Golden lightshow or not, nature's cycle continues, the beginning of the end of winter has begun, writes EILEEN BATTERSBYat Newgrange
DARK SKIES greeted the solstice watchers gathered yesterday morning. It was cold, damp and unpromising.
Many faces expressed the shared disbelief, considering the defiant sunrises enjoyed at the weekend. All eyes scanned the sky for the slightest flicker of light. A businesslike mist had obliterated the sky, one cohesive, unrelenting cloud.
A woman wearing a hat wreathed in ivy shrugged and pointed heavenwards. A solemn man began to beat a bodhrán, while his female companion chanted and keened, willing the sun to appear. There were no protesters ready to hurl abuse at the Government, just people hoping for an atmospheric miracle.
“Whose house is that?” asked a small boy, pulling at his mother’s jacket, and pointing towards the monument. Several people began to consult notes as if to find an answer explaining the non-appearance of the sun. “But it was wonderful, yesterday,” became a familiar lament. The man drummed louder. Nothing happened. No sun, no light; not even a breeze to nudge the cloud cover aside.
No one could have predicted that the heavens would look so gloomy and in such a nondescript way. What a difference a day makes, from sharp light, to murk. Storm conditions would have been preferable.
A man wearing a coloured scarf had a -toy dog perched down the front of his jacket; the toy remained stoical, but its owner looked openly disappointed. Increasing numbers of solstice watchers began leaping up and down, not as part of a ritual sun dance, but merely to keep warm.
Still, behind all that grey, the sun was going about its routine of rising – only, this time, without the ceremonial flourish; this sunrise was going to be private. The cameras were gradually put away and watchers prepared to celebrate the solstice by exchanging greetings and comments such as “Hey, how come we got the recession solstice?” A ragged chorus of “Turn on the sun” tapered off. Attention moved away from the bland sky and back to the monument.
As the official party of lottery selection ticket holders and the usual VIPs vacated the passageway and walked down the wooden steps, a long queue of all present began to form. Groups of 24 filed into the opening. Suddenly the small boy was not as curious, and asked whether it was dark inside.
Other people were less worried about the darkness and more concerned about whether they would become stuck. “I’m not risking that,” said a youngish man with the spreading girth of a one-time rugby prop.
His less robustly built friend agreed. “You’re better off, it’s State property. If there’s any damage, you’d be liable. I want to go in – I’ve never had a look.”
Inside the passage, a gradual rise leads to a corbelled-ceilinged chamber, surrounded by three smaller side chambers. This most precise monument testifying to the sophisticated scientific acumen of ancient man never loses its mystery. The guide turned off the lights, and everyone stands in darkness. In the absence of the celebrated natural golden sunbeam, assimilation offers a man-made, and admittedly inferior, copy.
As the light illuminates the passage, you become aware of the footprints in the sand and think of all the feet over thousand of years which have walked this narrow passage, all the ghosts.
Golden lightshow or not, nature’s cycle continues, the beginning of the end of winter has begun.