Liz's Ireland Journal

The South Roscommon Singers Circle

Songs of our land, ye are with us forever,

The power and the splendor of thrones pass away,

But yours is the might of some far flowing river

Through Summer’s bright roses and Autumn’s decay.

Ye treasure each voice of the swift passing ages

And truth, which time writeth on leaves or on sand,

Ye bring us the bright thoughts of poets and sages

And keep them among us, old Songs of Our Land.

(Frances Brown (1816-1879), The Blind Poetess of Stranorlar)

                                      On Saturday, June 7^th, Danielle Allison took Elizabeth Ursic and me to Knochcroghery for the monthly South Roscommon Singers Circle.  It’s held in the back room of a tiny pub called Jimmy Murray’s.  The seats around the perimeter of the room were filled when we arrived, so we pulled stools up to the outside of a couple of table and listened to the song in progress.  They took a break shortly afterwards and Danielle told the emcee, Declan Coyne, that I would be happy to tell if he wanted me to.

             When they started back up we heard a song or two and then Declan introduced me.  I told “A Whole Brain,” a story from Kazakhstan of how storytellers came into the world.  As I finished, I said “And that’s how singers like . . .” and I indicated their special guest singer.  But as I started to point to the singer, Declan called out, “Vincent Pearse,” and that’s when I realized that Vincent, a local storyteller, was there and I said, “Yes, that’s how Vincent Pearse came to be here telling stories to us all.”

             The evening was great we heard song after song, most of which I did not recognize.  I did know a few, including “She Moved Through the Fair,” “The Patriot Game,”   and “Dear Old Skibbereen.” Here are the first two stanzas of Skibbereen:

Oh father dear, I often hear you speak of Erin's isle

Her lofty hills, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild

You say she is a lovely land wherein a saint might dwell

So why did you abandon her, the reason to me tell.

Oh son, I loved my native land with energy and pride

Until a blight came on the land, my sheep, my cattle died

My rent and taxes went unpaid, I could not them redeem

And that's the cruel reason why I left old Skibbereen.

           On the next break I got to talk with Vincent for a few minutes.  I had heard him the first year I was here in a storytelling and music program at the Dean Crowe Theater in Athlone.  He said he is doing quite a bit of telling throughout the country.  I also visited with Declan who is the founder of the circle. He looked familiar to me, and Danielle confirmed later that I had met him and heard him sing at the Ballinasloe River and Arts Festival two years ago. He also organizes the South Roscommon Singers Festival and the “Annie McNulty Award," which recognizes significant contributions to the art of traditional singing. 

             I learned this about him from a book he authored called Alone by the Wildwood: A Roscommon Song Book.  The book, which comes with a cd, includes lyrics and background information on songs that have come from Roscommon.  I have the book because of the raffle that was held that evening.  I didn’t actually win the book, but most of the people attending already had it.  After the fourth or fifth try, someone said, “Just give it to the Americans.” I was delighted to get it.

             Several people chose to tell stories or recite during the evening.  Danielle did a nice job with the story of the thieves’ child who steals the midwife’s wedding ring. Vincent Pearse told a story about a man who married a bossy woman from America.  She wants him to greet the priest in a very precise way which of course goes all wrong.  Another man told a funny story about two men who see a man with a big salmon.  He tells them he caught the fish by lowering himself over the bridge and waiting for a salmon to come by and then grabbing it with his hands.  They like this idea, so they go to a bridge and the stronger one lowers the other one over the bridge by his ankles. 

All of a sudden the one waiting to grab the fish says, “Bring me up! Bring me up!”

The other says, “Did you catch something?”

“No! There’s a train coming!”

We really enjoyed the evening.  About midnight, someone came around with several baskets of chips and sausages and we dug in with everyone else. The only downside to the evening was the noisy drinkers in the front of the pub. Declan told me that the former owner, who passed away in January, would never have allowed the noise during a singing circle.  When I was telling my second story, several people loudly shushed them. 

I got the poem at the beginning from Declan's book, Alone by the Wild Wood.  The picture at the top is Danielle telling her story; Declan Coyne is at the far left.  Below are the three of us outside the pub.

            

            

There Really Are Witches Here

On Friday, June 6^th, we went to Loughcrew, also known as the Sliabh Na Callighe – the hill of the witch. The callighe in the name is a reference to the cailleach, the great Celtic titanic goddess who is one of my favorites.  It always burns me to hear her referred to as a witch, but this year I learned something that helped mitigate my annoyance a bit.

