The Met in Cork City & Singing at Pascal O’Brien’s:

Ireland is a place of music and wonder.

I went to the Metropolitan Opera in Cork City a couple of weeks ago, having become a shameless Opera junkie courtesy of The Met’s HD satellite broadcasts.  If you haven’t seen The Met in HD you should give it a try. It may change your attitude toward grand opera. There is a magical, infectious energy to live performance which the high technology of the Met manages to capture and broadcast worldwide by satellite.  If you’re new to opera, see a Mozart or anything Italian, buy some popcorn, and take Kleenex.  They’re mostly heartbreakers.  We saw Das Rheingold starring Bryn Terfel, the Welsh baritone, as Wotan, the henpecked King of the Gods.  My friend Lisa, also Welsh, joined me and we had a smashing good time,  Lisa harmonizing with the Rheine maidens in the opening scenes.  There’s something a little unglued about opera at a movie theater; Lisa plugged right into the spirit of the event with all the legendary enthusiasm of the Welsh Gael.  Opera isn’t church.  It’s living theater!

Later that night we wound up at Pascal O’Brien’s pub in Rosscarbery.  There was live traditional music, Guinness on tap, and great conversation.  Irish Trad incorporates American music which, like me, has come home from the sea; everyone can sing along one way or another. I did.  My friends, Copper Frank and bachelor Paddy O’ (aged > 80) were also there so we had good crack between sets.   Paddy’s motto is “Viagra and Brandy,” God love him.  He kept busy chatting up the ladies at the next table.  I worry that Paddy will blow a gasket, but he soldiers on, mad as a fish for the touch of a woman.

As the weather has cycled through fall toward winter I find myself more occupied with indoor life, cleaning and tuning Ms. Raleigh, cooking, and practicing Yoga.  I’ve been reading Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda, founder of The Self-Realization Fellowship which popularized Yoga in California in the 1920s.  They used to have a mushroom burger stand on old Highway 1 at their ashram in Encinitas.  I never had the courage to stop and try one; was afraid that the strange people in robes and sandals would embarrass me by proselytizing over the counter.  If only I’d been so lucky so long ago! 

I volunteer two days a week at The Children’s Project, a charity store in Clonakilty which features well cataloged used books and an ocean of recycled toys.  Parents and grandparents bring their young charges into a wonderland of unpackaged toys which they may touch and take home for a few pennies.  A surprising number of people patronize the bookstore and return the books for resale later.  Since we’re all volunteers, after the rent everything goes to children’s charities.  I sometimes play my pennywhistle for the little ones who, bless them, are an appreciative audience for my puny, stumbling efforts.

Life is grand in West Cork.

Surfers At Long Strand

Autumn has come to West Cork and stillness creeps over the land.  Dogs stay closer to their doorsteps and farm animals seek shelter on the lee side of hills.  Outings for Ms. Raleigh and me have become less frequent too.  We don’t mind getting caught in the rain, but won’t sally forth into a drizzle.  The sun shone yesterday morning, so we leapt at the chance to take a wander.   The best ride for sheer beauty is along the coast in the direction of Clonakilty.  There are some challenging hills, but the reward is high views of long pristine beaches.

Although the land is settling, the seas have become frisky presenting high dramatic surf conditions; cresting waves crowned with spume come in to pound the rocks.  So it was that we were out and saw a clutch of surfers at Long Strand taking advantage of big surf conditions.  These waves were large and fast moving requiring the surfer to move out smartly or be left behind. 

I watched the surfers and felt a kind of homesickness, nostalgia really, for the land that used to be; old California in the 1950s and 60s.  Huntington Beach was called “Tin Can” and where the San Onofre nuclear power plant stands behind high fences was “The Bone Yard,” a surfer’s dream in Big South conditions.  Small towns dotted Highway 101, places called Palos Verdes, San Pedro, Capistrano, Doheney, Oceanside, and Encinitas. The beaches were little used, particularly in the fall, and the towns were haunted by war veterans trying to recapture the youth they’d lost in Korea’s freezing  mud. 

