Connemara, Co. Galway

Connemara

Coastal mountains

Cool Atlantic waters, tranquil, flood, surround

seaborne stone that glows in golden light,

A caress from Sun, a gift, a gentle kiss, a farewell.

For night is soon to birth.

All the world has heard of Connemara, a very special area in Co. Galway and it was to Carna, a small coastal village, that we headed off to early on Saturday morning for Carna's Sean Nós Festival and to visit friends. The journey of 3 hours was eased by using the motorway, which I generally try to avoid because they are so boring, my preference is for the quieter and more scenic type of road.

Many are the families that have lived long in Connemara, of who's sons & daughters have travelled out of this land to settle in every part of the world.

One in particular is Seosamh O hEanai (Joe Heaney) 1919 - 1984 a native of Carna, who spent much of his life living in England, Scotland and New York. Heaney was an artist-in-residence at the University of Washington in Seattle. The Joe Heaney Collection of the University of Washington Ethnomusicology Archives was established after Heaney's death in 1984. The Féile Chomórtha Seosamh O hEanai (Joe Heaney Commemorative Festival) is held every year in Carna.

In the pub where the Sean Nós singing was taking place, all attention was given to the singers, even pints of the black milk are left on the bar, customers stand with their backs to the counter and no conversation takes place, that is apart from the necessary hushed whisper to order another pint from the barman.

The long melodic notes of the singers in gaelic tongue, fit in very well with this land they suit the skies, the special quality light that landscape painters thirst for, the rolling fogs and the long waves that sweep the shore. Their songs and clarity of voice sweep before them conjuring images in the listeners minds, to such an extent that it matters not a jot whether you understand the language.

I feel that it would be remiss of me to ignore another family, who promote their Gaelic culture by contributing to the arts of literature, song and music, the Mac Con Iomaires.

(I am not sure whether I have done this correctly, if not please paste references into YouTube)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4pUOpdgTWM&feature=related

5:44

Joe John Mac Con Iomaire - Caoineadh na dTrí Mhuire

www.youtube.com/watch?v=MF2CfAjwcAs&feature=related

4:24

Colm & Darrach Mac Con Iomaire & Frank Tate - 'Frailach' & gan ...

The Seven Wonders of Fore

Please double click to enlarge images

St Féctains church next to the yew tree, the hill behind

is Carrick Balor (Balor is ancient one eyed god) the field

to the left is a water meadow. In the foreground is Féctain's

healing well & Rag tree where the water will not boil,

it is aso the site of a megalithic tomb.

The stone lintel that was lifted by the power of prayer

Photo taken from window hole in St Féctain's church,

the Mill is a small stone building on the right

The Sheela na-Gig in St. Féctain's Church

The Rag tree at Féctain's well it is

actually an Ash.

The tree that will not burn

Sheela na-Gig at St Munnas Church

Before Munna became a Christian

he was a Druid apprentice under the tutelage of his father.

Hello my friends!

Last weekend I had every intention of writing about The Hill of Tara and of showing you pictures from angles which are not normally shown. Alas, I went to Tara on Tuesday of this week with two others, who like myself normally carry a camera and guess what ? It was one of those days when the three cameras were left behind.

Wednesday afternoon, it being so very sunny, we made a trip to Fore [Fobhair] in Co.Westmeath which nestles in an airy valley between high stony hills. There is something very precious about Fore, in that on leaving I always feel as if I have had a long holiday; even though my stay there was only for two hours.

On reflection I think that it might have something to do with the water that flows rapidly through a large water-cress meadow.

Fore is unspoilt by commercialism, given that its' former glory was as an early Christian stronghold of St Féichin - his name means Little Raven. The Seven Wonders of Fore are all connected to him in some way, these being :-

1. The Monastery in a bog.

2. The Mill without a race. Féichin built the mill and then walked to Lough Lene struck the bottom of the hill that stands between it and the waters flowed into Fore.

3. The water that flows up hill. This is an optical illusion of course, though it does appear that way until one looks at the lay of the land

4. The tree that won't burn. It would if you were brave enough to face the consequences of burning a tree with a cure.

5. The water that won't boil. Similar to 4 above, the waters can be bathed in for healing purposes only and one would have to face Féichin's curse if you removed any.