The Loughcrew cairns are spread over three hills called Carnbane East, Carnbane West, and Patrickstown located about 40 km west of Newgrange.  They are passage tombs and over the years the stones from many of them have been pillaged for use on local farms.  We visit Carnbane East, the middle hill, dominated by a large central cairn – Cairn T – which is intact.  One of our guides, George Knight, said that the association with the witch may have saved this cairn with its beautifully carved stones from destruction.

This is the third year that we have met guides at the sight. The Office of Public Works keeps a little trailer mid-way up the hill at the car-park where they can shelter when there are no visitors or the weather is foul.  There were three guides there when we visited and one of the others, Jean Thornton, took us into Cairn T. 

Jean told us a version of the story of how the rocks got to the tops of the hills that I hadn’t heard before.  In her version the cailleach fills her apron with rocks as in the others, but instead of hopping from hill to hill she flies.  As she flies to the last hill, Patrickstown, she falls and breaks her neck.  Some say she is buried on that hill.

Unlike Carnbane East and West, Patrickstown is densely wooded.  On previous visits, our director Barry Vaughan has told us that Patrickstown is considered haunted or to be a province of the fairies and hence is not visited much.  I wonder if that is also due to the witch association.  It’s also probably significant that the hill where she died is called Patrickstown, since there are many stories associating him with her demise, or at least her disempowerment. The flying, too, is more what we associate with witches.

Jean also serves as a guide at Tara and at Newgrange.  Since she works at Newgrange, she is allowed to witness the sunrise there at the winter’s solstice.  She told me that last year the sun was absolutely brilliant.  She asked, “You know that the floor of the chamber and the light box at the door are on the same level?”  I nodded that I did and she went on tell me that last year she lay on the ground looking down the passage through the light box.  “The light was so bright I could barely keep my eyes open.” 

When Jean was a girl, her mother would take her and her siblings to Newgrange before it had been restored. They would take candles and crawl down the passage to sit in the chamber.  They could stay as long as they wanted picnicking and playing on the mound and around the great stones.  Now, she says, there is no time for anything because so many people must be marched in and out every day. Check here for pictures of what it looked like in the 50’s and 60’s. 

Several years ago I’d read a newspaper article describing how the archaeologist who excavated and restored Newgrange, Michael J. O’Kelly, had learned from local women about the light box at the entrance and how it functioned.  I’d always been fascinated with the idea that a folk memory of how the light was meant to enter the passage had been preserved for thousands of years after the site had been abandoned by its makers. “Rumors,” she said.  “There were rumors in the area of how it worked.”

Back to witches.  It was very windy when we visited.  A few of our students, including Jared Corder and my student Ashley Bagley, were huddled in one of the smaller passage tombs with no roof when they heard the sound of children approaching. When they stood up to see what was happening, one of the boys pointed at Ashley and said, “There really are witches here!” Within a few moments they were all crowded around her. Later one cheeky lad asked her, “Hey, Miss America, come take a picture with me!”

That Ballerina Story

         Last week at the library when it was time for Nuala to start, I asked the librarian Gearoid O’Brien if he’d like me to introduce her.  He said that he’d been planning to do it,  but that I should go ahead.  I then felt a little awkward and like a pushy American, but Gearoid was gracious.  He said, “No, no. Go ahead.  You’re almost a part of the staff.” 

I welcomed the children and I asked them if they remembered me from the previous summer.  Not only did they remember me – they remembered particular stories.  The two they called out were “The Cow’s Eyelashes” in which I long for ballerina gear, and “The Calf Scramble.”  When Nuala got up to start telling, one little girl asked her, “Will you be telling that ballerina story?”  Nuala said they’d have to ask me about that and I quickly said that maybe they’d hear it later in the summer.

After Nuala was finished, a girl – maybe nine – came up to me and said, “I really want to hear that ballerina story.”  She had a long brown braid down her back, a bright blue headband, and little tortoise-shell glasses.  I said, “We’ll have to check with Mrs. McLynn, the librarian, about that.” I pointed out Mae to her and she said, “I’ll ask her about it myself, will I?”  I nodded and she went right over and had an earnest conversation with Mae.  She then came back and told me, “It’s sorted.”

Sure enough, I will be telling for their school the last week of June!

In the photo above, she is on the left.

Nuala Hayes Kicks-off the Three Rivers Storytelling Festival

“This is the beginning of the story. One day, Bran went walking alone near his home. Hearing music behind him, he looked back often, but he saw nothing. So sweet was the music he lay down and fell asleep. When he awoke, he saw beside him a silver branch, decorated with white blossoms set into it so well it was hard to tell blossom from stem. Bran picked up the wand and returned to his home. His many royal friends were gathered thickly about as he held court, when the mysterious woman appeared in their midst. She calmed and inspired the host as she sang the 50 verses only to Bran, though all could see and hear her. And the Mysterious Lady sang:

Let Bran hear from the crowd of the world

What of wisdom has been told to him.