My favorite café of those years was the now forgotten Noah’s Ark on the bluff just north of Encinitas.  The building looked like an ark washed onto high ground. It had funky African animal cutouts peering over the gunnels.  They made a wonderful clam chowder.  Before McDonald’s, each café had its own unique menu, some of it very good, all of it cooked fresh while you chatted up the waitress. Really, that was more important than the chowder. Do you remember the Dylan line, "Girls faces formed a forward path ..."?  Why is it after all these years I can still recall her smile?

So, we watched the surfers at Long Strand and wandered back to another time and forgotten place; remembering a girl's shy smile.  One boy caught a good wave and rode it like a Hawaiian prince before he kicked out in the wash.  Gulls called and I applauded.  Then we rolled on home to Rosscarbery.

Threshing at Sam's Cross

            Sam’s Cross is between Clonakilty and Rosscarbery, inland and uphill. Surrounded by farms, the crossroad hamlet is a short walk from Michael Collins’ family home, a secular pilgrimage site.  Everyone who knows Irish history visits the family home, says a prayer for the soul of Michael Collins, and heads for “The Four Alls,” the pub at Sams Cross.  Sure if you’re going to pray for a fella in Purgatory, you should wet your throat in his memory too.

            The “Threshing” at Sam’s Cross is an annual horse fair and traditional fall festival.  The Four Alls, is still owned by relatives of The Big Fella.  For The Threshing the pub features live traditional music all day, performers of all ages doing the old songs well and adding to the canon.  The little place was crowded by with smiling faces, children underfoot, young folks puttin’ on the style, and ol’ wans savoring the moment.

            Ms. Raleigh and I came by the back road from Rosscarbery and rolled in to minor applause from friends who’d arrived before us.  “Here comes Preacher Frank on his push bike!”  It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, almost hot, and we sat outside and talked about the weather, the upcoming winter, and, of course, horses.  I met an old guy who told me he’s once turned down an offer to sell him a nearby cottage and acre of land for 90 Irish “Punt” (Pounds).  Another old guy, “Joe” came with the two old women who are his perennial companions.  He calls them his girlfriends and there was considerable speculation about that family’s domestic arrangements after Joe left. Joe isn’t clear about his age, but knows he’s well past 90, a figure confirmed by other adults there.  Joe was born not far from Sam’s Cross, worked in Birmingham for 50 years, and came home.  His doctor has forbidden “the black stuff” (Guinness Stout), and Joe complies, though God knows why.  He just comes along for the good crack and to give the ladies an outing.  When I walked up to pay my respects, Joe reached out with his right hand and said “Welcome back home.”  We shook hands and chatted about his life and mine.

            Sam’s Cross is a farming community and nobody paid any attention while a stallion mounted a mare just outside the patio.  The pre-teen boys holding both horses by halters were too busy talking about their own stuff to bother noticing the horses.   The horses, of course, could care less.  People were more interested in their conversation and the music.  Still, city boy that I am, I wanted to stand up and applaud.  Life rolls on in Sam’s Cross.

            Ms. Raleigh and I left The Four Alls reluctantly, but the sun was low on the horizon and we needed to get home in daylight.   Because of the hour, we decided to take the most direct route home and came across a group of road bowlers enjoying West Cork’s own favorite sport.  Contestants bowl between villages, each rolling a steel ball about the size of a Navel Orange.  The person who makes the tour with the fewest tosses is the winner.  There are, of course, songs celebrating the prowess of road bowlers who defended the honor of their own village pub.  The group I encountered was quite young, so the old game is in no jeopardy of slipping into memory.  Ms. Raleigh and I waited respectfully at the side of the road while they bowled through in high spirits.

            Home in Rosscarbery, I cleaned Ms. Raleigh and kipped in with book.  Life is good. Life rolls on.

Shank’s Mare in Cork City

Cork City, like Amsterdam, was built up from marshy coastal lowland. The modern city retains that history in its many bridges and streets which wander, still following their ancient water channels. Notably, St. Patrick’s Street, a major shopping artery, is a former canal which winds its way across the old city. Unlike Amsterdam, Cork has not yet adopted the bicycle as its primary means of transportation. There is a network of city busses and, of course, taxis and other automobile traffic. The Irish government encourages cycling by offering tax free purchase of bicycles coupled with interest free loans. If they built a network of bike paths in Cork, I think the initiative would take wing. Cork is a compact city and flat in and around the civic center. Right now, touring the city by kick scooter would be very viable. I wished I’d brought my trusty Xootr, King of the Sidewalk.

