It’s 6 am and we’re standing on the cold streets of Dingle town on the 26th of December. Whistles from tin and the round woody thunder of drums can be heard in the near distance. A parade of figures, all disguised in straw hoods and skirts, masks, costumes and of course the colours of their associated street or village. Fife and drums wake the town as they march towards the centre. The excitement is building. Where others around the country are sleeping off the festivities of the day before, the local people of the most westerly place in Ireland are wide awake and marking the beginning of this year’s Wren, a tradition that has spanned centuries and boasts that it has not died a winter yet.

The day starts early and finished well into the night. Dingle town bursts alive with colour and music. Each street competes to be the biggest and best and to collect the most for their charitable causes. It’s December 2019 and all is well in our relevant world. Covid is not yet a word we have become aware of. A young lad bounces the weight of a white-sheathed homemade hobby horse on his shoulders as he taunts the competing Wren ahead. Participants, young and old, disguised and dressed in a kaleidoscope of masks and old fabrics. Some costumes are less ‘PC’ than others.

The Wrens merge in the centre point of the town for the ultimate battle of the Wren, on the bridge where four streets meet in a junction. White horses coax each other, the courage of disguised musicians teasing neighbours, a herd of Spidermen wreak havoc, most likely a local football team under those masks and buckets shake appealing for donations. The music somehow merges to one tune. A well learnt traditional tune that everyone knows. There is no conductor but one was never needed. There is ample space here, as the rivalry melts to camaraderie when a set dance is fired up, partners pulled into step and a wave of movement creates a circle for a stage on the bridge. The slope of the streets leading on makes for a natural amphitheatre. The place is packed.

’It’s like Halloween on acid’, cries an American accent beside me. Tourists that have found themselves in our little town for their Christmas holiday, previously unaware of what was about to unfold on this day. Their faces were a mixture of bewilderment and nerves. How do you even begin to explain to them what this is about? The smell of damp straw wafts with the breeze as the traditional Irish music jolts the heart rate and electrifies the air in the way only a Kerry polka can. This is West Kerry, captured in spirit, on one exuberant day of the year.

On the street corner a little further down a familiar and famous GAA commentator plays the tin whistle in an impromptu session with masked revellers. Perched on the edge of the footbath across from the roundabout, none other than Mícheál Ó Muircheartaigh dressed in green and golden straw. The Dún Síon native, espoused naturally by the Green and Gold Wren. He is among many others that look forward to it as the highlight of the year. Christmas Day is second par when it comes to the Wren. It’s a part of growing up here and it never leaves you. There is a calling to it like a dormant wildness that comes alive for a day. And if you are home for Christmas, you’ll be out.

Every year musicians young and old flood the streets, each contributing to the wonderful sounds filling the town. ‘Participatory music’, a term used by local musician Dr Aoife Granville to describe the conduction of the instruments. It is not so much about how well you can play but more about taking part and being involved in the collective. Some Wrens practice throughout the year and use any opportunity to run a rehearsal parade; St Patrick’s Day, local sports homecomings or even visits to local nursing home windows to cheer up residents. All in preparation for the big day. There’s a love and a joy that comes from being involved and a pride in the commitment to keeping this tradition alive.

A tradition that predates Christianity, costumes made of oat straw that have been soaked and woven into delicate hoods, skirts and chest pieces, an imprint of our pagan history and druidic rites. The reshaping of ancient stories, a cruel new antipathy for the wren once worshipped by the druids, brought about with early Christian efforts to bereave paganism. The wren, now told, as a treacherous bird, a cheater in fables, a cunning trickster and the betrayer of Irish soldiers. They sing about ‘The king of the birds, the omen of bad luck once sacrificed for the day’s festivities. A memento of Wrenboys using light blackmailing on households to collect a penny, a feather plucked ‘for good luck’ if the donation was received. We have thankfully long since diverted from capturing a live bird, instead, a little plastic replica can be seen on the holly poles today. But we are not alone as our heritage is linked with historical midwinter celebrations featuring the wren, spread across Spain, France, England, Whales and most notably with Mummers Day in Scotland.

2020 is the year of locked doors, closed pubs and empty streets. A lone Wrenboy wanders the town. Desperate for our tradition not to die this winter, his a small act of defiance keeping the nós, in the face of a deadly global plague. Banners are hung outside empty premises with the names of each of the Wrens, Goat’s Street, Green and Gold, Sráid Eoin and the Quay. In the cold, the quietness of the town is even more sombre. An eerie emptiness where streets should be lined and filled, the cacophony of music, a distant echo in our memory. We know this sacrifice must be made. We do this to protect each other from a virus that has ripped through the world, locking people indoors and isolating our neighbours.

In normal times throughout the day, as well as the festivities in the town, school children in disguises, visit households in their parish, their fingers stumbling through the notes of newly learnt tunes. Going from house to house, calling on neighbours and often gifted an abundance of sweets left over from Christmas day — as well as a few euros for their pockets. This winter is different, ‘We need to stay apart. It’s not safe for them to visit’. People recognise this loss. Small groups come together to organise a socially distanced Wren. One band goes to the windows of the local nursing home, other small groups take on a tour of the elder neighbour’s gardens, to perform for them through the windows. Face masks under our regular masks, separate cars and sanitiser, we spend several hours touring around the parish. Just to give people a little lift. These are friends and family who have been through the worst of loneliness this year. A crippling solitude, hiding from the deadly killer. One woman, through the window, tearily thanks the musicians for knocking on her door. With joy in her eyes, she asks for one more tune. One older man begs and begs us to come inside. He lives alone. A heartbreaking no, we can’t step past the door, we say, ‘I’m sorry, but it’s to keep you safe’. It feels wrong. We stay a little longer, dancing in his garden to a reel played by cold fingers and shivering bodies. We make a promise, ‘You will see us next year, we’ll all be out, you’ll see’. But it was to be his last Wren.

There is a promise to be kept and lost time to be made up for. There is a high demand for oat straw this year. Preparations are already underway. Practice sessions are happening in smaller groups and disguises are being planned. We look forward to this more than Christmas itself, and the tradition must live on.