4 in a recycling rubbish bin at nearby Bray. The employee sifting through the dump was, naturally, distressed to discover the corpse of a young infant, and notified the Gardai.
Calls went out for the mother of the child to come forward, lest she should need medical attention. In the Irish media some feminist campaigners took the opportunity to proclaim that this was why Ireland needed a liberal abortion law, so that such things would not occur.
Yet there was another response from ordinary local people: to focus on giving the baby a funeral, on naming her Alannah (“O loved one”), of showing respect for a human life and of committing her to the angels.
A Catholic priest, Mgr Enda Lloyd, from the nearby Holy Redeemer Church, and a Church of Ireland vicar, the Rev Alan Breen from St Patrick’s in Greystones, said prayers together at Alannah’s funeral; and the little grave was covered in flowers from well-wishers.
It was, by all accounts, a most touching occasion. And if it became known to the parents of the infant, perhaps it will be some kind of comfort to them. The baby bore no violent marks, and had been cared for, albeit briefly. Some mishap occurred, we must suppose, and somebody panicked.
A sad event: and yet there was something redeeming and dignified about the way in which Alannah’s short life was marked; and I would think, rather more dignified than this week’s Royal College of Midwives’ demand for abortion to be made available up to birth, whereby human remains are simply consigned to an incinerator.
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If Donald Trump should become the 45th President of the United States some folks in County Clare may have reason to be pleased. Mr Trump’s son, Eric, has just opened a €5 million redesigned golf links at Doonbeg, west Clare, and he says his dad is thrilled with the enterprise and will surely visit. “This is a property we love,” said Eric Trump. “I was on the phone to [dad] for 20 minutes and he was asking: ‘How is [hole] four looking? How is six? How is 18?’ He was very envious of me being here.”
Donald Trump chose to invest in Irish golf after he felt rebuffed by Scotland. The Trumps plan to sink many more millions into the Co Clare property, and to protect the coast from the lashes of the wild Atlantic.
Many people, to be sure, are appalled by the prospect of a President Trump – Pope Francis was critical of the way Trump spoke about Mexican people, and for most of us, rightly so. But if a person is elected a head of state, business must go on. And so, of course, must golf.
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Florence Foster Jenkins is a gorgeous movie, and it’s also a consoling and meaningful one, because it’s essentially about failure. Florence was a terrible singer – literally the worst on record. But with her sunny determination she went on singing, and made a success of her failure, loved and protected by her husband, who was faithless and yet loyal.
The story is also about the secret cross that everyone carries, as we discover just how Florence’s early life was blighted. Uplifting. And Liverpool masquerades beautifully as 1940s New York.
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