Country Article / Postcards

Bad Behavior

Date: 12/25/2006

It’s the morning after Christmas, St. Stephen’s Day, and a fierce winter wind is whipping down Goat Street. I’m holding a full-face rubber monster mask, undecided. Directly beneath my apartment window, masked figures in odd ragged costumes mill about, some piping out tunes on tin whistles, others dancing. Suddenly a snare drum sounds, a banner goes up, and the strange crowd begins to move down the street. I put on my mask and run out the door.

Within a minute, I am part of the Goat Street Wren, dancing down Main Street in Dingle Town, in a full-on west coast of Ireland winter gale. But I ignore the cold and the wind, taking advantage of the mask to dance, caper, and pinch random strangers to whom I take a fancy. I’m “going on the Wren” in Dingle, and a bit of bad behavior is pretty much required.

Wren’s Day features both tradition and anarchy. On the tradition side are small bands of “Wren Boys” (both boys and girls these days) wearing three-piece straw costumes to hunt the bird that betrayed St. Stephen to his pursuers. The hunt goes house to house (or, if in the town, pub to pub) and the Wren Boys play tunes on the tin whistle, soliciting money, food, or drink from the homeowners or patrons within.

The anarchy comes from the slight threat the solicitation implies (in older days you might find a dead wren on your doorstep if your hospitality was not as forthcoming as it should be), the general madness that accompanies a masked crowd, and the frequent pub stops along the way.

By late afternoon, all of Dingle’s 57 pubs are packed and steaming, happy locals and tourists are out on the streets in force, and the Wrens are looking and feeling a bit bedraggled. This only improves the pagan atmosphere, however, as we straggle on, dance, pack into a pub, drink pints, and jump into action whenever the whistles and snare drum start up. The collection box is rattling in a satisfying way. The Wren leader assures me the money is for the public good, to be donated somewhere, for something.

By 10 p.m. we’re back at home base, McCarthy’s Pub on Goat Street. I hang in there for another pint before drifting back to my apartment across the street. Gradually, a certain peace returns to Dingle’s streets. It’s nearly midnight, after all, and the Wrens have been going since morning. But in the middle of a late movie I hear the rattle of the snare drum. In the street below my window, I see five or six members of the Goat Street Wren marching smartly out of McCarthy’s. The tin whistles pipe, the snare drum rat-a-tats, and the group troops off down Main Street. One more circuit around the town, just for the craic.

Cheryl Donahue
For International Living