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THE IRISH - The little village of Ballyclaire nestled between rolling green hills, where the sheep grazed lazily and the air always smelled faintly of peat smoke and wildflowers. It was the kind of place where everyone knew your name, and on March 17th, no matter how cold or grey the sky, the whole village lit up in a sea of green, gold, and joy.
This year, the excitement seemed even more electric. Banners stretched across the narrow cobbled streets read, “Céad Míle Fáilte” — A hundred thousand welcomes — and every shop window sparkled with shamrocks and leprechaun hats.
At the heart of Ballyclaire stood O’Shea’s Pub, where the best pints of Guinness were poured, and where every St. Patrick’s Day began and ended. Inside, old Seamus O’Shea, white-bearded and twinkling-eyed, stood polishing the bar.
“Ah, it’s the one day a year when everyone’s a bit Irish,” he chuckled, quoting his favorite line. “And sure, as the old saying goes, ‘There are only two kinds of people in the world: the Irish, and those who wish they were.’”
Across the bar, young Molly Byrne was stringing up paper shamrocks while humming a tune. Molly was known for her fiery red hair and quick wit, and she had plans for this year’s festivities. Her idea was to organize the first-ever Ballyclaire Leprechaun Treasure Hunt for the village children.
“Seamus,” she called, “Do you think if I hide the pot o’ gold at the old fairy ring, the kids’ll find it too quick?”
Seamus laughed. “Ah now, Molly, don’t forget, ‘A good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures for anything.’ Let them have their fun. And who knows, maybe the fairies’ll leave them a coin or two.”
Out on the street, the villagers were already gathering. Father Callahan was adjusting his emerald green vestments outside the church, readying for the St. Patrick’s Day blessing. “Remember,” he told anyone who would listen, “‘May your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow, and may trouble avoid you wherever you go.’”
Children ran past him, their cheeks painted with tricolors, giggling as they chased each other with plastic shillelaghs. Old Mrs. Donnelly, carrying a basket of freshly baked soda bread, stopped to pinch their rosy cheeks. “You’d swear the leprechauns themselves were after you!” she teased.
As the church bells chimed noon, the official St. Patrick’s Day parade kicked off. It wasn’t grand by city standards — no marching bands or massive floats — but in Ballyclaire, it had heart. The local farmers led their sheep down the main road, green ribbons tied around their necks, while the village baker drove his tractor covered in Irish flags.
Bringing up the rear was the Ballyclaire Folk Band, fiddles and tin whistles filling the air with lively jigs. The tune of “The Wild Rover” floated through the streets, with everyone clapping along and singing:
"And it's no, nay, never!
No, nay, never no more,
Will I play the wild rover,
No never, no more!"
After the parade, everyone gathered in the town square, where a long table had been set up. Bowls of colcannon, plates of corned beef and cabbage, and steaming mugs of Irish stew were laid out generously.
Seamus raised his glass, and a hush fell over the crowd. "To St. Patrick, who drove the snakes from Ireland," he began, "and to all of us gathered here today. ‘May the roof above us never fall in, and may we friends beneath it never fall out.’ Sláinte!”
The crowd roared back, “Sláinte!”
As afternoon stretched into evening, Molly’s Leprechaun Treasure Hunt commenced. Little ones darted through the meadows, giggling as they searched behind rocks and under hedges. She’d hidden chocolate coins, tiny trinkets, and at the fairy ring — just as she promised — a small black pot filled with gold-wrapped sweets.
One of the older boys, Liam, paused at the fairy ring, his eyes wide. “Molly,” he whispered, “Do ya think the fairies’ll be mad we’re pokin’ around?”
Molly smiled and knelt beside him. “The fairies know it’s St. Paddy’s Day. And you know what they say — ‘You'll never plough a field by turning it over in your mind.’ Best to go on and have your fun.”
Back at O’Shea’s Pub, the grown-ups gathered once more. As darkness fell, the fiddles played faster, the pints flowed, and the dancing started. The smell of peat fires drifted from chimneys, mingling with the scent of malt and laughter.
In the corner, old Seamus leaned back, watching the younger generation carry on traditions older than the hills themselves. He felt something swell in his chest — pride, warmth, belonging.
Molly approached him, cheeks flushed from dancing. “Seamus,” she said, sliding onto the barstool beside him, “Do you think St. Patrick would be proud of Ballyclaire today?”
He grinned and tapped his pint against hers. “Ah, girl, ‘As you slide down the bannister of life, may the splinters never point in the wrong direction.’ I reckon he’d be mighty proud.”
Outside, the moon rose over the green hills, casting a silver glow across the quiet streets. The day was ending, but the spirit of St. Patrick's Day lingered, stitched into every heart.
And as the villagers finally made their way home, the words of an old Irish blessing seemed to echo softly in the night:
“May the road rise up to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
And the rains fall soft upon your fields,
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.”
☘️