Do not fall on a bed of sloth.

Let not thy intoxication overcome you;

Begin a voyage across the clear sea,

If perchance you mayst reach the land of women.”

           This is the beginning of “The Voyage of Bran,” which is the first story that Nuala Hayes told us last Tuesday, June 4th.  She was the first teller in our month-long Three Rivers Storytelling Festival.  The story is long and complicated with many adventures – sort of a Celtic odyssey.  It is an example of an Iomramh - a voyage in the physical world or of the mind or the imagination. Nuala’s elegantly crafted and beautifully told version got to the essence of the story and captivated me and my students.

She followed her version with that of Tadhg Pey, a Co. Offaly man she met and has interviewed several times.  When Tadhg (pronounced Tige) turned eighty, he decided to write down all the stories he knew.  When Nuala met him, he gave her a date book into which he had affixed the texts of several of them including his Bran. His version was quite distinct from hers with a very practical orientation.  He told, for example, about how the boat was made and provisioned.  Nuala says this is what you would expect of the no-nonsense natives of that county. It made for a great connection to what the students had just read about the connection between stories and the land.

Nuala then explained the differences between the two primary types of traditional storytellers – the seanchaí and the scéalaí.  The seanchaí knew and told stories, but would have also been the local historian and genealogist.  The scéalaí was more of the “artist” who told the great epic myths from the Ulster and Fenian cycles and the long complicated hero tales.

She finished with her version of “The Weakness of the Ulstermen.”  This is the story of Macha, a goddess married to a mortal, who cursed the Ulstermen for nine generations.  She cursed them because not a one of them showed pity or respect for her when the king forced her to run a race against his horses when she was just about to give birth.  Macha won the race and the Ulstermen were cursed for centuries.  Nuala speculated that perhaps that curse has finally come to end since there is now peace in that province.

           After a short break, Nuala had a session at the Aidan Heavey Library in Athlone.  She had about 60 children from two schools, both within walking distance of the library.  It was great session during which she told the story of the origin of the River Shannon. You might think that children in Athlone - right on the Shannon - would know the story, but few did.

           She finished up with a beautiful story by Mary Lavin the name of which I failed to get.  In brief, it is a story about a boy the fairies can’t keep because he has a thorn in his finger that keeps him linked to this world.  Nuala’s oral version of Mary Lavin’s literary retelling of a folktale was filled with beautiful images – a thatched cottage was described as “a note of gold in a sea of green” – and with a catchy refrain for the children to join in on. It definitely made me want to learn more about Mary Lavin.  Mary Lavin’s daughter suggested the story to Nuala and gave her permission to tell it.  I can understand why;  there is a great fit between story and teller.

The quoted text at the beginning of the post was taken from: http://www.danann.org/library/gael/bran.html and from http://www.lamp.ac.uk/celtic/BranEng.htm

My Mom Would Be Proud

When Nuala Hayes and I went to the Aidan Heavey Library in Athlone yesterday for her storytelling session, we were met by Mae McLynn and Gearoid O’Brien, who work at the library, and by Paula O’Dornan, who works for the Westmeath County Library system.  It was the first time I’d seen them this summer and Mae said, “We have a surprise for you.” Gearoid ran up stairs and came back with this library card.  That’s me in the lower right hand corner of the Westmeath County Library Card!  It was taken while I was telling at the library last summer.  I think Paula must have taken it.

I’ve been thinking about my mom this summer, and actually last summer too.  When we were beginning to plan the festival last year I realized that both the librarians involved were called Mary, just like my mom, who was also a librarian.  I took it as a good sign and evidently it was because the festival has been realized. I think she would have loved meeting the librarians, seeing their libraries, and hearing all the storytellers.  She had passed away by the time I got involved in storytelling, so she never heard me perform – not on stage anyway. I’ve been enjoying imagining how much fun she would be having if she were here.   

The First Day of Class

          These are the students in the summer 2008 Irish Storytelling Tradition class in Athlone, Co. Westmeath, Ireland. In the back from left to right are Jake McKindles, Lindsey Stokes, Arlyn Schmuck, Amber Watson, Marvin Pettet, and Michael O’Connell.  In the front are Ashley Bagley, Alex Shannon, Kalli Fox, Michelle D’Ecclessis, Megan Anderson and Donna Tischer.