Cork is also a beautiful city with an attractive mix of colorful traditional store fronts and modern shopping malls. The public buildings are well maintained and inviting. You feel a sense of civic pride in Cork. It is a shoppers’ city with upmarket department stores and specialty shops. Cork has a French Quarter featuring restaurants and shops which reflect Ireland’s traditional links with Catholic France. Cork is blessed with sunshine much of the year and this makes outdoor dining and socializing inviting, as in Paris.

There is, of course, a tourist trail including St. Finbarr’s Cathedral, Shandon Tower, The Butter Exchange, University College, and Cork City Gaol. The jail has in its day welcomed some famous patriots, among them my personal favorite Countess Constance Markiewicz, the fire-eating freedom fighter who led the brigade at Steven’s Green in the Easter Monday Rising. Sentenced to death, she was reprieved because of her gender and social class. The English lived to regret this decision. There is a wonderful studio portrait of this great lady dressed in the full length skirts and hat of the early 20th Century, but accessorized by a Broom Handle “Bolo” Mauser in her lap. I wish I’d purchased that photo when I first saw it. Like the photo of Michael Collins with his bicycle, this of Countess Markiewicz is iconic.

I went to Cork with a mission. Although I’d visited previously, I had never before gone on campus at University College Cork. Like most city universities, UCC has leached into its surrounding neighborhoods with offices and some classrooms in its periphery. The central campus, however, is surrounded by the River Lee and is a quiet island of learning and beauty. It is lovely and the kind of place in which everyone should find intellectual refuge at some point in their lifetime. They have a vigorous adult education program and I registered for an evening course in Humanitarian Studies.

There was an adult learning fair in progress at Cork City Hall and there I learned of the variety and depth of intellectual activity year-round in Cork. I also took a brochure for Cork’s Culture Night in which 62 different cultural venues open their doors without charge to the public. This is Cork’s equivalent of Paris’ Nuit Blanche. I plan to take in some rare screenings of Irish Language Film with English sub-titles, visit the Synagogue, and The English Market, maybe more!

When I finished my Cork City walk, I tumbled back on the bus for Rosscarbery, Rosscarbery of the Swans. It felt good to be heading home.

I divorced California in 2003:

Bros Befo’ Hos

Disneypark and surly crowd
Surly-er choo-choo crowd herders
Gentelleros hoscos
Backfarting Lexus jalopy

Old Vera Street
Are you still Mexicano? No?
Latino? No! Hispanic! No!
Hey, ol’ vato! Viva Atzlan?

No se.

Californicated.
Again

No space birthplace
Bros befo’ hos

Adios Lost Angels

Street Begging for Amnesty International

The other day I spent the morning in front of O’Donovan’s Hotel in Clonakilty begging change to support Amnesty International. I was surprised by the randomness of generosity. A young woman who looked in need herself gave 5 Euros, a seedy looking old man stopped and rummaged in his wallet to make a contribution. Smiling, he shuffled off into the Pearce Street crowd. People were sweet, stopping and talking about human rights, world hunger, and prisoners of conscience. They were more sad than indignant or judgmental. I felt spiritually nourished; some of their goodness infused me.

One of the volunteers, Beth, is an American teaching in Prague, Czechoslovakia. She was on vacation with two friends. That night I met the same three friends on the village square where I was listening to an Irish band perform Irish and American folk music; Janis Joplin finding her way into the Traditional Irish lexicon. They invited me to join them in O’Brien’s for a jar. Rather than decline with a speech about Buddhist abstinence, I went along. The pub scene was humorous because there was a crowd and live band in there too. At least three of us have hearing problems, so we shouted and laughed about the perils of what is euphemistically called “maturity.” I had a very good time, enjoyed my pint, but woke the next day feeling vaguely diminished. Even in good company intoxicants aren’t worth the bother.

