According to an old Irish saying, there are three innate gifts that cannot be learned: Féile, Guth agus Filíocht. These traits—generosity, a singing voice, and the gift of poetry—are woven into our cultural fabric. Tonight is Féile tSin Seáin, or Bonfire Night, and it’s no coincidence that this Féile, with roots in Pre-Christian times, falls at the Summer Solstice—when the North Pole turns toward the sun, reaching the height of light before turning back to darkness.
Lighting the bonfire remains the defining ritual of the Summer Solstice. Although recently frowned upon, the act itself is a strong symbol of our pagan and Christian origins. During this time, the longest day and shortest night are celebrated by many cultures with unique traditions. These festivals, deeply rooted in our collective memory, persisted long after Christianity arrived. Instead of erasing the old, the church superimposed Christian celebrations—like the Feast of St. John the Baptist—onto the pagan Féile, allowing traditions to blend and continue.
Growing up on Pouladuff Road in Cork City in the 1960s, the preparations for Bonfire Night started in early June. Boys would gather wood, tyres, and old furniture—sometimes breaking or ‘borrowing’ to add to their piles, but the rule was that nobody interfered with anyone else’s pile, and there used to be up to twenty-four bonfires on Pouladuff Road alone.
On the night itself, the 6 o’clock Angelus bell signalled the start. Kids ran from house to house collecting food or a few bob, and it would be very bad form to refuse them. As the fires blazed, neighbours gathered outside, each group like actors in a play. The older boys tended the fires, making them tall and bright, lighting up the sky, while younger lads ran from crossroads to crossroads, checking whose fire was brightest. Rivalries and slagging matches added to the excitement, sometimes sparking an outbreak of mild fisty-cuffs!
Playing with the fire was part of the fun, with many a torch brandished, while jumping over the flame was the most daring escapade. Mothers and grandmothers doled out lemonade and treats. Later, as the fires died down, people drew nearer the fire to sing, share stories, and enjoy the final moments of the night. The final actors to the stage were the men who stopped on their way home from The Harp, Murphys, or the Hawthorn.
Around these bonfires, we see the circle of time, ritual, festival, fun, love and tension all wrapped up. In modern society, efforts to control or sanitise these traditions risk losing sight of who we are. Rebranding Bonfire Night as ‘No Fire Night’ is well intentioned and welcome in some ways, but it also risks distancing us from our heritage. These celebrations, rooted in the streets near our homes and the bonds between neighbours, remind us of a time when community was the fabric of everyday life, and the bureaucracy of City Hall was more distant. A time where the ritual of the bonfire embodied our shared history, our innate gifts, and our collective identity.