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The Waves of Tory

Posted on January 26, 2017 by singersong

Magheroarty Beach, where the ferry departs to Tory Island

Magheroarty Beach. Oystercatchers and Sanderlings feeding at the water’s edge. M

Tory Island. Those two words resonate loudly in my ears.

Back in the late 70s and early 80s when I played in Bush Bands in various remote parts of Australia, one of the favourite dances was the Waves of Tory. Well our version of it. With that lovely descriptive name reflecting the motion of the dancers with high potential for total chaos yet at the same time conjuring up romantic notions of a windswept wild wasteland in the North Atlantic.

As far away from the beautiful windswept wild wasteland of the Australian desert as could be.

Waves of Tory

Well now I have ridden the Waves of Tory and the imagined and fanciful has become real. It is wild and it was windy and those waves were something to behold but it was not a wasteland. It is surprisingly different to the other inhabited islands I have visited here such as Achill, the Aran Islands and Sherkin. It is stunningly beautiful.

Tory Island as seen from Magheroarty Beach

Tory Island, or just plain Tory, lies about 14km off the coast of Bunbeg in western Donegal. On the day I decided to go the ferry had already left from Bunbeg but I had time to drive to Magheroarty and catch the 11:30am.

I picked my day and was lucky. The forecast was spot on with sun predicted all day because I really wanted to photograph it in a clear light. But I forgot to check the ocean conditions and boy was there a mighty swell which made for a very rough trip.

We were warned to be back at the boat by 2pm, much earlier than scheduled, and if we didn’t get it we would be there for at least four days as storm conditions were expected to prevent the boat sailing for that time. This gave me about 1 ½ hours on the Island . I was disappointed but it is amazing how much I could see in that time, albeit fleetingly.

So back to the Waves Of Tory. We took the smaller of the boats, the romantically named Whispering Dawn, that usually do this run and it was filled with returning residents, with their shopping and all sorts of oddments that can only be got on the mainland. There was plenty of Guinness and whiskey and a massive birthday cake. Well that was what I guessed it was by its shape and the way they were carrying it, and a big bag of helium filled balloons which said 40^th. So many things to plan for with life on a remote outpost. Goods were passed down the steps in a human chain, as they probably were since the boat started sailing there.

Everyone joins in to load the boat.

So the boat was packed finally, though a few late comers forced us to turn around after we had already headed out to sea. Wouldn’t happen with the Manly Ferry! When we finally got going it was rough. we were tossed around like one of those toy boats in a bathtub that Hollywood used to simulate a violent storm. Except this was real. Waves would swamp the deck as we listed first one way then the other. The Captain doing a marvellous job to turn the boat into the massive waves to avoid them hitting us broadside. Photography was pretty difficult with salt on the camera and the cameraman, but I got a few. Remarkably I didn’t get sea sick.

Ploughing through the waves on the way to Tory

All kinds of passengers

The Island loomed into view so slowly. The eastern end looked rugged and mountainous while the western seemed more topographically restrained. We pulled into the wharf with some relief and the passengers disappeared into their little slice of this Island world.

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I knew Tory had a King. The current king is local artist and musician, Patsy Dan Mac Ruaíri. Elected by popular vote of the Islanders he has ruled since 1993. I was expecting to be met by him and his accordion. Every account of a visit to Tory talks about the King. Well not this one, because he just wasn’t there. Perhaps he was engaged on other official duties. I can only assume that it was of the gravest urgency to have kept him from meeting the boat and welcoming me.

The Island is fringed with granite boulders and slopes gently up from the seashore with a treeless plain that heads off to the horizon where there are a few rocky knolls.

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There is a cluster of houses which is the main village and in the distance I could see other smaller clusters with only a few scattered houses in between. Much of the land seems barren and empty but you are drawn to explore.

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The village is just a lovely higgledy piggledy jumble. Nothing is straight. The main road snakes around and the houses are built at different angles to each other. One suspects people here over time have just done what they pleased. Many vacant and ruined houses sit next door to beautifully painted and maintained cottages. In the centre of it all is the remains of a round tower, a bell tower from the 7^th century and the only remaining part of a Monastry founded by St Columcille as a sort of getaway from the no doubt stressful life of being a saint. Prominent in the town is a generator and you are reminded of what it must be like to live here. Especially in winter. Indeed, in 1974 a massive storm cut the island off for two months. The response of the Government was to attempt to resettle the 130 residents on the mainland, but the islanders resisted and won the right to remain. A pyrrhic victory as there are virtually no facilities remaining.