Today was our first day of class and we got off to a very good start.  There are twelve of them and I’d met nine of them at an orientation, but didn’t really know anything about them.  When they introduced themselves, I asked them to say why they had come on the program, why they had taken this class, and what they hoped to get out of it.  Their responses were interesting; almost all of them have Irish ancestors, so connecting with heritage is an important motivator.  Some came because they love to travel, others to immerse themselves in Irish culture, others because they had always wanted to visit Ireland.

In response to why they took The Irish Storytelling Tradition their responses were more varied. A couple took it explicitly to learn Irish stories; one said that stories were the “perfect souvenir” of the trip.  A couple others took the class to learn to deal with stage fright or to improve their communication skills.  Several want to learn more about storytelling, to learn to tell or to tell better.  One said she decided to take it because “your whole life you will be telling stories”, so she figured now was the time to learn how.  Another said she chose the course because “Ireland is about story and music.”

After the introductions, I broke them into four groups and led them in an exercise called “Learn an Irish Story Fast.” Each group had a different story, and within minutes the room was full of chatter.  Once they had learned their stories, I sorted them into new groups.  Each member of the new group had a different story.  Once they’d told in their new groups, I asked for volunteers from each story to tell to the whole group. We had four volunteers – Jake McKindles, Amber Watson, Arlyn Schmuck, and Lindsey Stokes – and they all did very well.

After a short break we reviewed the syllabus and talked about their assignments.  I was just telling them that Danielle would be bringing a big stack of books for them to use – when Danielle walked through the door with a very large basketful of books.  She is spooky that way.

Tomorrow will be another good day; it’s the beginning of The Three Rivers Storytelling Festival.  Nuala Hayes, who is arriving this evening, will be in our class to kick-off the festival.

A Day to Get My Act Together

           The students are on their first field trip today.  We start classes tomorrow because today is a bank holiday and the Athlone Institute of Technology is closed.  So, they are off to Boyle Abbey and the Cruachan Ai Center in Tulsk.

I stayed behind to contact Gavin and keep an eye on the complex.  One of the young women had her purse stolen last night and in the purse was her apartment key, apartment number, and the address of the complex.  Gavin is going to have to send someone over to re-key the apartment, but since it’s a bank holiday it is not too likely that anyone will be coming today.  I look out the window every half hour or so to see if anyone is carting off the television. I’m not sure exactly what I’d do if someone was – call 999 I guess, which is their 911.

I’m glad to have a day to myself.  I really needed a day to get my act together before class begins tomorrow.  In the previous summers I’ve been able to immerse myself in Irish stories and articles about the Irish tradition, but not this year.  This year we were finishing the book right up to the last few days before I left. In fact, I’m still chasing down some of the releases for stories and pictures.

Our schedule this summer is packed, so I’m spending today tweaking the sequence of readings, and integrating the guest storytellers we will be having.  I’ll write more about them later.  They are all part of the first annual Three Rivers Storytelling Festival that local storyteller Danielle Allison has put together with assistance from librarians Mary Dillon in Ballinasloe, Mae Mclynn in Athlone and me, representing Study Abroad Ireland.

The picture at the top is of a few of my neighbors standing out in the rain.  I’d just gotten back inside after taking the photo when they walked over to a muddy patch and took turns rolling and writhing on their backs in the mud with their hooves flailing around in the air.  I’d never seen horses do that before, but of course they were all up and walking to the barn before I got my camera back out.

The Students Are Here - and a new colleague

           

    On Saturday, Mary and I met the students and our three other colleagues at the Dublin Airport, loaded them on the bus, slogged through the bank holiday traffic – including a two-hour back-up outside the town of Moate – and then got them more or less settled in their apartments. Poor Gavin and his house-keepers were scrambling right up to the last moment.  The Athlone Institute of Technology students had only just left during the previous few days.

On Sunday morning, Mary led an orientation and the rest of us chimed in as needed. The students were all there right at 10:00 a.m., which we took as a positive sign.  They seem like a very good group. Mark Klobas, who teaches the Irish History course, then took them on a walking tour of Athlone and all the faculty went along.  The photo at the beginning shows Bob Farwell trying to wrangle them for their first group photo by the Shannon. After the group shot, I nabbed this one of Bob and Mark vamping it up.

We have a new colleague this year.  Elizabeth Ursic  is teaching The History of Religion in Ireland since Barry is not here.  Here is one of her claims to fame: She made it into the Guinness Book of World Records in 1993 for “Solo Long-Distance Tap-Dance.”  She tapped a half marathon, thirteen miles of the Tempe Marathon which was the pre-cursor of the Rock and Roll Marathon.  She was profiled in Sports Illustrated, too.  Her master’s thesis was on labyrinths and now she is doing her Ph.D. on Christian Communities who refer to God as “she.” Her goal for this trip is to learn to play the spoons.  The photo shows her practicing – or pretending to practice since she doesn’t actually know how to play them yet.  Smart and funny – what could be better?

