Manchán Magan was a one-off. He was unlike any other person I interviewed in my more than 20 years of talking to strangers for a living.
In fact, he was uncategorisable as a human being. Broadcaster, documentary maker, wordsmith, nature lover, history buff, the list goes on. I was friendly with Manchán, below, but I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t his friend, I’m quite sure he had plenty of them without needing me about the place, but whenever he joined me in the studio, I was always happy to see him coming through the door.
He was never boring, he was always curious, and he was forever passionate about whatever subject he was talking about on a given day.
Whether it was the Irish language, the beauty of nature or his fascination with fields, Manchán was like the best teacher in the staff room.
His enthusiasm was infectious and he made life easy for the likes of myself because I only had to ask one or two questions and off he went, galloping through the hay barns and meadows of his beautiful brain, weaving together observations, philosophical ruminations and life lessons, all of which flowed with an eloquent fluidity that nobody could hold a candle to.
I had only bought his book on Ireland’s connection with Iceland when I heard the awful news that he was very sick with a rare and
aggressive form of prostate cancer. At 55, I assumed that he would survive for a few years at least, but it wasn’t to be, and Manchán died on Wednesday.
He has left a rich legacy, not just by way of his books and television programmes but also because of the warmth, kindness and dignity that he left in his wake from every room he departed – 55 years doesn’t feel like a long life, but we were lucky to have him when we did.
My sincere condolences to his family and friends. RIP Manchán.
