I have a sad task to perform this week, to remember and commemorate my good friend of more than forty years, the late (how it hurts to write those words ) Ronnie O’Gorman whose death last week has robbed the world of an exceptional human being.
Ronnie was many things: a pioneer of independent newspapers in this country (an idea he first encountered in England which turned into a reality in his home city of Galway in April 1972, a brave and crusading journalist who was never afraid to take an unpopular or controversial stand, a major contributor to the social, political and cultural life of the city he loved and which loved him back, a man of easy charm who had the gift of putting at ease, everyone he spoke to, a loving man devoted to his family and friends.
I first came to know Ronnie through a mutual friend, the late Patrick Sheeran whose job as editorial writer I inherited, where I often took unpopular stands, on which Ronnie (likewise the current editor, Declan Varley ) always supported me.
From the beginning we hit it off, meeting regularly to talk about books, films, history, and family. He helped me through some dark times, and I also tried to support him when challenges arose.
He loved, and supported the arts scene in Galway, and through his patronage, he contributed to its success in many ways,
Ronnie was a deeply spiritual man, gifted with a large and encompassing heart. His own spiritual path began with his schooling at Glenstal Abbey, a Benedictine establishment; where he became friends with its one-time abbot, Mark Patrick Hederman.
Over the years, we got into the habit of making trips together, based on our mutual love of history.
One of my cherished memories is of the trip we took to France some years ago. After we had visited the walled city of Carcassonne and the mysterious hilltop village of Rennes Le Chateau and the Cathar strongholds of the Pyrenees, we travelled back through the centre of France, passing one night in the city of Chartres.
In the evening after an exceptional guided tour and a fine meal, we attended mass in the great vaulted nave, a deeply moving experience I will never forget.
Another memorable trip we made was to Istanbul/Constantinople, where we visited the great cathedral of Sancta Sophia, and viewed the beautiful mosaics in what was once the chief church of Christendom.
But without question, the most extraordinary trip we made was spending two weeks in the Sinai desert with a tour group called Wind, Sand and Stars. We travelled around on camels with the Bedouin guides and made camp each night under the stars.
The highlight of this expedition was the visit to the sixth century Saint Catherine’s monastery which lies at the base of the mountain where we viewed some of the oldest icons in the world.
The climb itself was an arduous four-hour hike to the top. One lovely anecdote concerns the reach of the Galway Advertiser. Half way up, a group of pilgrims halted to rest and we found ourselves talking to two young women from Barna who were regular readers of the newspaper.
From this trip, Ronnie developed a deep interest in the icon tradition of the orthodox church, a fascination we both shared, often exchanging books on the subject.
Lately, his spiritual quest brought him to the Church of Ireland and he became a regular attendee at St Nicholas Collegiate Church, from which he was buried.
Ronnie and I enjoyed many meals together and would meet regularly, often at Garavans, the pub whose barman, Nicholas, was a regular character in the weekly column “Days and Nights in Garavans”, for a couple of hot ports, or brandies. In fact, in September of last year was the last time we met before his illness made it hard for him to get around.
For a number of years after Christmas, we used to go climbing in the Burren. It was very cold, but we persevered, taking a flask of brandy to keep warm, I remember once climbing from the ruined monastic settlement of Oughtmama to the top of the mountain upon which stood an enormous stone cairn, a burial site, several thousand years old.
I was privileged to be asked to be godfather to his youngest daughter, Sally in whom he took immense pride, as he did in all his children.
A final memory. We shared for many years love of an Italian novel called The Leopard, which we both reread yearly. One of the final chapters is Death of a Prince. At the end of a long life, Don Fabrizio is dying, and as his death approaches, he tries to make up a balance sheet of his life.
He is sad to leave his assembled family, but knows it is inevitable, so he accepts it. He has been an amateur astronomer and had discovered a star, a recognised achievement that brought him great satisfaction. At the end, he imagines he sees the star as a beautiful young woman come to fetch him away.
I remember reading this passage to Ronnie and at the end, he said, quietly, “Yes, that’s the way it should be."
He was my friend, and to quote the great essayist, Michel de Montaigne from his essay on friendship, written after the death of his greatest friend, “If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than it was because he was he, and I was I."
