Fois

Tha mi a' gabhail fois a-nis, ach sgriobhaidh mi a-ris an dèidh A' Bhliadhna Ur, Nollaig Chridheil dhuibh! I'll be taking a break from writing until after the New Year, Merry Christmas to all!

Tha mi eòlach air...

Ann an Alba, tha sinn ag ràdh gu bheil sinn eòlach air daoine, agus cho fad 's a tha cuimhne agam, air rudan cuideachd, mar tha mi 'eòlach air an òran.' Math tha na faclan agam, agus ma b' urrainn dhomh an t-òrain a' sheinn, ach 's aithne dhomh e, math chluinn mi e turas no dhà. No math tha ceist againn, tha sinn a' faighneachd, 'an aithne dhut 'cuideagan'?' Ann an Èirinn tha iad ag radh, 'ta aithne agam' air dìreach daoine, no ma tha thu rud beag eòlach air a' dhaoine, ach nach eil sibh nur caraidean, faodaidh tu ràdh: 'ta eòlas agam air.'

What would Nelly Kane say?

There is a precipitous road that runs from the heart of Dùn Chaoin, over the hills and into Dingle. It’s a tempting short cut, one that has claimed a life or two. I trace it with my finger from the windows of our sitting room. The only decent connection between Dùn Chaoin and Dingle, running up the hill and vanishing into the occasional outcropping of rock, as mysterious and elusive as my broadband signal, that is sometimes as swift as wireless, others, slow enough to make me want to throw a bottle into the sea off the western edge of the Great Blasket to my relations at home.

The other night I went to a friend’s house for dinner, he grew up with an even mix of English and Irish in the house, and so our conversation switched between the two, haphazard, lazy as a drunk shuffling down Green Street on a Saturday night. We ended up in a philosophical argument about whether or not it’s best to write strictly what you know, or allow the imagination free reign. When I write many things, songs, or the occasional unfortunate poem, they are seldom about myself, but I like to hope, with the right amount of research and a proper dose of imagination, they can come across as authentic.

The argument ended with me hooking up my I-pod to attempt to prove to him that some of the best songs had been written by people that had no familiarity with the set of circumstances, but instead, the insight and empathy to understand, perhaps what that set of circumstances could be like. Gillian Welch’s ‘Caleb Meyer’ filled the white-washed rooms of the cottage, and suddenly there was more than just a turf fire, our words in the smoke, and the peaks of the ‘three sisters’ framed against the sky, but raspy antique parlor guitars, wooden porches, and a broken bottle of moonshine on a bed of orange pine needles.

Gillian Welch did something brilliant with her own twist on a murder ballad in ‘Caleb Myer’. We all know that folklore serves a function, the fairies stole women and children, because honestly, their kind is better of at home, and the banshee screamed to alert of us death yes, but also, to relieve a bit of the anxiety that comes with that transition, the letting go of a life, candle-lit vigils extinguished, rosary beads returned to their drawers. Folklore is folklore on both sides of the Atlantic, and murder ballads in the Appalachian south fulfilled a similar societal need.

Apparently, the Carolinas and Kentucky were chock full of dangerous men and equally foolish women. And of course, many of these foolish women met the same fate, drowned in shallow streams, pushed from steep cliffs, and in one surprising twist of affairs, pushed into the rapids by a jealous sister, only finished off for good by the local mill-owner, lusting for her gold ring. Of course, there really were dangerous men out there, and perhaps Maybell would re-consider that riverside walk with said Tom Dooley after hearing one of said thousand grisly tales.

But honestly, I love what Gillian Welch did with the old story. Nelly Kane is attacked by Caleb Myer, but instead of the typical ending, she finishes him off herself with the broken neck of a moonshine bottle. Gillian Welch grew up in California, I doubt she was ever the victim of an attempted rape and murder in the mountains of Appalachia, but she certainly knows how to put an interesting, and new twist, on an old tale. And it wasn’t just the stonewalls of the room, the fire, and the sound of the sea, a primordial force wiping out the sound of the occasional passing car, but something else, that made me think I was listening to something that had been written a hundred years ago. It was the work of an imagination, coupled with the proper research, and a genuine love for a kind of music, that if not hers by birth, certainly is now by reputation and right. Mrs. Welch simply did her homework, and because of it, wrote something that comes off, to my ears as entirely authentic.

But there is one story in the Appalachians that seems to have no ending: what happened to the language of its settlers? Many families left the Western shores of Scotland during the clearances, and aside from settling in Cape Breton, they also came to the mountains of the American South, if I strain my ear hard enough to an old-time fiddle tune, can I hear, as they say in Cape Breton still, ‘The Gàidhlig in the fiddle?” Who knows, perhaps that is a tale, for another time.

Rudan Beaga

Tha diofair beag bìodach ann eadar an dà chànan, gu h-àraidh air thaobh ‘ann’ agus ‘anns’, Ann an Gàidhlig na h-Alba, tha sinn ag ràdh ‘anns’ nuair a bhios an t-alt ann, tha mi ‘anns an Daingean,’ tha mi ‘anns an Spàinn,’ tha mi ‘anns an Eilean Sgitheanaich.’ Ach, tha mi ‘ann an Alba,’ tha mi ‘ann an Èirinn,’ agus mar sin air adhart. Ann an Gaeilge, tha iad ag ràdh ruideagan mar ‘sa’ nuair a bhios an t-alt ann, tha mi ‘sa Daingean, tha mi ‘sa Albainn, tha mi ‘sa Spàinn, ach ‘i’ nuair nach eil an t-alt ann, tha mi ‘i’ Eirinn, tha mi ‘i’ Dùn Chaoin agus mar sin air adhart. ‘S e na rudan beag bìodach a tha is dhoirbha dhomh-sa!

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.