The Hogans of Glenart

I was about eight years old when my school friends, Renee and Sheila, and I approached our respective parents with the outrageous suggestion that we would be allowed go on a picnic on our own on St. Patrick's Day. Much to our surprise, we obtained permission. However, there were rules. We weren't to set out before a quarter past ten and preferably not even before half ten. We had to be home by three at the latest. The venue was Mount Merrion Woods in south Co. Dublin, not far from our homes in Blackrock. We had to promise to stay close to the start of the woods and not venture in too far. We weren't to talk to strangers and we weren't to sit on damp ground and thus cause irreparable damage to our kidneys. We willingly agreed to everything.

The planning for this event went on for weeks. We discussed who would make which type of sandwich, how many sandwiches we'd need and what way to cut them to be able to share them equally between three. Renee offered to bring a bottle of lemonade, Sheila could bring biscuits and I would provide three fairy cakes.

St. Patrick's Day dawned dark and gloomy but it wasn't raining so the picnic was on. We went to seven o'clock Mass. We didn't mind as we knew we were coming home to a big breakfast -- a treat for children and adults alike in the middle of Lent. Although almost too excited, I was told that I had to eat to build up my strength for the picnic. We set off just before half ten with warnings ringing in our ears about crossing the busy Stillorgan Road. Our mile long walk to the woods took quite a while because of all the interesting things on the way -- Talbot Lodge, where my brother Brendan served mass every day for a bishop, the home of a British Army Major who had served in India, Priory Lodge where Mr Spiro who owned IMCO Dry Cleaners lived, Mr Barnardo's house on the corner, and just as importantly, the spot where my cousin crashed her bike. It was important to embroider this story with lots of blood and broken bones.

We felt we were intrepid travellers as we walked through the big old gates into the woods. We chose a suitable spot but it was too early to eat our picnic so we set off exploring and found some primroses. Delighted with ourselves, we dug some up to take home as a present for our mothers. Later, we spread our raincoats on an old log and unpacked the picnic from our schoolbags. We divided the sandwiches fairly so that we got our choice of egg, cheese and sausage sandwiches. We had each brought a cup for our lemonade and I was a bit ashamed that my mother didn't trust me with a china cup. Mine was definitely the least elegant of the three. But my fairy cakes made up for it.

By the time we had finished eating, we had discussed many important things, like whether we would get married or become nuns. We thought we might work for a few years first so that we could buy lots of things -- a fur coat or perhaps, a bottle of "Evening in Paris" perfume in a pretty blue bottle, or maybe red high heeled shoes like the ones my sister Una had.

About half two, my brother Donal arrived on his bike to tell us that we should pack up as it looked like rain and was getting dark. We put up no resistance as the thought of home, warm fires, a special dinner and dipping into the box of sweets saved up since the beginning of Lent was now more appealing than the damp, dark woods. Anyway, we had eaten all our food.

In the intervening years, I have picnicked in lots of beautiful places in Ireland, on the Thames in Berkshire, on the beach at Malindi in Kenya, the Hills above Mumbai in India and various places in Europe and in the last few decades, in amazingly beautiful places here in Australia. But all those places fade into insignificance when I think about my first independent picnic to Mount Merrion Woods sixty years ago.