The 6th Century bell tower is the only remains of the original monastery

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Boats share the main street with houses

It’s maritime connection is never far away. Old boats are scattered through the village most unlikely to see their hull in water again, now part of the permanent streetscape.

They must be a special breed, the people who live here.

I loved the feel of the place. The hand painted signs, the unpretentiousness. The rawness reflecting a life that this particular day’s relatively benign weather temporary masked.

Free hugs

I had less than an hour left and I had no idea what the Island had to offer. I could see a light house in the distance but no time to go there. I should have done my homework I suppose but I went there on a whim. After walking through the town I kept seeing those knolls and ridges in the distance; so I headed across the bare paddocks.

A view towards the lighthouse

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Wind assisted. When I got there the ground suddenly dropped away into preciptious cliffs. I had to work hard to avoid being blown off into the Atlantic. The view was stunning.

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Land bridge in quartzite cliffs

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Stunning, sublime, arresting, breathtaking. Substitute any other hyperbolic synonymy and you still won’t be able to describe it adequately. Some of the cliffs were of granite and some were of quartzite. And they were different to each other and to the cliffs of Clare. The granite cliffs were smoother, more rounded and with boulders perched precariously. Those of quartzite which formed the high cliffs of the northern end of the island were jagged and irregular with many offshore stacks and islands and even a land bridge. I continued to walk along the cliff edge and each corner would reveal another spectacular vista of rugged bays and pinnacles.

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A quick look at the time and I had twenty minutes left to make it back to the boat. Got there no problem but disappointingly no sign of King Patsy to say goodbye to me and reluctantly just a handful of us embarked for the mainland.

But the trip back was not very pleasant. We had a bigger boat (Turasmara ) which seemed to handle the waves better but the sensible Islanders remained behind, ensconced in their homes in front of their warm fires while the few of us returning to ‘civilisation’ struggled with effects of the Rolling Waves. Some lost the battle. I fully expected to be a victim but somehow by standing outside in the open and clinging to a door handle with my legs braced against each wave and my eyes fixed on the receding Tory I rode it out

Forty five minutes later with heavy clouds moving in as if on cue, to announce the end of the journey, we were back somewhat unsteadily on land.

With my legs regaining their function I left the Kingdom of Tory behind and it was back to Bunbeg for a warm fire, a settling whiskey and a tune.

Two hours was definitely not enough. Next time I will stay and explore this remarkable place at my leisure. Definitely overnight.

Maybe I’ll even get a royal audience.

Categories: My Journey, Uncategorized | Tags: Donegal, granite, history, Ireland, King of Tory, people, photography, quartzite, Tory, Tory island, travel, views | 2 Comments

The Singing Circle at Kilshanny, Co Clare. Entry to another world.

Posted on November 11, 2016 by singersong

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Early in November I went to my first organised singing session since I came to Ireland. I know that’s a terrible admission especially as my start in Irish music came from my interest in folk singing back in the 60s. It was from singing Bob Dylan and Phil Ochs and Pete Seeger and Ewan McColl, and then traditional Australian songs, that I discovered the original “protest” songs coming from Ireland and Scotland. Of course the fiddle sort of took over but I still love singing and squeeze the odd song into a trad session if I get the nod. My knowledge of the singing session was scratchy to be sure and probably an entrenched stereotype. You know; finger in the ear stuff and all 47 verses of Lord Thomas and Fair Eleanor.

So when Mary Butler, proprietor of Kilshanny House near Ennistymon, asked me to come along to the once-a-month Kilshanny Singing Circle, I had no great expectations. It was certainly a world away from the Pub Trad Sessions, my natural habitat.

Mine hosts, Aidan and Mary.

A crowd slowly gathered on the chilly November night. Many turned out to be singers but others were just there to listen. Indeed there were at least 25 singers (actually 24 singers and one Singer – sorry that’s an attempt at humour), some sitting in a circle as you would expect in a session but many others just hovering or sitting at the bar in relative anonymity.

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The night was masterfully run by local Ennis based singer, Noirin Lynch with a velvet glove.