We are, of course, committed to supporting her in any way we can. You never know when you’ll need a good spoons player!

It's a Nissan Micra!

In the previous years that I’ve come to teach with Study Abroad Ireland our director, Barry Vaughan, has rented a car for the program.  He can’t come this year because he is the president of Maricopa’s faculty association.  Mary Aldridge is in charge this year, but she did not want to drive.  So, I am the one driving. 

I’m actually excited about gaining the skill of driving on the other side of the road.  I’m hoping that by the end of our time here I’ll be able to say I’m confident and competent at it.  But, I’m not there yet and so I’m still driving with trepidation. 

When we arrived in Dublin on Tuesday morning it was cold, windy and raining.  We slogged all of our luggage into the tiny blue Micra and headed out of the airport onto the motorway.  That was the worst part so far.  What’s more difficult than driving on the wrong side of the road? Driving on the wrong side of the road with the windows fogged up through lots of complicated round-abouts! Just so you know, it’s always best to try something challenging and potentially dangerous when you are sleep deprived and jetlagged.  Gives a nice edge to it.

Mary later emailed Barry that we arrived more or less safely, and that I only almost-killed us two or three times.  Not too bad.  On Wednesday we drove into beautiful downtown Athlone to see the fancy new mall.  I only hit one curb in a tight round-about and otherwise did fine.  I just noticed in the photo that one of the hubcaps is missing and I’m wondering if I lost it in the collision with the curb.

One of the good things about the Micra is that it is very tiny, so it is easier to keep it between the lines.  The last time I tried to drive on the other side of the road, Mark and I were in a larger car and when I drove it I was always too close to the curb.  I can still hear his screams. It was such a bad experience for both of us that it led us to consider a new TV series: CSI Cushendall - we were both having murderous thoughts. 

Driving in Athlone is easier because I’m familiar with the streets. It’s also easier because the streets are so narrow that you can only drive slowly, otherwise you’d take out pedestrians with the side mirror.  Mary and I navigated our way into the underground parking structure for the mall.  We were accosted by Polish valet/carwash men who lavishly praised our fine Nissan Micra and offered to keep it in tip-top shape for many hundreds of euros.  We declined. 

Mary said later that she was watching the news and they were showing native Irish drivers on the road and she realized that their driving looked just as random as mine feels from her perspective as the passenger.  So, I guess I’m going to fit in just fine.

Getting Settled

This is Gavin Doorley, the manager at the Croi Oige Student Accommodation, and his was the first familiar face Mary Aldridge and I saw after arriving in Ireland.  His face was not completely familiar – I don’t think I’ve ever seen it with a shiner before!  He got it last week while rooting for his soccer team, Manchester United, as they scored a couple of dramatic goals to become the 2008 Champions of Europe.  When I told him I was going to put this picture directly into the blog, he said to be sure to say that Gaelic Football is actually the best and his true love.  He assured us, “I’m no plastic Irishman.” We had no doubts about that!

        Gavin is one of the best things about being here.  He didn’t actually know that we were scheduled to arrive on Tuesday, but he quickly found us a two bedroom apartment to squat in while ours is vacated and cleaned. We should be moving in today or tomorrow. I’m looking forward to having our normal apartment. This one is right on the car park and the kitchen is dark. On the other hand, we see lots of Gavin, since his office is right next door.  Today he stuck this little snake in the window as he walked by. 

I think this must be “the wee Presbyterian snake” from Crawford Howard’s poem “St. Patrick and the Snakes” that Liz Weir recites with such verve.  You can read the whole poem here  but for now, here are a few stanzas:

Now there once was a guy called St. Patrick,
A preacher of fame and renown
An' he hoisted his sails and came over from Wales
To convert all the heathens in Down.
And he hirpled about through the country
With a stick and a big pointy hat,
An' he kept a few sheep that he sold on the cheap,
But sure, there's no money in that!

He was preachin' a sermon in Comber
An' getting quite carried away
And he mentioned that Rome had once been his home
(But that was the wrong thing to say!)
For he felt a sharp pain in his cheek-bone
And he stuck up a hand 'till his beak
And the thing that had lit on his gob (an' had bit)
Was a wee Presbyterian snake!

Now the snake slithererd down from the pulpit
(Expectin' St. Patrick to die),
But yer man was no dozer - he lifted his crozier
An' he belted the snake in the eye,
And he says to the snake, 'Listen, legless!
You'd better just take yerself aff!
If you think that that trick will work with St. Patrick
You must be far worser nor daft!'