Cork Christmas – Red Abbey

Surrounded by quiet terraced houses on an empty square, the old tall bell tower of Red Abbey shelters the Holy Family. The sight can catch you unawares as you turn the corner, walking home in the small hours. The square is dark, deserted and enclosed by sleep, but there stand a couple, caged and floodlit, staring at the baby with their ragged robes quivering in a breeze.

Up close, Joseph’s hand is too big and his face has begun to peel. So too has Mary’s. Jesus stares out into the night, with big black empty eyes and a serene look on his face. He actually looks sinister and unsettling. They’re joined by sheep, with sprayed-white hay for wool and shapeless papier-mache heads. One stands on stool legs, the others lie – legless – in the hay and on the stone floor.

I have no compulsion to pray; those beliefs left a long time ago. But I think about the story of that family and wonder about the people who made this simple, stark nativity. I’m jolted from my thoughts by a drunk group behind me, laughing and singing, their voices echoing sharply around the cold square. I tighten my scarf and walk away.