Beth’s professional website, www.beth-lazroe, hits a harmonic chord with me. She presents a photo study and accompanying essay about hyper-sexualized street advertizing in Prague. Her complaint was mine in Paris. Innocent pedestrians are indiscriminately assaulted daily; constantly presented with glossy, overblown imagery of essentially nude models accessorized to suggest bondage or other degradation. We’re sleaze attacked whenever we venture outside our doors. Commercial “speech” is a race into the abyss and Beth’s website takes serious issue with this. So do I. The Irish don’t take free speech that far and I’m glad.

In Clonakilty I stopped at The Children’s Project, a thrift store, to shop for a book. When I came out, two men were admiring Ms. Raleigh. They asked knowledgeable questions and complimented her beauty and spare functionality. That made Ms. Raleigh’s day. She rolled home very full or herself and frisky. Sometimes I think Shinto has a point; there is sprit within all things.
On the way home I noticed an alcoholic sitting on a forlorn bench at a viewpoint on Clonakilty Bay. He drinks in solitude, a lonely drunk surrounded by every earthly beauty. I wondered if there is a way to reach out to him. I thought of two old friends’ drunken deaths. West Cork feels like paradise to me, yet for him it’s hell.

If tears could build a stairway
And memories make a lane,
I’d walk right down to Hades
And bring you back again.

It’s doggerel, I know, but the verse comes to me when I think of friends' lives lost to substance abuse.

The Rosscarbery Festival’s adult feature that night was a walking tour of the village. We visited the Anglican Cathedral, the Catholic Church, both “Saint Fachtna’s”, the ruin of the ancient abbey, and the tombs of Irish patriots O’Donovan Rossa and Michael Collins. Rossa’s is overgrown and hidden beneath ivy and bracken. Also on the tour were Rossa’s birthplace, a house where Tom Barry once lived, and the R.I.C. Barracks, site of a famous IRA assault in the War of Independence. Rosscarbery is rich in revolutionary history; the stories still fresh enough that our guide, an older man, embellished them with local recollections and genealogy. His references to the R.I.C. were without rancor, but the atrocities of the Black & Tans still roused anger. He knew the names and families of the victims of the Black & Tan reprisal for the barracks attack - a Black & Tan tossed a bomb into the Festival Day crowd, indiscriminately killing and maiming civilian non-combatants. Our tour ended with an IRA daring escape story which had taken place in the alley just behind the village square.

On the square a live band was playing kids’ music to an enthusiastic crowd of dancers and wannadancers. The young people looked fresh and more wholesome than they’d probably like to know. I watched for awhile, and then went home to sleep. Obla di, obla dah.

Glandore, Union Hall & Drombeg Ring

I asked a fella directions and he said, “Ah, Glandore!” with a soft smile. “Now, Glandore is special, like that place in the Gene Kelly movie, 'Brigadoon,' just a page or two behind today.” Busy care-filled today. And indeed, Glandore is lovely. Set on the side of a hill overlooking a small boat Harbor, you can hear young sailors calling and laughing on the water below. There are picnic tables in a grassy sloped park, clean restrooms, several tempting pubs, sailboat rental, and an up-market hotel. And, to pass the time when the rain slides through, I found art galleries and antiques stores, each selling Irish nautical collectables and little bits of old Erin. I love the sepia postcards and photos. Someone once called old photos “Instant Ancestors.” They well might be, you never know. One merchant had a street sale in front of his store. I paid a little too much for a copy of Tristan Jones’ Adrift to add to my growing stack of readings. Tris’ yarns a great yarn, not strictly true, mind you, but worth the candle. You feel like you’re swapping stories with an old friend over a jar.

Union Hall is a working fishing village across the bay from Glandore. To get there we cycled over two bridges, one of them a narrow span with a passing bulge in the middle, like gopher snake after a pleasant repast. A playful wind puffed to blow us into the harbor, but wasn’t serious about it, just funning. Ms. Raleigh and I rolled along to the quay at Union Hall. There I watched families launch kayaks and ate my bag lunch. The mid-day sun was warm and a nap would have done nicely, but Ms. Raleigh was tugging me to roll on.

