Lùibìnì

We’re officially living in Dùn Chaoin now. When I wake up in the morning, the Great Blasket lies, sloping gently on the horizon, flashes of sunlight cutting through the fog that lies on its banks, alighting the ruined homes in a brief illusion of habitation. Am Fear Marbh stretches of to the right, a slumbering old man, unamused by the tricks of light thrown up each morning by its easterly neighbor.

This past weekend we went to a singer’s festival in a small Gàidhealtachd an hour from Cork. When Lucia made the call to the Bed and Breakfast, she confessed that she was thrilled to find an Irish-speaking place to stay in the small Gàidhealtachd. The owner of the B & B claimed to know her, ‘Sure I met you at the Oireachtas’ he said ‘I’m writing a Lùibìnì for you and your American friend.’

We had met Sèan at the Oireachtas over a month ago, he and another friend of ours from Coirce Dhuibhne had entered the Lùibìnì competition themselves, only to be ousted by a young duo from the Ring Gàidhealtachd. Lucia told Sèan about her love for Lùibìni and Sèan agreed to write one for us: the first Lùibìni to be performed by foreigners.

The tradition is something I’ve never seen the like of. Two singers, standing side by side, engaging in a sort of musical dialogue, each line ending with the same lilted chorus, and then the other singer picking up the next line, continue the conversation. The subject matter is often humorous, and such is ours, myself admitting that I’m a stranger to the land, surprised to be welcomed to Ireland by and Irish speaking Spanish woman, and Lucia convincing me that I’ll be just fin in Corca Dhuibhne, that the people are friendly, and if I organize a party, all the young women of the peninsula will call in to me. The song ends with me saying I’d rather that the boys come around to visit, which isn’t very far from the truth.

Over the weekend in Sèan’s cozy B&B we spoke nothing but Irish. I managed to tell his wife that I was fine without a third cup of tea, what I wanted for breakfast, that the room was perfectly comfortable, and that I’d spent the last year on the Isle of Skye. When we drove through the streets of the village Lucia stopped to ask directions, more often than not we received baffled responses in English,

This week it’s finally beginning to feel like Christmas in Dingle. Large yellow lights, strung through the town, reflect off the wet sidewalks and the sheen of the building fronts, giving everything a liquid golden glow. We had a week of record low temperatures. Every morning we heat the kettle to pour on our frozen windshields, then settle for cold to avoid explosion. I’m used to this kind of weather, I was raised in N.H., but still the wet wind cuts through me a cold precision that leaves me shivering through the night. Today, finally, the cold seemed to break, and with it a feeling of festivity has finally descended on the town.

It was cold too in the concert hall at the weekend festival. We avoided the room after the first night, but despite the chill, Sèan and our friend Joe ascended the stage to perform their Lùibini to rapturous applause. Afterwards, a group of ten musicians performed the song, Siùil A Rùin, otherwise known as ‘Buttermilk Hill’ back home. One thing that is endlessly fascinating to me is the endless recycling process that is folk music. Buttermilk Hill has no mention in the Irish version of the tune, but a little research reveals that it’s more than likely located somewhere in North Carolina. It seems that that region of the country, the Carolinas, Virginia, Kentucky, are the richest for the exchange of Irish, Scottish, and African music that would later become Bluegrass and Old Time. It’s always a surprise to me, the music that moves me the most is usually something shipped over from the Old Country and dressed in an American bow.

I guess in a few weeks Lucia and I will be putting our own dressing on the Lùibìnì, Sèan’s wife reckons it ought to be entered in the Guinness book of World Records, I’m concerned with little more than getting the words and sounds down right. When we practice in the kitchen at night, Am Fear Marbh listens with his ever-discerning ear, and I swear, from time to time, he actually smiles.