Sinéad O’Connor’s family and friends got it right.
They kept their grieving and her obsequies private while properly making space and time for all the fans and admirers to pay their heartfelt respects too.
Not their last, though: death is final, respect endures.
Sinéad’s funeral was a private occasion and a global event. Showbiz perfectly judged, taking a walk on the shy side.
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RTÉ, the national broadcaster, had five cameras covering the cortege’s short procession along the seafront in Bray. Virgin Media committed three, while the BBC and Sky News also broadcast live from the scene.
But they weren’t there for the funeral service held in the town earlier, attended by President Michael D Higgins and Taoiseach Leo Varadkar. Nor were they present at the burial later in the afternoon.
Instead, the O’Connor family invited the media and members of the public to gather for their goodbyes on the road where Sinéad lived for 15 years, in a big old house facing the picturesque Victorian prom and the ever-changing sea stretching as far as any lively imagination fancied.
“With this procession, her family would like to acknowledge the outpouring of love for her from the people of Co Wicklow and beyond, since she left last week to go to another place,” they wrote.
Her pink plastic beach chair in the front garden was empty, and Bray’s summertime hurdy-gurdies on the grass strip opposite remained shackled and silent.
But it wasn’t a quiet occasion. Many of the people who gathered to witness the charismatic singer’s final journey had much to say, and to sing.
And for everyone who took the Tuesday morning time to travel and stand waiting along the Strand Road for the cortege to pass, it was about being there. Just being there and giving a supremely talented yet oft-times troubled woman – one who touched so many lives for the better – a proper and decent send-off.
Because whatever about all that happens in the messy and complicated before, Irish people take pride in never falling short when it comes to providing a good send-off.
“What she did – tearing up that picture of the Pope – was one of the bravest things ever”
— Dave Sharp
People came for many reasons. There were the activists and campaigners who drew strength from Sinéad’s support and wanted to show their appreciation. There were the ones who identified with her well-documented mental health struggles – because they struggle too.
There were the proud and protective locals, who cherished her as a down-to-earth neighbour and one of their own, along with the outsiders who knew her because they followed the twists and turns and soundtrack of her life.
And those who loved her for the music.
In celebration and in sorrow.
They began drifting in from early morning, stopping in front of Montebello with its faded but still distinct pink paintwork to lay flowers and leave messages or just take in the poignant scene.
Scribbled notes on pieces of paper held down by stones from the shingle beach across the road. A home-made St Brigid’s cross. Single, long-stemmed roses. Sprigs of wildflowers. Badges from protests past and battles won or ongoing still.
“Repeal,” said one. “Stand4Truth,” said another.
Faded T-shirts bearing similar slogans were worn to honour a fellow campaigner. Most of them were worn by women (of a certain vintage, like their tops) deeply saddened by Sinéad’s death. There were tears.
But there was also singing and dancing. Much of this was thanks to Colm Duffy, a Wexford man who led the cortege in his classic Volkswagen van called Jackie. It parked up outside Sinead’s former home before the procession arrived, pumping out some of her most popular songs from four large speakers on the roof.
“Apparently Sinead liked them, the old VWs, and the family requested one for the music ... It’s an honour to be asked to do this. As soon as I was asked ‘Would you be able to?’, I said yeah,” he told reporters. “My van’s first outing was to go and see Sinéad ten years ago in Westport, it’s full circle.”
The 1963 reg vehicle is called Jackie in a nod to John F Kennedy, who visited Colm’s native New Ross in the same year.
A small group of survivors from mother and baby homes took up position to one side of the crenellated stone gate post. Sinéad was a vocal and unflinching advocate for the rights of the women and children who were incarcerated in these institutions by a merciless church and a complicit establishment.
They were in Bray to say thank you.
Dave Sharp came from Glasgow to pay his respects. “I spent 16 years in a Nazareth House in Scotland. I’m here because I’m a fellow campaigner and a fellow survivor,” he said, voice cracking with emotion as he draped a Scottish flag over the garden wall.
“What she did – tearing up that picture of the Pope – was one of the bravest things ever, but she never got the chance to explain she did it in protest against child abuse in the Catholic Church.”
Sinéad Jackson (36), from Limerick, said she had travelled to represent her grandmother and great-grandmother, both of whom were incarcerated in Magdalene laundries when they were young women.
“We are still finding out bits and pieces about their lives. I find it very difficult to talk about it.”
Impromptu singsongs broke out along the seafront after the van drove off to meet the funeral procession.
Three women, one of whom had travelled from Los Angeles, quietly sang Sinead’s song “My Darling Child” among themselves.
“My darling boy.
My darling baby ...
My favourite boy.
My angel baby.”
“Sinéad, 33 years ago you burst into my life when I was just 14 and you have enthralled me ever since. I can never thank you enough”
— One of the messages left in Bray
As the clock neared midday, four gardaí stationed themselves in the weedy gravelled entrance to the unoccupied house. They cleared space on the road for the approaching vehicles. The flashing blue lights of motorbikes materialised at Martello Terrace, down near the Harbour Bar.
Outside Montebello, the crowd surged forward. “In, in in! Back, back, back!” urged a garda.
Jackie the Volkswagen van (playing Sinead’s favourite Bob Marley reggae tunes) and the gleaming hearse approached.
“Oh God, oh God!” gasped a woman at the gates.
They stopped. The crowd cheered and applauded and threw flowers.
Locals Frankie Quinn and her daughter Amy were among them, carefully aiming sprays of white carnation. “She was a lovely person. So beautiful, too,” said Frankie.
“I loved Sinéad,” added Amy (39), who has Down syndrome and four gold medals from two Olympics. “I met her when she was on the plane I was on going to the Special Olympics in Athens. She was really lovely.”
[ Sinéad O’Connor funeral procession in picturesOpens in new window ]
Around them, people leant forward and pressed the palms of their hands to the glass.
There was confusion for some. “Where’s the coffin? There’s no coffin.”
But it was there, under a heavy drift of plump pink tea-roses and masses of blue hydrangea.
They saw it when the hearse finally moved on, with a black and white photograph of the young Sinéad with those big brown eyes and that irresistibly impish smile propped against the end of it.
And that was it. Apart from a brief frisson when Bob Geldof was spotted in the cortege in the front passenger seat of a taxi.
So many people were wearing out their phones sending photos and videos, the mobile signal went down on Strand Road.
Some stayed to read the messages left behind. Like this one:
“Sinéad, 33 years ago you burst into my life when I was just 14 and you have enthralled me ever since.
I can never thank you enough. For your words and your music have helped me throughout my life.
I love you and always will.
I feel a bit lost now you’re gone.
Rest in peace, beautiful and gentle soul.
Love forever,
Nicola.”
