Meeting the mummers…

I find it hard to muster the words that will define both coherently and definitively what mumming is – to witness it first hand is to understand, and anything less simply won’t do it justice.

On Tuesday evening, I set out for Paddy Montague’s ‘ceili house’ outside Drumquin.

I was told there’d be song, dance, a bit of storytelling – and mumming!

For at least 400 years during Christmas season, Irish mummers have dressed in straw outfits while going house-to-house captivating residents with their plays, rhymes, singing, dancing, and music.

The mumming tradition has largely died out in the modern age, but there are still a hardy few in Tyrone and Fermanagh who are intent on keeping it alive.

So I approached the ceili house, nestled in the hills of the Drumquin countryside, not knowing what to expect.

As I stood outside, figures seemed to emerge from the dead of night, before being charmed towards the cottage as if summoned by a higher power.

They were drawn to the hurricane lamps like moths – enchanted – myself included.

And from the moment my toe crossed the threshold of the made-for-purpose ceili cottage, I knew my night was only going one way – successfully.

And so it was.

I perched myself on the arm of a chair beside the hearthstone, and my cheeks blushed with the heat of the fire as the men prepared.

My nostrils were pervaded by the intoxicating smell of turf burning – a smell that I will forever crave – and one that lingered on my clothes long after.

On my right, one fellow put himself together and as he done so, he recalled his last mumming excursion: “It was 51 years ago,” he said.

“At the Mummers’ Dance in Dromore, and if I remember right, The Casuals played.”

On my left, another gentleman recounted the history of mumming, information I readily absorbed so that now, finally, I could be in on the enigma.

The masked tradition, he said, dates back 2,500 years.

Between Halloween and Christmas, the mummers would roam the countryside, calling at houses and pubs.

Announcing their location from afar with a cow horn – the mummers would navigate country roads and lanes and when close by, an accordion could be heard.

I was thrilled with my newfound understanding, and as I settled myself into the seat, a hush fell upon the cottage.

Faint at first, an accordion bellowed from the darkness until eventually the doorway rumbled with reverberation.

Then it began.

Captain Mummer kicked off proceedings, followed by Santa, Jack Straw and Beelzebub.

“Here I come Beelzebub, over my shoulders I carry a club, and in my hand a frying pan, I think of myself a jolly man,” said Beelzebub before announcing the arrival of Devil Doubt, Prince George and the Turkish Champion.

As the action unfolded, swords were drawn, men were impaled, and doctors were called for: ‘Doctor, doctor, I’ll give ten pounds for a doctor.’

‘Some of the roo, the foo, the fidgy foo,’ said the doctor, ‘The grey mare’s legs, the brains of a hatchet and the bones of an oul creepy stool.’

It was unlike any medicine I was familiar with – but sure enough, it done the trick.

Fiddly Funny wrapped up the spectacle – parading around the cottage with a tin bucket collecting change.

‘If you haven’t a penny a ha’penny will do, if you haven’t got a ha’penny well god bless you,’ he recited.

As the mummers bid farewell and went on their way, applauds were in abundance as the merry and satisfied spectators showed gratitude.

Fulfilled and content in the knowledge that I had now seen what I came to see, I enjoyed a cup of tea whilst the remainder of the guests partook in a session of singing, storytelling and poetry.

I sat on, listening, laughing and marvelling at the talent and skill – as the hours went by.

My turn to contribute to the entertainment crept up on me, and on that note I slapped my knees and said, “Right! I’ll be hitting the road.”

“I’ll leave it to the experts I said,” appeasingly.

The Galway Shawl was not being sung tonight.

Next time.