Day 63 #100DaysOfOldDays

The old tradition of the Easter Cludóg goes back a long way. I think they died out after the 80’s or so. But I’d love to know if there’s anyone that still does them.

As soon as we’d eat our Easter Sunday dinner, dad would bring us off out to the countryside for an Easter cludóg. He’d light a little fire and put on a saucepan of water. We’d all have our own eggs ready for the pot. Some people painted their eggs…we never did.

The saucepan would be black before the water would even get warm. We’d play around the field, hopping ditches and hiding in the whin bushes while our eggs cooked. Except PJ—he would sit poking at the fire with a stick. “You’ll be the devil’s right-hand man,” Mam would say.

Dad would have salt and butter to put on the cooked eggs and a big bottle of tea—wrapped in a thick woolly sock to keep it warm! He used to make little egg cups from newspaper to prevent us from burning our wee hands on the hot eggs.

We didn’t get big chocolate Easter eggs. Mam bought one box of chocolate covered marshmallow ‘eggs’ between us all. We’d have one or two of them and some biscuits after we’d eaten our boiled eggs.

When we got older, and capable of lighting our own fires, we’d have our cludóg with our friends. All excited, we’d head off up the fields armed with an old wobbly saucepan, a bottle of water and our eggs. Sometimes it would work out but other times it wouldn’t. Often by the time we’d get the fire up and running we’d start to lose our enthusiasm. Often it took an hour to light it, then another hour for the water to boil. By the time the eggs were cooked we’d be well hungry for them. Sometimes they wouldn’t be properly cooked at all and the wildlife would get them in the end.

Once I went on a cludóg with a friend—in the snow. Easter must have been early that year. I remember my parents trying to tell us it just wasn’t the weather for a cludóg but we had looked forward to it for weeks and we were going no matter what. Needless to say we couldn’t get the fire lit and we eventually gave up and went home. We were shocking hardy when I think of it. I don’t even remember feeling cold that day.

Another Easter Sunday—again in the snow—we lit our wee fire in an old barn. We were sheltered and warm but such a dangerous thing to have done.    

An old friend of mine, Peter McConnell, told me about his memories of the cludóg. A big group of them used to light quite a big bonfire up in Farrell’s field. They sang songs and danced while they roasted their eggs.

It’s likely that this tradition will never make a comeback, but it’s good to have the memories.

Happy Easter All!