The Twelfth is in our DNA and worth holding on to

And, everyone would have been, if not praying for it, keeping fingers crossed for decent weather.

It often rained, of course, but if you could hear lambeg drummers in the distance putting in a bit of last minute practice then you knew all was okay.

As I got older I was more interested in going to a party somewhere, nothing elaborate as nobody had money for big parties then, but if you could afford a Babycham you were rich and you made it do the whole night.

If your ear tuned into those lambeg drums somewhere in the distance you walked towards the sound, despite that teenage idea that somehow you needed to move on from tradition and think new things.

A few would have gravitated to a local pub, but even that seemed a bit outdated. It was summer after all, parties were better outdoors.

It was the late 1950s/early 1960s and celebrations were usually innocent affairs.

Did we ever stop to think of what the Twelfth celebration might be like half a century later?

I don’t think I ever gave it much thought, but had I done so I doubt if I’d have imagined bonfires like towering infernos, open air drink parties with many of the participants waving not just a little Babycham but an entire bottle of the real stuff. Proper Orangemen they were not, but we knew that.

The men who were to march the next day were at home with their families, brushing down their bowler hats, polishing the shoes and making sure their sashes were free of tea stains from the previous year.

I carried some of the traditions with me when I became a mother with children who were anxious to know on the Eleventh Night what the funny noise they heard in the distance (drums) was, and why were we having a small bonfire on a summer night when it wasn’t Halloween?

Their father had no connection with the Orange Order, nor his father before him – he was Cornish – so it was left to me to teach my children about this historic celebration, peculiar to Ulster.

When it was the turn of our local town to host the big event for the area, I took my two boys along, one in a buggy, to see the bands parading through the town.

The younger one was alarmed by the sound of the drums and let out a yell. He wanted home, out of all the noise.

The older one didn’t seem to mind the noise but hadn’t a clue what it was all about.

I mean, how do you teach your little ones about the Twelfth, and what to expect at a parade? I gave up that day and we returned home much to their relief.

Every Eleventh Night after that I made a point of having a small bonfire in the garden. We could always hear drums in the distance and one year, when they were older, I took them to see the local men practising on their lambegs in the village a mile away.

They showed little interest and subsequently spent their summer holidays in Strangford’s Seaboard Sailing School.

Now grown men and competent sailors, I doubt if either of them could tell me what the Twelfth is about.

My grandchildren live abroad so they won’t have a clue either though I never give up hope of one year being able to take them to see a Twelfth celebration which attracts visitors from all over the world.

So, tonight I will be at home with my memories and my sense of failure at realising that this is one tradition this family will not be able to carry on.

Yet, each year the Twelfth celebration becomes bigger and young people involved in the tradition will be out there tonight celebrating – I hope sensibly – to ensure that it’s something in our DNA that is worth holding on to.