Hope springs eternal for Aontú's Tinko Tinev in Cavan Belturbet ...

Campaign Trail

Reporter Seamus Enright was on the canvas with Aontú candidate Tinko Tinev in Cavan Town...

It’s Friday morning in Cavan Town (May 24). Pensions and mart day, and traditionally the day for doing the ‘big shop’. All add to the steady flow of traffic passing through Market Square.

It’s unseasonably cold too for late May. Aontú candidate Tinko Tinev shuffles some leaflets, his face breaking into a broad smile when nearby someone approaches. The party he represents is widely acknowledged as in the ascendancy, and he hopes some of that momentum can help propel his own political ambitions.

“When an election means something, it’s always difficult,” says the elderly man that comes towards Tinko from the direction of the towering statue of the ‘Gallant’ John Joe O’Reilly, Cavan’s All-Ireland winning captain of 1947.

The man doesn’t stay long, just enough to offer a kind word, shake Tinko’s hand, and wish him luck come June 7. The main draw of the day is standing 10 foot away.

Aontú leader Peadar Tóibín is box office in personality terms.

The Meath TD turned European Election hopeful skilfully steered Aontú away from being a near one-trick pony - opposing abortion while advocating for a united Ireland - to becoming a sustaining force in Irish politics.

READ MORE AND CHECK OUT OUR PODCAST

New faces and communities could hold sway

Tinko, wearing a body-warmer emblazoned with the Aontú logo, is a new face on the local ballot sheet.

He’s standing in Cavan-Belturbet, an area he has called home since moving here with his family in 2015.

He joins the Aontú election campaign alongside sitting councillor Sarah O’Reilly, standing in Bailieborough-Cootehill, and the resplendent in pink Grainne McPhillips who missed out on a seat in the close-run Ballyjamesduff area in 2019.

Nationally the party are running 66 local candidates, three for the European election, and are also contesting the Limerick Mayoral election.

If not all elected, with those kinds of numbers their candidates stand, at the very least, to impact the trajectory of others right across country.

Tinko tells the Celt he recently received his first “threat”- an email from someone claiming to be pro-choice saying they would “make it their mission to out me”.

Tinko still doesn’t quite know what the content of the message meant, but assumes it came with menacing intent. He shrugs it off regardless.

“I’ve nothing to hide. I’ve been very active in the community. This person obviously doesn’t want to see this. But I’ve had a good reception. The pro-choice movement I think have a shrine somewhere with our posters on it, plastered with ‘cancel’ or ‘don’t vote’. On the other hand, if you’ve opposition, it means what you’re doing or saying is being taken seriously.”

Tinko reveals how he grew up in a communist family. His grandfather was sentenced to death by the King for his ideological outlook, and fled across the border into Russia at a time before Bulgaria became a People’s Republic. His grandfather married there and years later returned to Bulgaria.

Tinko’s parents took up working in the country’s diplomatic corp, assigned to working in Baghdad in Iraq and Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

War forced their evacuation and return to Bulgaria, where Tinko then joined the army, rising to the rank of Sergeant.

But it was in his early 20s, through travelling around Europe and the rest of the world, that Tinko discovered his own identity, and even faith.

He reflects on his formative years as being pockmarked by being told what to do, say, and think. Any alternative would be greeted with punishment.

“It wasn’t freedom,” Tinko remembers back. “I’m coming from the ideological point of view of a former communist. I know people are very wary of religions, but I’m very wary of being told what we must do or believe. Secular humanism has become the religion of Ireland.”

It’s been about 15 minutes standing on Market Square and the only people stopping appear over the age of 50 years. The sense at least, Peadar reports, is that they’re “angry” and want “change”.

The want for change, and a new representative voice in politics, is what first inspired Peadar to defect from Sinn Féin and set out on his own.

On the campaign trial, the holy trinity of issues that keep cropping up on doorsteps are housing, cost of living, and migration.

Peadar prattles on about Cavan becoming a commuter belt to a couple of older women carrying shopping bags.

They nod intently before one of the women, who at the outset said she probably won’t vote, launches back about her grandson having a disability and no access to services.

The answer is straight from the playbook. The government has failed us. A vote for us is a vote for change.

Several mid 20s meanwhile brush past the out stretched arm offering Aontú flyers. A girl, hood up, backpack on, delivers an abject “no”.

The first person south of 40 to stop and speak with the Aontú crew is a woman and her child.

She knows Sarah in Bailieborough, and is a fan of her work. She asks Peadar to pose for a photo, which he duly obliges.

Regardless of the age profile, the reception is overwhelmingly positive. Those who do engage listen to what’s been said before moving on. Most are non committal as to which way they’ll vote but each get told to give Tinko a tick if living in or around the county town.

Tinko moves out of the group and gets stuck into conversing with a local stall holder.

He’s encouraging him to vote. It’s an important right that should be exercised, he urges.

“I’m hopeful,” Tinko says after, talking up his prospects of getting elected. “You have to be.”