6. The anchorite in a stone. This refers to a stone tower on top of Carrick Balor.

7. The stone lintel raised by prayer. It is said that the builders became exhausted trying to position the huge stone, so they stopped work for refreshment and when they returned it had been perfectly positioned by Féichin using the power of prayer.

The 8th wonder for me was the Sheela na-Gig carved into a coinstone that we saw in Féichin's church.

On the way home I became fed up with the behavior of other road users who were tailgating me, whilst others were simply dangerous drivers, so I turned off onto a narrow country road to connect with another route home. It was on this narrow road that we came across St. Munnas church, a very untypical design for a church, having a Norman style rectangular three storied tower (known in Ireland as a Norman fortified farmhouse) attached to the church. Above one of the windows there was yet another Sheela na-Gig.

Sheela na-Gigs in situ are rare finds in Ireland for most of them have been removed to The National Museum in Dublin where the majority are stored in the cellar and rarely see light of day, the public display of them is rotated so we are told and permission has to obtained from the Curator to view the majority.

My travels for this week are not yet finished, for on Saturday we will be driving to Carna in Connemara, Co. Galway for The Joe Heaney Commemorative Festival of Traditional Singing & Music. Where pride of place is given to Sean Nós singing which is unaccompanied and has a highly ornamented melodic line.

COOLE PARK -revisited

Please excuse me for returning so soon to Coole Park. My reason for doing so is that I want to share my recent poem with you before the trail went entirely cold.

Coole Park in March Twenty Ten

Coole Park in March Twenty Ten

Blackbird song under sun

echoes in sparse gentle rain

Through trees a breeze whispers

rattles twigs on bare branches

That wait expectantly to birth

bud leaf as hesitant Spring lingers

Above gravelled paths trodden

through woodland to lake or garden

Hidden old voices traverse converse

Tracks to collide with modern mind

to hear the intonation, an energy

A creative literary expression

borne in tranquil ancient air

Old inspiration so very rare

To kindle bright fires in the mind.

as a line of white ferries queue

On lakeside to carry earth spirits

from shore to shore across time

Past beyond AE or Yeats or Shaw

Where Tuatha and their Gods dance

forever, still alive noble proud race

On glowing illumined waters an entrance

extends past finger tips pens paint a grace

That human kind interprets tenderly.

As fragile as glass, as bright as bronze

a glimpse of fianna, faery and sidhe

Rise in wood smoke before our eyes

cry tears bereft of a child's vision, yet

We listen and yearn again to see.

©MRL 01-04 -2010

Bitter and Red Tea

A dimpled pint of bitter

Rooibosh

Friday morning saw me sitting in a comfortable chair in the library, the sunshine was streaming down and warming me, over my forehead came a slight, cool waft of air and in the quietness of that cosy corner memories started to flood into my mind, as I drifted back in time, revisiting places and tastes.

The flavour of a pint bitter filled my senses and in half closing my eyes I was sitting in the bar of a small pub in Builth Wells, Wales where the dark wood wall panels and cushioned benches provided me with an inner warmth. I muse on how the dimpled glass is held not by it's handle but with one's hand placed around the glass with the underside of the top the part of the handle resting on the the right index finger, as I sup to swallow a goodly draught of the nectar.

April does this to me, it draws in the memories more than any other month. I was reflecting on this earlier, when I recalled visiting another pub on the outskirts of Combe Down, Bath. I think it was called The Pack Horse, an old establishment that sold a delicious cider that oft tempted me as a refreshing lunchtime drink. It was there on the radio that I heard the news of John Lennon's untimely demise and where I immediately wrote the following piece

John born Liverpool 1940

ex Beatle and M.B.E.

Departed New York 1980

Cupro-nickle six

Impales vital flesh

Discord rhythm slips

Lennon into death

Amplified sound loses

Earth’s mystic beat

Playing Yoko’s love

with substituted pain.

Songs of love and peace

Will flower forever on

Echoing thro’ the world

In green growing harmony.

©MRL 1980

I don't want you to think that I spent all of my time in pubs. I did tho' frequent many an establishment in my younger days and they provided me with insights of human characteristics and some of them quite pitiable as:

Bristol 6

My favourite Pub

My favourite pub stands

gaunt to the street.

Yet alive with vitality

It’s balance of humour

A serious intent.