Noirin Lynch

Just an aside. It is the bane of singers in Trad sessions that everyone talks through songs. Sometimes no amount of shushing or whooshing or glass tinkling will shut up the crowd and many a great performance is lost. Not so here. Every person in the pub this Friday had come to listen or sing, so all that was needed were a few gentle reminders. To some this is not the atmosphere they want, and maybe that’s you, but that’s the beauty of Ireland. There are plenty of options; plenty of other pubs where the TV is blaring and you can turn your back to the music. But if you want to hear wonderful singers at their best in total silence then there is no better place than here.

Barbara Coyle, a regular visitor from the States

Gerry Shannon from Doolin, in listening mode

The concept of the Singing Circle is far more democratic than the more ad hoc music session. Noirin identifies all the singers, in the room, sees who wants to sing and calls on them to do so at the appropriate time. Always conscious of mixing it up and giving everyone a fair go. She is constantly roving the room looking for new additions.

Noirin’s list

These nights of music are a celebration. For me, mainly of the incredible talent that lurks hidden in the cottages of Clare. And I have to say whatever I am exposed to another layer of the culture and performing arts in Clare it comes from deep in the soul of the people here. Nothing special, it’s just part of their makeup. In West Clare and North Clare I have many times seen spontaneous sean nos dances from kids of all ages up to 90, I’ve seen sets and half sets where there shouldn’t have been room and I have heard gems and disasters of songs from people sitting quietly all night waiting to perform their party piece.

While there were many widely known singers from inside and outside Clare here this night, the majority were just unsung (no pun intended) heroes for whom singing is just part of what they do between selling real estate, farming or driving trucks or bringing up their kids. The special guest for the night was Roisin White from Miltown Malbay (honoured with a Gradam Cheoil for singing in 2015) and she treated us to a wide range of material, strongly and beautifully delivered.

Roisin White

Roisin White

There were other visitors, Ciarán O’Maoileoin, Aoife Caomhnach and the well known, Ann Skelton from Dublin. And regular Clare visitor Steve Brown from England and Jan van der Klei from Holland.

Ciaran O’Maoileoin and Aoife Caomhnach

Ann Skelton

Steve Brown

Jan van der Klei

But as I said I was most impressed with the home grown talent. Noirin Lynch herself set the tone of the evening with the anthemic Nora Daly which she learnt from the singing of Micho Russell and Peggy Macmahon.

My name is Nora Daly from the Parish of Kilmaly

and my father is a farmer and the crossest man in Clare

If he saw you here beside me I’m in fear that he might chide me

so please go down and walk a bit before we reach the fair.

Noirin Lynch

Everyone sings along with this one. In fact if you are from Clare, I bet you hummed along as you read it. There was a preponderance of songs on subjects of local interest. I couldn’t possibly talk about each singer, so let me mention just a few. John Casey, originally from Lisdoonvarna grew up with the travellers and remembered them vividly as a child. Sixty years later he met one of them again and was inspired to write his song “The Tinker” which he sang for us. John told me later that a cousin from Australia was the extraordinary Father Ted Kennedy who did remarkable work with the Aboriginals in Redfern. When he died in 2005, 1,500 people attended his funeral. Interesting synchronicity there with the status of Travellers and Aboriginals.

John Casey

We had Gerry Devitt with that marvellous song about Joseph McHugh’s from Liscannor. And the delightful and much loved John Joe Scanlon from Fanore, who treated us to a wonderful bit of the, almost lost, art of lilting.

Gerry Devitt

John Joe Scanlon

The fantastic songs of Micheal Marrinan got an airing with Ciarán O’Maoileoin singing Miltown to Sweet Ennistymon and The Binding Twine sung by Steve Brown complete with with prop of a roll of genuine binding twine!

Ciaran O’Maoileoin

Steve Brown and the Bundle of Twine

With the memory of the death of local football legend Anthony Foley still fresh there was a heartfelt and powerful recitation from Michael Scanlan of Killaloe of his own song and, further reflecting the place GAA takes in Irish culture, we had Marian Egan sing ‘Cuchulainn’s Son’ a song about Wexford hurler Nicky Rackard from it’s golden era in the 1950s. It was written by Marian’s late cousin Tom Williams. Marian is now a Clare woman living in Kilfenora since 1997.

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Marian Egan

We had some delightful comic songs; Sean Maclaghlan with Big Bellies and Spare Tyres (though I have to say that only with some reluctance did he get the ladies to answer back with the ”spare tyres” bit) and that old favourite, the Lottery Ticket. from James Blackwell of Ennistymon.

