As children, we could take or leave the Twelfth, but we couldn’t wait for the Thirteenth each year.
I grew up just a few miles from Scarva. My Dad drove through the village every day on his way home from work, stopping at the little shop that used to be there to pick up his newspaper. We played in the park, and our local chippy was there, long since closed. For most of the year it was a quiet, sleepy place.
Then, for one day every summer, many tens of thousands of people filled the street, the surrounding fields and Scarva Demesne, which is private and normally closed to the public. Local tradition says King William camped there before the Battle of the Boyne and tied his horse to the old sweet chestnut tree that still stands today.
Scarva was largely forgotten when I left home for the big cities and, later, Bangor. My politics changed and, I’ll admit, I came to view much of unionist culture with a mixture of despair, frustration and even snobbery. Yet the more I watched its worst examples taken as representative of everyone involved, the more instinctively defensive I became. And I have recently realised that, whatever my politics, the unionist community will always be my community.
And so, out of a mixture of curiosity and a sense of obligation, I decided it was time to go back to Scarva. I wanted to see it as the person I am now, rather than through either the unquestioning eyes of childhood or the dismissive instincts I had acquired later. I persuaded my husband, who had never been to the Thirteenth in his life, to come with me. As the day drew closer, I was surprised to realise that I was genuinely looking forward to it.
As dusk settled on Sunday evening, I drove through the village on my way “home†to the farm where I grew up. It was after 10pm, still warm and balmy. The village was quiet and looked beautiful, so I decided to park up and go for a little wander. I was amused to see camping chairs had already appeared along the parade route, as people claimed their spots a full two days before the event.
On the morning of the Thirteenth, which this year fell on 14th July because the Twelfth had fallen on a Sunday, the sun was already blazing by 9.30am. We wove our way through busloads of participants parked along country roads, as we walked into a village transformed and buzzing with activity. The car parks had opened at 6.30am, and people were already settled into their camping chairs, three rows deep in places, chatting in the sunshine. Others queued for breakfast, band members carried their instruments through the streets while members of the Black preceptories stood chatting in small groups before assembling for the parade.
We wandered up and down the street, got coffee and, as the parade started, found a little spot just out of the direct sun. We were even offered a chair, as someone wasn’t able to make it. People sitting in their seats shouted greetings to those taking part in the parade. Families, neighbours and old acquaintances seemed to know one another everywhere you looked.
There are Twelfth demonstrations across Northern Ireland, but there is only one Scarva, and it still feels deeply rooted in the surrounding rural community.
As the first bands approached, I felt emotional. Hymns in church have always had that effect on me, and so have bands. Thankfully, I was able to hide behind a pair of sunglasses. I saw names pass by that connected me to my family and my childhood. Mavemacullen. Tyrone’s Ditches. Battlehill.
The accordion bands were full of girls and young women, all smartly dressed.  My husband couldn’t resist pointing out that, with accordion lessons as a teenager, I could easily have ended up in one of them.
The silver bands brought a sense of ceremony and occasion, and I kept an eye out for Ballymartin Pipe Band, having first heard them play at the Ulster Folk Park. They are one of the few remaining Brian Boru pipe bands in Northern Ireland.
Many of the flute bands were enormous, stretching back row after row and often preceded by colour parties carrying flags and standards. The names painted across their drums left little doubt about the tradition they belonged to. Some of the drummers threw their whole bodies into every beat despite the extraordinary heat.
Whether memory has exaggerated it over the years, or whether I simply missed the best performances, the bandstick twirling was the only thing that seemed a little lacklustre.
The richly decorated banners carried by the Black preceptories deserve a mention. Many are beautifully painted pieces of folk art, most depicting biblical scenes. I had recently read about the small number of artists who still paint them by hand; I really hope that craft survives.
The parade itself took the best part of two hours to pass. Organisers had reduced the number of preceptories by around twenty this year because they couldn’t fit them all into the time allocated to the procession. Even scaled back, it remains the biggest one-day event at a single location in Northern Ireland.
Following the parade, we joined the crowds making their way through the gates into Scarva Demesne. Beyond them, a long, tree-lined avenue leads towards Scarva House and the field where the Sham Fight takes place. Before I went, Toye, a Slugger commenter who had attended Scarva many times, told me that as I entered the Demesne it would be “a different experienceâ€. The area was packed with people, on the road making their way to the field and sitting underneath the trees on the banks. As we moved along with the crowd, one section of the bank on one side felt noticeably rowdier than the rest. There was a Moygashel banner beneath the trees and large groups of people drinking. I think it was along this stretch that, later in the day after I had left, one of the flute bands played a sectarian tune which was then sung by sections of the crowd. I didn’t witness it myself, but later saw video footage of it on X.
As we reached the field, the first blank shots rang out. We’d only just made it. The Sham Fight itself lasts only a few minutes, so I made a beeline through the crowd and between rows of folding chairs to get closer. My childhood memory was of the fighting taking place in one part of the field. This time, the participants took the battle across the field, advancing, exchanging volleys and clashing swords before moving on again. As I stood filming, tiny flecks of powder residue from the blank firing drifted over me like ash.
Once it was over, we queued for a hot dog and chips before escaping to eat, with many others, in the shade beneath the magnificent old trees. Some members of the Royal Black Institution lay in the sunshine with bowler hats pulled over their faces, to keep the sun out of their eyes. Food vans, music and fairground rides created a carnival atmosphere.
We saw a bus covered in Bible verses; there was a stand in the fields offering gospel tracts, and there was a sermon later that afternoon, but we had left before it started. Whatever else Scarva is, Protestant Christianity is a big part of it.
Depending on where you stood during the day, you could probably come away with a different impression. The majority of the day was family-friendly, full of pageantry and entertainment. I can see why people use the word glorious to describe it, especially when the weather is so nice. There was a sectarian element among one section of the crowd beyond the gates of the Demesne. But it would be entirely possible to attend and miss this.
Driving home, we found ourselves reflecting on the day. My husband and I are both Protestant, and we support Irish reunification. Yet we both enjoyed our day at Scarva. He was pleasantly surprised by how many young people and families were there, both watching and taking part. He felt some of the flute bands seemed triumphalist, but admired the musicianship of the others, and how well turned out many of them were.
Although I am no longer religious, the Protestant culture I grew up in still feels deeply familiar. Even being surrounded by Union Jacks didn’t feel strange, although I no longer identify with what they represent politically.
I think the key in politics is to stay open-minded and curious, and to find it within ourselves to recognise the ugly, and the good.
