Politics, piety… and burgers at Omagh Twelfth

The view from Omagh Courthouse suggested that maybe the turnout was going to be a bit underwhelming. There was certainly plenty of breathing space, and little chance of my shoes getting scuffed under the foot of another.

But this was my first Twelfth; and while all immediate information hinted that this could be a quieter affair than I had expected, I couldn’t trust my instincts.

Before Tuesday, all previous encounters with Orange parades had happened inadvertently. This was to be the first time I voluntarily came face-to-face with Billy’s marching bands, and no better day for it; The Glorious Twelfth.

I stood for a while at the summit of the town and listened to the murmur of migrating families as they moseyed down Market Street. Then I joined the thin herds as they followed the call of the music that was swelling by the second.

Just outside SuperValu, the source of the rat-a-tat beat became evident when it rounded the bend beneath a huge blue and orange banner depicting a battle scene. Two men at the front of the procession wrestled with heavy poles to keep an unruly King Billy from being sent wayward in the breeze.

This was my first taste of the music; the main parades were still hours away, but these boys were serving up an appetiser. They weren’t messing about.

This particular band had an overtly militaristic style about them. Their snare drums erupted with the staccato blast of automatic gunfire, letting off another round every half-a-second.

Their uniforms were regal and full of intricate looking buttons and straps and tassels, and their heads were adorned by towers of black fluff. But the most arresting thing about this band was the young boy at the heart of it. He was about 12 or 13-years-old with twig-thin arms, and he beat his booming drum like it owed him money. His ferocious whips rattled windows, shook my bones, and maybe stirred the souls of others.

Later, I would see that each band had a distinct style, attitude and sound.

I dandered on down the town, crossing over to Campsie.

On the far side of the bridge, the crowds began to thicken up. A light drizzle took out. Children hung from their mother’s soaking summer dresses repeating the words “curry chips”.

Young girls, who had risen early to apply thick masks of makeup, trampled one and other for the beauty-saving cover of Campsie’s petrol pumps. And big men in heavy suits and bowler hats looked secretly grateful for the relief of the rain.

But just as the rain came, it went. As the bands readied themselves for the big march, the forgiving sun broke through.

60 bands rolled out from Campsie playing fields. I stood among the flocks and heard tunes, both thundering and light.

To the untrained ear, it was hard to tell if there were different tunes being played, or the same tunes being played differently. While one band answered dutifully to their 20-stone lambeg lieutenant, others seemed perfectly egalitarian and leaderless.

And even within the bands you could see different personalities – faces that refused to be subordinated to the notion of the group. Some marched under the weight of solemn responsibility, while others broke step to wave to friends and family in the crowd. For every face filled with pride and purpose, so too was there one that looked tired and ready for home – whether they were or not, who knows, but it was great craic watching them.

Back at the playing fields, it was all politics and piety on the podium.

While no doubt there were some who were absorbed by the orations, the bulk of people seemed pre-occupied with the social side of the day.

While the place of morals in today’s world interested some, the position of a burger van in today’s field concerned others.

I left at 5pm and the sun was still high. I don’t know how the rest of the day went, but I might go back for a look next year.