Ireland and London - 1996

Irish farmers

The fort over against the oak-wood, Once it was Bruidge’s, it was Cathal’s, It was Aed’s, it was Ailill’s, It was Conaing’s, it was Cuiline’s And it was Maelduin’s; The fort remains after each in his turn- And the kings asleep in the ground. – Kuno Meyer, The Fort of Rathangan

Impressions...

I found myself in a church in London and was struck by a sculpture of a woman who lay on the floor either dead or in a posture of supine obedience. I took a picture though I didn't know the story behind it or whom it depicted (St. Cecilia). Then, last year, in Rome's Catacomb of San Callisto, we came across that statue, at least another reproduction. Her body was originally found in this particular catacomb, a marytr beheaded during the Roman persecutions. The tour guide explains that there is a visible line on her neck (symbolism for how she died) and one of her hands one finger is pointing (symbolism that there is one God, instead of the Roman formulation of many gods) and her other hand holds out three fingers (symbolizing the Trinitarian three persons in one God).


From the CE:

The form is so natural and lifelike, so full of modesty and grace, that one scarcely needs the sculptor's testimony graven on the base: "Behold the body of the most holy virgin Cecilia whom I myself saw lying incorrupt in her tomb. I have in this marble expressed for thee the same saint in the very same posture of body." If it were art alone, it would be consummate art but Cicognara bears witness that in the perfect simplicity of this work, more unstudied and flexuous than his other productions, the youthful sculptor must have been guided solely by the nature of the object before him, and followed it with unswerving docility.

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I knew the stars, the flowers, and the birds,
The grey and wintry sides of many glens…
There lake and plain a mile fair and free,
‘Mid rocks their guardian chivalry,
Sing, Oh! let man learn liberty,
From crashing wind and lashing sea.

– from the Irish song “The West’s Awake”

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What is this need for earthy stories that smell of sea and air? What of this craving for George Mackay Brown's tales and his simple childlike odes of sea and storm and soil that I should long to breath through these gills? I've always been attracted to the sea, to crustacians and sea nympths, to any of the sea creatures that call landlubbers to something more. Living in the land of the land-locked it’s natural to find the sea exotic, but still there is something in the calling of the seals and of coastal Ireland in her far cliffs... somehow, somewhere down the ancestral line the sea got imbedded though no scientist has found evidence such. Somewhere, somehow the scent of salt-water and the welter of waves issued into me. I was surrounded by fishermen as a youth and I was oblivious, like the Baptized who is surrounded by God but is unawares.

Precious little feels as poignant as the shot I took of the little thatch-hut in some forsaken place in rural west Ireland. I gaze now in complete amazement that I was ever there. It contains the magic of a jig or reel, the reassuring recycling of a variation on a tune, the lustrous green door bespotted with dirt so artistically arranged! There is the perfect white of the house, the touching unevenness of the bottom of the door frame possible in a climate where the temperature never deigns descend below 30 Fahrenheit. There is the Gilligan's Island shag of a roof, sensuous and wavy. The window forms a redeeming cross with a charming a-kilter ledge, at once too long and unlevel.

Beside the dirt yard there are plenteous bushes, one rising nearly one and a half times the height of the house. It is art, this picture, and that it really exists an ocean away is a phenom to me even now. I wonder how this 1996 image appears in its current evocation, unfrozen and alive to change. A farm house in a distant locale, I joy in the fact that the owner is blissfully unaware that at this moment in time an American gazes intently at his home and finds great sustenance!


7th century cross located near Ballyferriter

One day we headed towards the Dingle Pennisula. Mark and I climbed a fence and walked to the westernmost point of Ireland, the spot where Ireland is closest to the United States. The views were stunning, & the sun made the blue waters and rocky cliffs very fetching. We drove through old Irish town of Ballyferriter, a throw-back town where the residents speak only Irish. It's one of the few Gaeltacht areas left, and only 55,000 speak Irish as their main language (compared to 3.9 million with English as their main tongue). I was smitten by the area, and I blew off the interesting looking town of Dingle, which the rest of the group toured.



I quickly 'hired' a bike and rode back in the direction of that small town. It was 13 kilometers and a very enjoyable journey. The sun was very warm (for Ireland) and the road was framed by hedges with red flowers growing 5-6 feet high. I went off the road and followed a dirt road towards an ancient ruin. It was a falling down stone building and a farmer stood nearby! I said "Dia Duit" (hello in Irish, literally meaning 'God to you'). He nodded. A bit farther down the road I again turned off, and by pure luck happened upon a Christian burial ground from 600 A.D, just 200 years after the arrival of Christianity in Ireland. One of the stone markers was over 6 foot tall and had ornate designs carved in the stone. The whole cemetery was encircled by a short stone fence. Later I visited the museum at Corca Dhuibne.
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Once when I was young I bicycled
From Cork to Bantry Bay. I was in Ireland,
Young, vigorous, in love with life and Ireland.
I took a room for the night, was ushered

Up cavernous steps to a high, small chamber
Without light but a candle in the dark.
I saw the bleeding heart of Jesus, the only
Sight. Fear seized me in this foreign place.

I was pierced with recognition, heart-shatter,
Terrified, and hoped to lose consciousness.

- Richard Eberhardt

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Ire’ Land

Cuchullain was there,
dreamt by skiff’d seas
and beehive huts
till Patrick called to Joy
those of farm and sacrament.

Eire,
Sweet Eire!
thee honeysuckle maidens
sing a chaste past
without regard to time or fashion
your Ave Maria’s in the rain
drip-drop Holy Water
echoing Baptism’s song:
Sing to me again!
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5 miles northeast of Ballyferriter off R559 is the Gallarus Oratory, a 1200 year-old unmortered stone structure shaped like an upturned boat: "It is masterful in its construction, and there is no finer example of the corbelling technique used in beehive hut construction. Every stone is placed magnificently, like hundreds of tiny inukshuks, only tightly packed so as to make a perfectly weather-tight and very dark room with a slightly sinking gabled roof."
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Back in Dublin, I hiked to the Molly Malone statue ("in Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty, crying cockles and mussels sweet Molly Malone"). The lascivious statue, with her bronzed protruding pectorals covered by half cuffs of bronze fabric, stood athwart the twain creatures of Dublin, tourists and non-tourists. Despite the years and weather and remorseless gravity, she remains the same today as ere she was cast.

To some, Molly is a motherly figure that represents Ireland as earth mother, a symbol of Ireland par feminine that goes back centuries. Molly perpetually struts aside her cart of cockles and mussels, looking for all the world like a naive peasant girl amidst the busiest square in the busiest city in Ireland, never closing her eyes to the wide spectrum of indecencies, the public urinations on her, the drunks retching their huddled masses upon her cockles... But, Molly retains the wide eye'd innocence that is so easy to retain when you're made of brass.
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Click to enlarge these pics:

  What's funny about this particular guy is he has an "Escape to Milwaukee" sticker on his wall. Somewhere in Milwaukee I bet there's an "Escape to Ireland" sticker on a wall. The grass is always greener, although it's literally true in Ireland.


Irish sheep. They just look cool. A scene of infinite "bucolity" (a neo-neologism).


Hipply-attired Irish girl amid the old world architecture. Her shoes look distinctly uncomfortable, and it would seem the lack of socks would cause blisters.


An authentic Oirish pub! Nothing says "stupid tourist" quite like taking a picture of the interior of a pub but...


A breathtaking view

Statue in a London church

Long, long ago, beyond the misty space Of twice a thousand years, In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race, Taller than Roman spears; - Thomas D’Arcy McGee, The Celts