Not in this pub stand

the pretentious and proudly sober

they drink not at this bar.

They exist stoned, cold

Beyond their fronts

With hand held can

and

Hypocrisy for company

In this bar

Faded winter flowers

Open deep their centres

Bright blemishes lie honest

naked, bare to the sky

Avoiding not the quick glances

Nor to ask for dispensation

For here drink labourers, pimps

lags and tired working girls.

©MRL 1982

I was aroused from my reveries in the library by the arrival of Mrs H, who dragged me off to the health shop to purchase our weekly supply of Red Tea (Rooibosh).Which is now our favourite tipple, with it's versatile and restorative powers; and the person to who we have to thank for bringing it to our attention is the author Alexander McCall Smith and his series of books on Botswana - 'The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency', where the main character Precious Ramotswe indulges herself by making pots & pots of red tea. For it was in this library that we borrowed his books.

ref www.alexandermccallsmith.co.uk

DUBLIN

Dublin's famous beverage

Anna Livia - personification of the River Liffey as a woman.

Locally known as The Floozie in the Jacuzzi,

The Hoor in the Sewer or Viagra Falls.

Oscar Wilde

locally known as The Fag on the Crag, The Quare in the Square

or The Queer with the Leer

Sweet Molly Malone

locally known as The Tart with the Cart,

The Dolly with the Trolley or The Trollop with the Scallop

James A.A. Joyce

locally known as The Prick with the Stick

The second holiday of the year happened Thursday when we went up to Dublin, which is my second most favourite city in Ireland. My first preference, whatever the weather, will always be Cork. Some places have a special effect on us and speak directly to the heart and Cork does that to me.

Not that there is anything wrong with Dublin, for it is a friendly city as cities go. Small by comparison to most European capitals, though it still manages kill my feet and I am glad to find a bench on which to take a rest and have a puff on my pipe. Better was the pipe today for my sole purpose for making the visit was to go to Peterson's and replenish my stock of 9mm charcoal filters. My next visit to them will be to buy a new pipe.

I had a shock that morning for our rail station was jam packed with folk going to Dublin, even more than on that day when we joined the anti - Iraq war march and a 100,000 people peacefully marched through Dublin's main thoroughfares. So this morning I was almost tempted to go and ask a few of them if there was something going on that I should know about. It was a grand journey despite the fullness of the train and I managed to get a window seat, plugged in my Nano Shuffle only to find after fiddling with it that the battery was flat, so I caught up on some sleep instead.

From Heuston rail station we took the bus to St.Stephen's Green - Mrs H's first visit to Dublin's 26 acre inner city park. It is I believe a must for any visitor to this city with it's bronze statues, fountains, lakes and formal gardens with dozens of benches to sit on and watch the world go by. From there we went to the nearby shopping arcade the St Stephen's Centre, I felt that it would be the ideal therapy for my busy artist wife, especially with TK MAXX on the second floor.

On Grafton Street were even more stores to whet a shoppers' appetite, catering for the many different classes of credit cards right up to Platinum. This is a street of character though, with it's liveried doormen, conjurors, musicians, singers and many flower stalls whose scents perfume the pavements. It was on this street that many a now professional musician/pop star started their career. I once met the mother of a cellist in Belfast, who would regularly drive her daughter to Grafton St. for the sole purpose of getting the young woman accustomed to playing in public.

Throughout the city there are dozens of bronze statues, depicting some of Dublin's most famous characters: whether they be real people or fictional representations such as Molly Malone. It is the characteristic nature of the Dubliner to have an earthy sense of humour, that sportingly derides poshness or false dignity: thus there are nicknames for almost every piece of bronze in the city.

COOLE PARK, Gort, Co. Galway

Entrance Stone

The autograph tree in March

A Yew Arch

The script is an exact copy of GB Shaws handwriting!

COOLE PARK, Gort, Co. Galway.

The former home of Lady Augusta Gregory dramatist, folklorist co founder of The Abbey Theatre and the authoress of several books including Of Gods and Fighting Men. Who opened her home to the eminent figures within the Arts from 1896 to her death in 1932. Amongst who were George Bernard Shaw, WB Yeats, George Russell aka AE, Sean O'Casey, John Mansfield and many others.