Sean Maclaghlan

James Blackwell

The tone of the night was best illustrated with the welcome received by newly arrived Ursula. An occasional singer from Dublin but now living in Kilshanny, she must have been surprised at the warm reception. She was introduced around and sat down in the inner circle and coaxed into singing a couple of songs which she carried off with aplomb. What better way to welcome someone into your community than to share a song with them.

A warm welcome

I really like the photo I captured of Ursula with a cup of tea in her hand beside a framed photo of Robbie McMahon of ‘Spancil Hill’ fame. Turns out he is Mary’s uncle. Don’t you just love the connections in this place. I think I’ll call it The dreamer and the Dreaming

The dreamer and the Dreaming.

And they even had room for some Aussie guy who had the cheek to sing an Irish song about a road that “runs down to the sea”.

There were of course many others and here are some more photos. Singers are difficult to photograph. Always moving unpredictably, eyes closed, bad light. I think though I have captured the mood with these shots.

Almyn Wilson

Joe O’Connor

James Blackwell

Emer Ni Mhaoileoin

Paddy Williams from Kilshanny

Patsy Carrucan from Fanore

Singing Circles as they are called, abound in Clare. They are generally held once a month, but you could easily attend one or two a week if you wanted. The better known ones are in Ennis and Cooraclare and there is also an excellent Sunday singing session at the Crane in nearby Galway. So if you come to Clare and want to try something different, you can be assured of a warm welcome.

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I’ll definitely be back to Kilshanny House.

And one final word. Why is respect demanded and given for a song but not always similarly for a tune?

Categories: My Journey, Sessions, Trad Irish Music, Uncategorized | Tags: celebration, Clare, Ireland, Kilshanny House, Mary Butler, music, Noirin Lynch, people, photography, singing, singing circle, singing session, travel | 3 Comments

An Explanation

Posted on September 13, 2016 by singersong

Hi.

Subscribers to my blog may have seen a post go up earlier today which was Protected and required a password. From time to time you may see such posts. They are blogs that for one reason or another aren’t ready for public release but that I may wish to share privately. There will however be very few of them. Be assured my blog will remain public and open. And thank you so much to my subscribers in particular who have stuck with me for the last 2 1/2 years. I have many more adventures to share with you.

Bob

Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Where the ocean kisses Ireland and the waves caress its shore : of seaweed and báirnachs.

Posted on September 5, 2016 by singersong

Where the ocean kisses Ireland and the waves caress its shore
The feeling it came over me to stay forever more

These words are from a Saw Doctor’s song, The Green and Red of Mayo. OK, they are about Mayo but they could just as easily have been written about Clare. Or about my house which is right there on the rocks; where the ocean kisses Ireland.

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At the moment it is a hive of activity. Seaweed harvesting is in full swing and there are regulars who visit the shore to collect winkles or báirnach (limpets) or drop in a line hoping for a pollock or mackerel.

Gerard Talty runs the seaweed farm and his pasture is right at my front lawn. He has developed a thriving business exporting at least a dozen products made from seaweed collected at Caherush and nearby and processed right here on the Clogher Road. Talk about coals to Newcastle, Japan is one of his biggest customers.

One bright day recently I went out to chat to the guys. There were three generations of Talty’s working the weed. Ger, his father Mikey and son Evan. That in itself is pretty unique. Currently they are harvesting the kelp. Laminaria. Ger is a great advocate for seaweed and he extolled the many properties of this particular variety of kelp. It eats cellulite; you can bathe in it; it is rich in magnesium; it has a chemical make-up that is closest to human blood. It is chock full of chlorophyll. Or you can cook any number of delicious things with it. There’s carrageen and dillisk and sea lettuce and all the rest too but today it was about kelp. Something I didn’t know about kelp was that the fifth taste, umami, was recognised in kelp in 1908 though it was nearly a hundred years later before it was given credence as a distinct taste alongside bitter, sweet, salty and sour. This came with the discovery of umami taste receptors in the tongue and the stomach. IG3C6789 IG3C6853 IG3C6754 IG3C6771 IG3C6836

Seaweed farming has a long history in West Ireland. A poem, probably dating from the twelfth century, describes monks harvesting dillisk from the rocks and distributing it to the poor as one of their daily duties. It was used as a food and a medicine, as chewing tobacco, ingested to eliminate worms, and was recommended as a remedy for ‘women’s longing’ whatever that was. Seaweed manure was particularly important in areas with poor soil, and conflicts were fought over seaweed rights and access.

