Ruins rise from this land like rotted teeth on a jawbone of rock, circled by crows and the howling wind. It was a long drive from Dublin to the West after two flights and a layover at JFK but we made it to Murrisk by early afternoon last week, spent the evening at The Tavern with pints of true Irish Guinness and plates filled to overflowing with Killary Fjord mussels and fresh lamb. Maggie ordered the breast….I went for the shank. Our son, with us here for the first time, stuffed himself with chowder and Irish stew.
We’ve played three shows since then, each felt better than the last, most recently last night at our ‘local’ pub – the first place we played in Ireland ten years ago – to a crowd who still greets us with “Welcome home!” Now, with our first day of nothing to do but wash clothes and prepare for our trip to Ballinrobe tomorrow to stay at a great bed and breakfast through Christmas, I wanted to sketch a few pictures of this marvellous land.
Wandering Sligo the morning after a gig there, past the statue of Yeats for hot chocolate and lemon cheesecake along the swift Garavogue River and a leisurely drive down the coast to Strandhill where the Voya Seaweed Baths sit perched on the edge of the mighty North Atlantic. Howling winds that never cease, winds that whip the elements into a potion of sleet, rain and snow and cause swirling mists to rise from the lakes and the ocean. Waves crash over stone and rain covers the narrow roads, making each drive a little harrowing.
There are rumors of snow tonight, making for a magic Christmas Eve tomorrow as we drive to Ballinrobe to spend the next day at the house of a friend before another gig there then off again to Ennis, back through Murrisk then on to Bewley’s Hotel in Dublin Monday for the flight home the next day.
This is a wonderful land, powered by myth and mystery. Ancient structures, dark and empty, dot the pastures, from upright stones to the bones of churches and abandoned homes. The wind screams through the trees, and the smell of peat fires burning fills your senses as you walk down the long paths. There is snow on The Reek….Croagh Patrick….as it rises behind the house we live in while here. From the front windows Clew Bay churns between the green pastures filled with sheep between the house and the bay and the rugged outline of Achill Island in the distance, mottled now with fleeting sunlight and the low, dark clouds.
Too soon we’ll be home, arriving late New Year’s Eve in Orlando to play a house party the next day in Gainesville, a hundred miles away. Between jet lag, whiskey and party food I hope someone will tell me later how it went. It’s a very, very good life and my curmudgeonly nature of the last few months has disappeared. Maggie will tell you that it’s about time.
