3/11/12: Irish Music for Love and War

Joe and I drove around Ireland’s southern and western part thirty-eight years ago, captivated by its ruined castles, glorious houses and immense, sheer cliffs. The heaving Atlantic endlessly pounded the land. Shepherds and their black-and-white collies minded countless grazing sheep amid hilly, richly green landscapes. Horses were everywhere. Some were so magnificent I could hardly believe my eyes. Ireland’s stud farms produce some of the world’s grandest horseflesh.

Village pubs often featured a fiddler who delighted listeners with Irish jigs, and wonderfully intricate folk tunes. Patrons would often sing along, frequently in Gaelic. Dogs sitting at their owners’ feet enjoyed the fun, their tails thumping the floor vigorously.

Danny Boy is a fiddler-favorite. An ancient tune, Londonderry Air, was ‘borrowed’ in 1910 by lyricist Frederic Weatherly, who modified one of his own verses to fit that old melody. (Londonderry, a completely walled Irish city, is probably the finest in Europe.) Danny Boy is sung at funerals, or played by pipers. Parents of children gone to war get emotional when they hear it. Lovers embrace this song. It belongs to everyone, and has always been my favorite. I offer my version, in the player at the bottom of the screen. (Please, always listen with earphones.)

The Patriot Game was penned in the late 1950s by Dominic Behan, son of author Brendan Behan, to commemorate a twenty-year old boy, Fergal O’Conlon, a volunteer member of the IRA who was killed during a border campaign.
I’ve decided to include my rendition of this song as well, because Ireland has been frequently torn by wars. (You can hear it by pressing the right hand arrow or forward button once on the player at the bottom of the screen).

Honestly, we felt time slow down, there. Men took milk to market with horse-drawn carts, and women bought produce from local markets and carried their purchases back to nearby crofts in large aprons. Ancient bikes with woven baskets leaned on fences and stone walls. Almost every farmer wore a wool tweed cap.

At our isolated B&B we asked the owner to awaken us very early, as we wished to explore the area on foot. She laughed, a wicked gleam in her eye. “I can assure you that will be no problem. Simply leave your (screenless) window open, and you’ll have a special wake-up call, sure enough!” Hmmm. She must mean birds…We did as instructed. About 6:00 a.m. a fat brown donkey thrust his large, bewhiskered head into our bedroom, took a deep breath, and shrieked out a raucous series of raspy hee-haws that elevated us two feet! The beast, hugely amused by our shocked response, refused to be hushed until we fled the room, laughing, for a wonderful breakfast. The eggs had been laid a few minutes previously, and milk from the family goat was still warm, rich and creamy. The cheerful proprietor apologized for Boomer’s indescribable ‘music,’ but it was halfhearted; she kept chuckling in the kitchen.

One other memory will forever be associated with Ireland. In Dublin we wandered past an ancient little shop housing a booking agency advertising flights to America. On one wall was a large poster that reduced us to tears of laughter. Below the picture of two, ah, amorous, gleeful, high-flying mallard ducks were the words “Fly United.” It took the best part of ten minutes before we recovered any dignity whatsoever. We’ve never seen that outrageous poster anywhere else. Even decades later, I still laugh. It’s helped memorialize an absurd, delicious, stupid, wonderful time when we lived on a shoestring and fulfilled a dream – to go back to Joe’s roots (his ancestors hail from County Cork) and be part of rural Ireland for a small while.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, everyone, just a bit early! And by the way, if you’re afraid of snakes, Ireland’s your place…

Father Patrick banished every single one.

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