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Ireland’s tradition of kelp harvesting dates back to the seventeenth century. It was burnt in stone kilns, the ruins of which are still visible in places. The ash that remained was used for glazing pottery and for making glass and soap and then later to produce iodine. This latter discovery kept the tradition alive until World War II. Now the tradition is continued by people like the Taltys.

I spoke to Ger’s dad Mikey. A resident on the Clogher Road for 79 years. And still driving the 1969 Massey Ferguson to harvest the weed. He remembers when the tractor replaced the horse and cart. I’ve seen him doing any number of farm chores, including driving the excavator onto the beach to clear drains or transporting silage and of course helping with the seaweed harvest.

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We had just a few minutes before an errant shower interfered with the dialogue but there is nothing Mikey doesn’t know about this bay. He told me the best way to cook báirnach or where I can find evidence of them eating báirnach in the 11^th century in the middens of a castle around the point. And more surprisingly how Point Caherush was a major quarrying operation back in the 50s. This was intriguing and prompted me to investigate further. I will blog on this another time.

So with the tractor loaded and the threat of imminent rain, the operation concluded for the day. Ger told me that this kelp was the best for seaweed baths. Slippery; and hot water brings out the beneficial nutrients. “That’s what you get down at Trump’s” he said, referring to the Donald Trump owned resort at Doonbeg, ten km away. IG3C6867

I think I might go and take a bath.

Categories: My Journey, Uncategorized | Tags: Caherush, Clare, Ireland, kelp, photography, Quilty, seaweed, seaweed farming, Talty, travel, umami | Leave a comment

Glencolmcille, Donegal. Fiddles in the Glen. And Much Much More.

Posted on August 10, 2016 by singersong

First I should apologise to my blog followers. I have been travelling and attending many festivals over the last two months so I have neglected you. It has been an amazing Summer with visits to Festivals in Dungarvan, Doolin, Spiddal, Miltown Malbay, Tubbercurry, Drumshanbo, Achill Island, Glencolmcille and Feakle. I have many stories and photos and I will try and bring my readers up to date over the next little while.

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In the first week of August I went to Glencolmcille in the south west of Donegal. There is a Fiddle Festival there which I had yet to attend, but not only that it is a place of remarkable beauty.

I had been there before but it was the depths of winter and it was so cold with biting wind and lashing rain and I had a cold and the memory is generally not a pleasant one. I should add also that it was the first place in Ireland that I missed playing music. January 2^nd 2015. After almost eight months.

I had driven up from Achill and the most glorious weather welcomed us on the Monday. I had a carload from Italy, France and Spain that were also visiting the Festival. The first thing that struck me about this place was the awesome grandeur and beauty. It was just too beautiful. I didn’t know where to start exploring it. It’s rather like turning up to a session with a dozen great fiddlers and you leave your fiddle in the case, because you don’t know where to start. It’s just too intimidating and daunting.

I was originally booked into a Bed and Breakfast but a friend convinced me to give the Dooey Hostel a go. I have shied away from hostels because I never sleep, with snorers and tossers-and-turners and people coming in late and getting up early, but I went along with it. It is truly a unique place. It is built into the hill with the natural rock being one wall and the other side giving magnificent views over the strand and the bay one way and the glacially scoured valley the other way. There is a crazy paved floor as you would have out on the patio and ivy and all sorts of plants growing up the walls. The walls are damp with the natural seepage and there is piping to take away the water when it rains, which gives the sound of an ever present waterfall. It is on many levels with four dormitories each with their own shower toilet and kitchen, another generous kitchen, some private rooms and a gorgeous common room that overlooks the bay. There is plenty of eccentric and eclectic memorabilia and trinkets everywhere.

Dooey Hostel, Glencolmcille

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The view from the Common Room of Dooey Hostel

Miraculously I didn’t have a snorer in my dorm so I slept brilliantly.

The hostess is Mary, quite an institution in this part of the world. And mad as a March hare. You can’t really describe her but she is as wild as the Atlantic and had us in stitches much of the time. “I just compost people who fall out of their bunks”, she says. The residents were an interesting lot too. Many there for the fiddles but many just travellers. By a country mile, the majority were from France. Some spoke exclusively French which was a bit annoying for me but it was a diverse bunch with many interesting stories. I met of course loads of new friends and I could not help but become part of the craic.