To walk the pathways of this 1,000 acre estate, is to mingle ones energy with the spirits of those who came here in former times, to draw upon its ethos amid the woodlands and or walk the lakeside to the old boathouse. Where I sense a boatman is holding a boat ready for an excursion, while maids bring picnic hampers and rugs, as laughter and pleasant talk peel along the tree lined path..and the earthy roar of a distant tractor returns me to the present.

I am, I know not the only one who is drawn back through time, to feel and hear those notables who graced this place. WB Yeates spoke of faery's, AE of the spirits of the land, Lady Gregory collected folk stories. They too I believe imbibed on the magic of this place; just as we who visit frequently are pleasantly intoxicated by the traces they left behind.

For me to describe in great detail this place would be to spoil and impinge upon the maginations and experiences of future visitors. You have to visit Coole Park and it's autograph tree and before too long, for slowly the new growth is swallowing and taking into it's self those special signatures.

For future information visit www.coolepark.ie

The Headache Stone

Well with token offering of a baby's shoe

Excellent signage

Here the sufferer lays their head & is cured.

On sunny Sunday it was a genuine relief to step outside and feel the warmth of the sun on one's body. So we took the decision to make a short tour to the Headache Stone, a place which we had passed on an inclement winter's day last year.

The sign on the gate depicts it as St Hugh's which is unfortunate because it is actually St. Aedh's (pronounced as 'aeh')

St Hugh or rather St. Aedh who was one of Ireland's primitive saints (The Royal Society of Antiquaries 1896) and his importance is that he reputedly cured St Bridget of a headache.

I had heard that it is best not to put a pain free head on a headache stone, because it is likely that you will then get one ! This advice I related to Mrs H as she set off to take photo's while Toby (dog) & I kept each other company. Not lazy merely cautious because there were sheep & young lambs close by and I like to obey the Countryside code. Mrs H had only been gone a few minutes when there came a loud bellow from a Bull, it is a very distinctive noise; this again reassured me by not taking Toby was the right decision and as I had not heard any screaming ! I guessed that Mrs H was free from harm and I was right as you can see from the photo's !

What I wanted to know was exactly how did St A manage to go from A to H there being no phonetic similarity. Research via Google has revealed :-

Mo-Lua ba hanamchara do Dabid
Dar muir modh-mall,
Is dom Aedhog, is dom Chaemog,
Is do Chomgall.

'My-Lua was soul-friend (= spiritual director) to David over the slow-rolling sea (i.e., in Wales), and to my-little-Aedh, and to my-little-Caem (Kevin), and to Congal.'

This quatrain refers to the time when there was constant and friendly communication between the schools and churches of Ireland and the Welsh and English coasts, when Welsh students came to study in the Irish colleges, and brought back with them to Wales many Irish traditions that can still be recognised in Welsh literature. This was the time when Alfred, a student in Ireland, laid the foundations of that love for learning which afterwards caused him to solicit the aid of his former Irish professors in founding the first University of Oxford. The quatrain also contains the name of one of our saints, a name disguised more effectually than any other, that of St. Aedh, if we may venture to call him so. Aedh is really his name. It is one of the commonest Irish names, and is now represented in English by Hugh, a name with which it has no connection whatever. Ref www.libraryireland.com

A poet and his poetry

I started to write poetry in the late 70's when part of a line of prose started running through my mind. I can still recall what it was ' we shall walk through sunlit leafy glades, leading to sharp green swards'. I visited every available library in the area, asked English teachers and all sorts of learned men and women if they knew that line and its source. All to no avail, next came my attempt to include those words in a poem of my own, but no, it stills lies fallow in a corner of the mind.

Tripped though was the switch to write and lines seemed to tumble out of me at all hours of the day, such was it that the habit of carrying a few sheets of paper and a pencil or pen became second nature to me. Even during the night my mind would awaken me, to tumble me out of bed, to go down to my desk and write. To be found there scribbling and sighing away by my then wife when she arose to start the day.

The main rush of poetry lasted for about twenty-five years, well actually in two bouts, because I returned to pick up the paintbrush to paint using the same source of inspiration as I did to write poetry. Later on I was able to align some of the paintings with some of the poems; Very few of those people who purchased my paintings actually enjoyed poetry! Something that I found rather hard to deal with at the time and I stopped painting with colours. Preferring to paint pictures with words instead and play with the structure of lines, making up my own house rules as I went.

