Two years ago, Manchán Magan and I sat on a bench in Merrion Square as he told me about his wish to “reanimate” the world.
He said he wanted to spend his life reminding people about the energy that connects them to their bodies, their minds and the land.
He spoke of “animism”, the idea that every rock and flower and branch and rainbow has a vibrating spirit or energy beyond and above what is human.
“I want us to remember that spirit within ourselves and within all things,” he said. “It makes life so much more enjoyable and rich and magical, and ensures that we treat each other and our environment with more love and respect and care.”
Manchán Magan was a great man for a video message. You’d never know what you might get
I walk around the block and think of dead friends who don’t feel dead to me
This story involving Mary Robinson and a historical wrong made me smile, so I thought I’d share it
The Paudfather, breakout star of The Traitors, on winning hearts with his Irish-dad energy
I was interviewing Manchán for this newspaper on the publication of his latest book. It was another delightful encounter with a man I had admired for years, bumping into him at writing festivals or at the Electric Picnic or around Dublin town. Each meeting was a pleasure. He never minded me trying out my terrible Irish on him.
I loved hearing his esoteric stories. He had an innocence, a twinkle. He fairly thrummed with goodness.
As everybody has been saying since his spirit left his body, there was nobody else like Manchán. He was both otherwordly and earthy, a sprite of a man firmly embedded in the here and now.
There was nothing preachy about how he imparted his knowledge of folklore, of indigenous cultures, of nature. He was gentle and joyful and unashamedly spiritual.
[ Manchán Magan: Tributes to writer and documentary maker who has died aged 55Opens in new window ]
He was also a dream interviewee. There were no dud sentences when Manchán spoke. I remember how enjoyable it was to write up that interview, his eloquence making it so easy. I recall desperately wanting to find the right words to sum him up. In the final paragraph I described him as one of those “bright, rejuvenating people … a beacon of love, courage and curiosity”.
I wrote that after time spent with Manchán, you felt better about all that might be ailing you.
Neither of us knew as we sat on that bench in Merrion Square that something serious was ailing both of us. We were diagnosed not too long afterwards. I heard of his prostate cancer from a mutual friend, just as I was reeling from news of the breast cancer that had spread to my bones. I texted him in solidarity. We struck up an intimate friendship that played out in voice notes and video messages and too-rare but always fortifying real-life gatherings.
Manchán was a great man for a video message. You’d never know what you might get. There’d be news of the pigs on his Westmeath farm or of a thrifted tweed jacket keeping him cosy on a windswept beach and one time, an exciting dispatch from a noisy square in Mexico City.
The messages arrived in a lyrical mix of English and Irish. He shared health updates and life happenings. We felt the same about our illnesses. We didn’t want pity or head-tilts or cures or blessings. We wanted to live with our health challenges, not be defined by them.
I’ve thought a lot about the gifts that can come with a serious medical diagnosis. One of the most precious gifts cancer has given me is a deep friendship with this extraordinary Irish man. I was keenly aware of how fortunate I was to have him in my life. I’d play Manchán’s messages to my husband, who was equally charmed by his wit, generosity, compassion and wisdom.
The voice note Manchán sent last August to let me know his doctors had found more cancer in more parts of his body came as a shock. As he said in that typically upbeat message, this was not how it was supposed to go. Of the two of us, I was the one that we assumed was more riddled. (It was a relief that we could joke like this. We were not precious about each other’s predicaments.)
I’ve cried a lot these past few weeks. But I am so grateful that I got to say goodbye to Manchán in person, to laugh with him one last time, to hold his hand and witness the love and care between himself and his brilliant wife Aisling.
Since he left, I’ve been going through our messages, remembering how he made me smile and feel and think. I’ve been reading all the beautiful tributes online, in awe of how many lives he touched and his vast cultural legacy.
I’ve been listening back to the audio of that Merrion Square interview. Near the end of our conversation, Manchán questioned how long his success and popularity, both of which came as a surprise to him, would last. “I’ll probably have a year and a half and then I’ll either move on or be cancelled,” he said.
Now Manchán has moved on. We will miss him terribly. And yet he has me fully convinced that we will see him again: reanimated in rocks and flowers and rainbows. Vibrating in the wind and in the trees. Eloquently urging us, as he always did, to connect to the true spirit and energy in ourselves and in all things.
Go raibh maith agat, Manchán, mo chara. Agus grá mór.