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I decided not to do the classes and Monday was so beautiful I had to get out and about. I was told of a lovely beach called Port, so that’s where I headed. Google Maps misled me though (I have to blame someone) and I ended up high on a remote bog. As I was sinking deeper and deeper into the unsealed road I decided to retreat. A 21- point turn executed with fear of my wheels leaving the road and of getting stuck in the ditch. But there’s always a reason for things happening in Ireland and I spent a lovely hour exploring photographic possibilities in this remote part of Donegal.

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On returning to Glen I found myself following some road signs to the Holy Well of St Columbcille. This was not what I expected as after quite a walk I discovered the well site protected by a massive Donald Trump style wall. Continuing the walk I ended up at the Tower, which was built to keep a lookout for Napoleon and the invading French. One would have to say it was unsuccessful as the French continue to invade! The views from the top are impressive though.

St Columbcille’s Well

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View towards Port Beach

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As far as the music goes this festival or school is completely different. First it is fiddle only. Second it is Donegal style and tunes only. It is classes morning and afternoon so if you don’t do the classes the place is pretty deserted except for the tourists. It is pot luck after that. There are only two pubs so it is hard to miss a session. After about 9 pm it kicks off. Roarty’s was the spot and on the Monday night there was a session there with 45 fiddles. For a brief time there was a single guitar. It was a unique sound. Not to everyone’s taste, I know but how often do you get to hear that in Ireland. I recognised about 10% of the tunes, but played along where I could. A who’s-who of Donegal fiddling was there. Mairéad Ní Mhaonaigh, Martin McGinley, Ciarán Ó Maonaigh, Conor Caldwell, Danny Meehan. But it was hard to get a seat so I did a lot of listening. The tunes are infectious and probably easy to learn but the fiddling is not my style with its sawing bowing. But it was great to be there. Some of the best sessions though were in the Common Room of the hostel or outside overlooking the bay.

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Fiddlers in the Glen

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The bad weather closed in (well it is Ireland and it is summer) and Wednesday started out very unpromisingly. But it looked to be brightening up so I decided to go to Maghera Caves of which I had heard a bit about. When I announced my intention at the Hostel I immediately had half a dozen takers to come with me. In the end I was accompanied by Blandine from France, Alex from Italy (the Great Bastoni! but that’s another story), Tall Paul from Holland and People Katherina from Germany, a 20 year old on her first solo overseas trip who, the day before, had walked 27km with her 20kg pack in the driving rain.

The weather did not ease up. The rain came and went with and without wind and we had in total 15 seconds of sunshine. The caves were not what I expected. They are only accessible at low tide which luckily it was, They seem to be caused by erosion along faults associated with dolerite dykes and sills in very siliceous sediment. They are right on a really wide beach. Stunning. The wind at times whipped the sand along creating and eerie landscape. And there was a labyrinth, similar to the one on Keel Beach on Achill. Someone put a lot of work into it but I can only guess how long it will be there before the sea subsumes it. On the way there was Assaranca Falls: a ferocious waterfall fed by the heavy rain at the time. Unfortunately photographing it was tough in the weather. We went cross country then to the majestic Slieve League cliffs. Conditions were attrocious with the mist descending, sometimes to a complete whiteout. I loved it though; when the clouds parted to reveal the rugged landscape for a few moments and then closed in. Thee was no pattern to it but it provided everchanging vistas and light. Then a visit to the gorgeous beach at Malin Beg which I have to say would rival Keem Strand on Achill for a place nearthe top of the list of best Irish beaches I’ve seen.

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Assaranca Falls

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Near Ardara

The road to Maghera

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Cave at Maghera Beach. One of 27

Dolerite sill and later crosscutting dyke.

Sheared dolerite dyke and cave.

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even the water is green!

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Maghera Strand. A wicked wind!

Maghera Strand. Another view

Labyrinth at Maghera Strand

Have you seen green like this?

Heather on the Moor. Slieve League

Slieve League

A few minutes later. The clouds descend

Try standing up!

A soft day at Slieve League

Malin Beg

Malin Beg

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Malin Beg

Weathering bands in schist. With sandhopper

I enjoyed this place so much that only playing a few tunes in the evening didn’t seem to matter. We sat up chatting in the Hostel till about 4am and the sweet Katherina, full of self doubt about travelling Ireland on her own yet so confident to walk such huge distances could not contain herself. Every few minutes saying “I am so happy”. In fact she held on from going to the toilet for an hour because she was worried we would go to bed and the night would end.