I have had tremendous experiences from being involved with prose and poetry. Meeting along the way several very interesting people, some of them quite eccentric or at least ahead of their time in their mannerisms and clothing. Two of whom are now long dead - Axel Firsoff (look in Wiki) and his wife Marjorie. Together they organized a poetry group. On hearing of this my first action before attending, was to purchase their anthology and appraise their poetry with that of my own. Dare I say that it stood the test quite well and we became the best of friends.

Over the years several pieces have been published in a variety of magazines, it was for a time a secondary

pastime to get the stuff out there and into the public domain.

Then I became rather busy in other areas of my life and the need slipped away. So something over one hundred and fifty pieces have been sitting quietly on my imac.

I related this to a man of letters (a solicitor) who insisted that I printed them out to have a paper copy. It was while doing so that an idea came to me to create an audio file and perhaps record them onto disc to circulate amongst my friends who enjoy poetry.

"We have the technology" (The Bionic Man) and the CD is, as you can see, now finished!

Wells and Wells

St Monan's Well

Tribute tree with horseshoe

the neglected Anu's Well

Ballaun with stone fish!

On Monday of this past week we, that is Mrs Heron, a friend of ours and myself, took time out from the usual chores and had a day's holiday to tour some of the wells in our area. I have always been fascinated by these holes in the ground containing water and their elaborate kerbs. It is of course not so much the hole but the water that attracts me !

It was a glorious day, cool at first, needing a top coat, though as the day wore on I found myself quite happily leaving it in the car, as we walked the length and breadth of fields to lean over railings and peer into the watery holes.

What surprised me more than anything was the number of Ballaun stones that there were around. These are ancient stones that have a depression, a pot shape cut into them and are often water filled. The definitive purpose of them is not actually known so theories abound that they have curing properties for various ailments, or that the water is for cursing and they might just be bird baths. For Ballaun stones are mostly found adjacent to a well and sometimes in graveyards.

Healing wells are said to be potent if a water snail or fish can be seen in it's depths. Being a pragmatist, I believe that presence of a living creature shows that the water is fairly wholesome even if not actually potable. Having said that I have to admit to having drank from moorland streams on the odd occasion.

Some of the holy wells dedicated to ancient Irish saints, have Hawthorn trees growing near them which are draped with bits of cloth and religious relics of all kinds. Then there are others which have been allowed to fall into neglect which were dedicated to Pagan deities such as Anu's Well

(as in photo)

On arriving home we looked at the photos and noticed that there was a stone fish in the ballaun stone that was not present before the photo was taken. We assume that it is a reflection from the stones above. But then this is Ireland and anything is possible !

RED CAP COUNTRY

The Studio

Where dreams are created

A window of faces

What often comes to my mind when I walk into Jane's studio is 'This is where dreams are made into pictures & brought to fruition'.

The building was originally erected as a shippen for cattle, then it became a kennel for a Newfoundland bitch and her six pups. After that a wood carvers abode and almost my workshop, until a visiting eye fell upon the place and asked that it be her studio.

Three months it took to insulate the ceiling & walls, make the window with cill height to fit a table, bring in a phone line, erect a porch and paint the outside in faery colours of red, green and white.

Did I forget to mention the broom ? That came later, when herself was installed!

It is though more special than you can tell at first sight, for it is either the start or the end of a Faery path. The energy inside needs no enhancing with crystals, for we tried that at first and had to remove them.

The energy became too buzzy. For this is, as I may have said or hinted at in an earlier blog, is

Red Cap Country.

The Elementals live in a sphere of nature which overlaps the edge our world & only rarely am I allowed a glimpse of them. It is a special occasion for me personally although from my window here, I can see by the aid of the fading sun one of their villages. To others it may look like an ordinary field hedge and to see

such a sight you would need to look deep and long.

That is not always the case, for the other night I espied a small lad stepping through our stone circle towards the hedge that stands three feet south from its' perimeter. Generally all of our sightings coincide with a waxing, if not an actual full moon. There are many people in this area who can relate sightings of the faery; to such an extent that later this month a Folklorist from one of the universities will be coming here to collect and record the details.