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Walking on Eire
By Tim Cahill, March & April 2006
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I sat and waited for the others as the clouds scudded by overhead. Clew Bay
lay far below, and all its 365 or so islands were lit in sunshine and in
shadow. Presently Mr. Cahill limped to the summit as the clouds closed in on us
and obscured the view. My wife and Karen were the last of our party to the top.
They were walking with the properly dressed grandfather and his angelic
granddaughter, who'd both decided to go more than just a little way. I
hugged my wife and Julie and Dave and Gerry: everyone. Frauka offered her cheek
for a kiss and said, "Bite me." We were deep in the belly of the
cloud now, and a chill wind had risen. Still, there was something unmistakably
mystical about the mountain, and people have known it in their souls since the
first human laid eyes upon it.
Another day we walked off-trail, over the high fields of Ireland's
largest island, Achill, which lies west of County Mayo on the northern shores
of Clew Bay. It is connected to the mainland by a short bridge and is about an
hour-and-a-half drive from Gerry's house. The island trek was one of our
guide's secret rambles, and there was no one else walking along the
ridgeline on this day. The west of Ireland is oft visited, but mostly by people
on a three-day bus tour originating in Dublin. People on these coach tours are
imprisoned behind glass, seldom meet local people, never hear bird song or see
foxes or even step into a genuine bog. I felt privileged to walk over this
remote land, far from any crowd, madding or not.
We splashed through bogs and around heather, then lunched, out of the wind,
in the rocks near a high point over the sea. One hundred and fifty feet below,
waves exploded against rock and the waters near the shore churned white while
the shallower waters beyond were the same turquoise color one recalls from the
Caribbean. We dropped down into a deserted village, one that had been abandoned
in the Famine. There were dozens upon dozens of meticulously constructed rock
homes, still standing but roofless. The houses would have been covered in
thatch back before the Famine. There would have been the sounds of music and
dancing and voices calling across the fields. Now, there was only the low moan
of the wind. It was a sad and sobering sight.
As you walk in western Ireland you are reminded, almost constantly, of the
great hunger. I recall, in particular, one walk on an old Famine road along the
shores of Killary Harbour. We stopped that day at a small pub in Leenane, which
is situated at the head of the harbor. This was, Gerry said, a somewhat famous
place, and he told us that several scenes in the film The Field, starring
Richard Harris, had been shot there. It had all the authenticity anyone could
want. Farmers were taking a break from work, and there were several men playing
music at 3 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon. This is what is called a session, and
you see it in pubs all over Ireland. The musicians are playing for themselves,
learning new jigs and reels, different fiddle-bowing techniques, or drumming
rhythms. The other patrons don't seem to be listening, but if you look,
you'll see folks tapping their feet. This is what is called "riding
the boot."
After half an hour two of the men with instruments left. They were
professionals and had to play a gig in a town 50 miles away that night. There
was one musician left, and Karen asked if he'd sing us a song. He was a
big, hearty older man with a full head of white hair, and you'd know he was
Irish if you met him anywhere on earth. The man behind the bar tapped a spoon
against a glass and, in any Irish pub, that ringing sound means someone is
about to sing and that people should stop their conversations for a moment and
listen.
The white-haired gentleman closed his eyes and began singing in a rich,
perfect tenor that filled the room. People stopped their conversations and
there was dead silence while the man sang of how his heart was heavy because he
had to leave "my green and pleasant valleys for far Americ-cay." It
was a song of the Famine. I felt something rise in my chest, and there were
tears in my eyes. I knew then, without conscious thought, something I'd
wondered about for more than 50 years. I knew why my family had come to
America.
Tim Cahill is the author of nine books, including
Lost in My Own Backyard (Crown, 2004) and
Hold the Enlightenment (Vintage, 2003). He has written for over a dozen
magazines and coauthored the IMAX films Everest and Dolphins.
Thinking of taking a walking vacation? Don't miss
Tim Cahill's expert packing tips.
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