Monarch of the Glen

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The Festival overlaps with Feakle Festival which is one of my favourites so on Thursday I headed off back to Clare.

I will definitely return to Donegal. Maybe next time I’ll get to Port Beach without getting lost……..

Categories: Real Ireland, The Fiddle, Trad Irish Music, Uncategorized, Wild Ireland | Tags: Ardara, Donegal, Donegal style, Festival, fiddle, Glencolmcille, Ireland, Irish music, Maghera, Malin Beg, photography, Sessions, Slieve League, traditional music, travel | 4 Comments

Miltown Malbay. Who Needs Willie Week?

Posted on June 2, 2016 by singersong

Miltown Malbay is my local town. It is of course legendary in the annals of traditional Irish Music as the place where thousands congregate each year to hear the best. But that’s just one week of the year. The rest of the year sessions go on with unheralded players in quiet corners playing to the locals and occasional visitors. Only occasional visitors because Miltown doesn’t have the lure of Doolin except for that one week.

I went to one of these sessions last night. About a dozen musicians were there and you would struggle to put a name to anyone. In fact for most this is their only session of the week. This was an eclectic bunch. There was one player who was hard of hearing but undaunted, struggled to play along. We had key changes, deliberate or otherwise, in the middle of a tune, we had a singer sing a song while he played guitar in a different key, we had American tunes such as Oh Susannah, we had Johnny Cash songs and and we had Cow Cow Yippy Yippy, we had Kevin Barry, and even an Aussie song thrown in .

Somehow none of the jarring moments mattered. It was all part of a wonderful joyous mix. There was enthusiasm, vigour and musicians and crowd were involved and supporting every effort. Of course it was noisy. The pub buzzed but the applause at the end of each number showed they were listening in that peculiar Irish way. And in amongst it all there were absolute gems. Michael Galvin and his daughters provided special moments and at the end of the night Cian Talty delighted with songs until after 2am. This was a real hooley. It was more than a session and while the purists would probably be horrified, there was not one person who didn’t leave that pub totally satisfied.

And isn’t that what it is all about?

I didn’t have the camera so just a few photos with the phone.

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Categories: Sessions, Stories, Trad Irish Music, Uncategorized | Tags: Clare, Ireland, Irish music, Miltown Malbay, music, Sessions, traditional music, travel | 2 Comments

The Music House Returns to Doolin

Posted on March 30, 2016 by singersong

Though the pub session is now considered to be the customary gathering place for playing Irish traditional music it is actually a recent innovation. Probably dating from the 50s and 60s when expatriate musicians gathered in London pubs to share the tunes they played back home. Many returned home and the pub session took off in Ireland and it became the centre of musical life. Before this most music was played in the home. Some houses would be well known as music houses and musicians, local and visitors, would gather there to share tunes or the kitchen table would be pushed aside and a set would be battered out on the slate floor.

Well known Doolin flute, whistle and spoons player, Christy Barry is trying to bring back this tradition by opening his house to guests to share his tunes and stories. I was lucky enough to attend the one of these nights when Christy and his wife Sheila entertained 18 guests in his cosy living room and, with the help of some fiddler friends, kept the crowd of mostly Americans enthralled for almost two hours and served some delicious local cheese, smoked salmon and a glass of wine.

Christy is a direct link to the Doolin of the 70s. He personally knew and played with all those whose portraits hung on his living room wall including Willie Clancy and the Russells. And he spoke fondly of them. Christy’s monologues between tunes could go anywhere and that is part of the charm of nights like this. They are not scripted and you could go again on Monday and I am sure it would be very different.

The concept of the ‘house concert’ has become popular particularly in the States but also in Australia and I am sure elsewhere, where a home owner brings an international performer into their home, does all the organising and the artist gets all the proceeds. This is different. This is Christy and Sheila sharing their home with visitors but the formula has all the signs of being a great success. With initial recommendations through the B&B’s the numbers at this Good Friday event surprised Christy. Perhaps the lack of alcohol anywhere else in Doolin (or the whole of Ireland for that matter) was a factor but I think the chance to hear Christy and friends play music and talk about his life, the people and the music was the main inducement and it will continue to draw people.

Christy was very generous in inviting people to join him for a song or dance and many stayed on afterwards to linger and chat.

It was a memorable night for those who were there and visitors to Doolin now have an alternative to packing into a noisy pub to hear Irish music. The intention is to do this three times a week, so if you are in Doolin during the Summer, check it out.