Going home, it rained lightly when we paused at Drombeg Stone Circle, but visitors didn’t seem to notice. They walk reverently and take photos of each other standing outside, almost never inside, the ring. The site is an instinctive holy place. People leave wildflowers and coins on the low center stone. It’s a portal to the old wans. The only traffic we met was two girls on bikes who flew past us on the long downhill run into Roury. They called a greeting and I prayed that they didn’t hit pot holes or loose gravel. Ms. Raleigh and I worked our way down the hill, still listening as the brook sang us home. She never hurries downhill.

After supper there was a dog show at the Rosscarbery Festival. I saw my new friends Star, a Boxer, and Reese, a Standard Poodle. Children milled about with puppies and dogs. Reese is friendly, but not fawning. My Shepherd pal Toby wasn’t in attendance. I’ll speak with him about it the next time we see each other. I am acquainted with more dogs than humans.

A Meditation:

                                                    Mother May I

                                                   Greet all creation with loving-kindness,
                                                   Share their joy and sorrow,
                                                   Find serenity, and
                                                   Practice peace.

                                                          ~ ~ ~

                                                   Love everything
                                                        Crave nothing
                                                             Find peace, and
                                                                  Cease



 

Coppinger’s Court, Drombeg Stone Circle

This ride became an intermittent walk with two or three sharp climbs for which I elected to stroll beside Ms. Raleigh. We two enjoy a walk in the country. Little streams accompanied us much of the trip and sang to us as we walked along. I ate blackberries from the roadside brambles. (A Blackberry Digression: Ripe blackberries almost drop into your hand. If you have to tug, the blackberry will be bitter and you may get stuck by a thorn. It seems to me there’s a greater life lesson in this observation.)
The lane is lightly traveled by automobiles, having its own serenity. At the top of the first hill there is a long view down the valley to Coppinger’s Court, a fortified great house, a kind of half-castle. It reminded me of the United States government buildings of the Viet Nam era, i.e., built to be impregnable in time of civil unrest; Nixon era paranoia in every stone. Trying two roads to get as close as possible to Coppinger’s Court, I discovered that the second, a turn just past the bridge at the hamlet of Roury, brought us to within a stone’s throw of the ruin. Crows scold from its ramparts.

Built by Sir Walter Coppinger, a Viking’s descendant, in the early 17th Century, the stronghold wasn’t long occupied. Coppinger meant to establish a market town and build a canal to the sea. To his grief, the Irish did not welcome his plan or his heavy-handed rule. Coppinger’s Court proved an insufficient fortress and was ransacked in the 1641 rising. All that remains of Coppinger’s ambitions is his ruined great house, accreting legend and accepting the judgment of gravity.

At Drombeg there is a Megalithic stone circle which marks the winter solstice by alignment with the setting sun. (It aligns southwest!) What makes Drombeg unique are the accompanying settlement foundations. These are remnants of two houses which between them contain an oven, well, fireplace, and cooking sink. Hot stones were immersed in the sink to boil water and cook food, perhaps the first Irish Stew.

Looking up from Drombeg I was struck the view to the Atlantic. The old ones had aesthetic appreciation too; they enjoyed a windswept hilltop overlooking the great green sea. Granted the sparsity of the prehistoric human population, it’s likely that the residents of Drombeg are the ancient ancestors of many modern Irish, particularly those from West Cork. This thought came as I wandered among the stones – my people once lived here. Were they calling across time, “Look up, Frankie dear, don’t we have a lovely ocean view?” It would be grand to camp out at Drombeg Ring on a starry night, listening to the old ones stories.

In my rambles today I met Brian, a self-furloughed steelworker from California. Brian is humping a backpack by bus and Shank’s Mare around Ireland. He told me of his joy in the singing pubs and the fine welcome he’s received from young and old alike. I don’t doubt it; this is Ireland of the mille failte and Brian is an open, smiling young man.  Brian says he’ll come back to West Cork and, God willing, he will and be glad he did. I suggested that if he missed his connection to Killarney he should stay in Clonakilty for the night. He’ll find singing and good company there. Slán leat Brian!