As he passed an old church just outside the village, he heard music. It wasn’t like the church music at home; in fact, it wasn’t like anything he had ever heard anywhere. Intrigued, he moved closer. The doors were open and, inside, a wedding was in progress. Dylan wasn’t sure what kind of church it was but he assumed it was Christian. Neither he nor Corlene was religious and although his grandmother had been an Episcopalian and had often brought him to church when he was little, for some reason he always felt a bit intimidated in a church environment.
The sounds that were emanating from near the altar were not being created by strings or by a wind instrument, he thought, as he stood in the porch listening and trying to get a glimpse of the musician. The music stopped, and the preacher continued. Dylan edged in from the porch to get a better view. At the top of the church, he could make out three musicians holding a guitar, a violin and some instrument that Dylan had never seen before. As he gazed at the trio, the ceremony came to an end and, after signing the register, the bride and groom proceeded down the aisle, followed eventually by the assembled wedding guests.
The three musicians struck up again. To Dylan’s ears, the unique sound of the strange instrument, whatever it was, soared high above the other two. The music was loud, like a battle march or something, and it made him smile, the first smile he had managed since his arrival in Ireland, or indeed in several months. As he listened entranced, he suddenly realised that, unawares, he had been making his way up the side aisle of church as the wedding guests filtered out. He caught the eye of the man playing the strange instrument. The man smiled at him and Dylan smiled back.
The crowd were now almost out of the church, chatting and taking photos of the happy couple. When the music stopped, the band members began talking and joking.
Impulsively, Dylan approached them.
‘Howareya?’ the man with the strange instrument said.
Dylan didn’t know what that meant, maybe the guy was speaking Gaelic, so he replied, ‘Hi, em, what is that thing you were playing?’
‘Pipes,’ the man replied, seemingly unfazed by Dylan’s appearance, ‘the uilleann pipes. They’re an old Irish instrument, a bit like the Scottish bagpipes, but you don’t blow into them with your mouth. Would you like to have a look?’
‘Sure, I mean yes please. I’ve never seen anything like them before.’
It seemed to Dylan that this thing wasn’t just a single instrument as such; it had various different parts. The man had a leather strap around his waist and another around his arm. A third piece went under his arm. He was intrigued: it looked like one of those things people used to blow air into fires in old movies, to get them going. The fourth piece consisted of a bag covered in green velvet with yellow trim, which the man placed under his left other arm; it expanded when he squeezed the bag-like thing under his right arm. Across one leg lay a series of wooden pipes with keys attached somehow to the rest of this instrument, which the man seemed to be constantly adjusting. In his hands, he held another pipe, a bit like a flute. It was the most complicated instrument Dylan had ever seen.
‘This is a love song,’ the man said, ‘it’s about three hundred years old, written by a very famous Irish composer called Turlough O’Carolan. It’s called ‘Bridget Cruise’.’
The sound that emerged completely transfixed Dylan. It was slow and plaintive, and transported him to another place, where only he and this mesmeric sound existed. A surfeit of images crowded his imagination – glens, mist and an ethereal woman – a girl with long dark hair, sitting alone on a rock. When the music ended, Dylan couldn’t speak.
‘So where are you from?’ the man asked.
‘Em… America, I’m here on vacation. I…em... thanks for playing that for me. It’s really awesome. Did it take you long to learn to play like that? I mean how do you learn that? It seems really complicated.’
‘Well …What’s your name?’ ‘Dylan Holbrook.’
‘Well Dylan, my name’s Diarmuid. I’ve been playing now for about thirty-four or thirty-five years. I learned from my brother to start with I suppose, and when I got a bit better, I went to a pipe master who taught me. I suppose though you never stop learning. Do you play an instrument yourself?’
‘Kind of,’ Dylan felt so intimidated by the skill of this musician that he felt stupid talking about his own efforts at electric guitar.
‘I play a bit of guitar with some friends back home, but I’m just a beginner, so I’m not that good yet.’
‘Would you like to have a go at these?’ Diarmuid asked. ‘But I must warn you most people can’t even get a sound of them at the start’ he added with a smile.
‘Can I?’ Dylan asked in amazement, unable to believe that this stranger would be so trusting.
‘So now,’ Diarmuid began by giving Dylan the leather strap to tie around his waist, attached to which was the bellows he was told. He then strapped a buckle onto his upper arm. He then attached the bag to the bellows, placed the body of the pipes across Dylan’s knees and placed the chanter into his hands.
‘Now Dylan, pump the bellows with your right arm and that provides air for the bag. When you’ve got the bag full apply pressure under your left elbow and we’ll try to get some air to the chanter, that’s the part you’re holding in your hands. First, we have to cover the holes on the chanter. Now put your fingers like this and keep the chanter on your knee. Now start filling the bag with air from the bellows and see what sounds come out.’
Dylan did as he was instructed and to his great delight and surprise, a raw but clear bright sound came forth.
‘That’s good,’ Diarmuid said, ‘Now try lifting this finger.’
After a few minutes making various sounds, Dylan was able to play several different notes.
‘Well, I’ve often had students take weeks to get to that stage Dylan. So you have a knack for them alright’ Diarmuid smiled.
‘Wow! That’s so awesome!’ he exclaimed. ‘I never did anything like that before. They are awesome’, Dylan said. ‘Thanks so much for letting me try them’
‘No bother.’ Diarmuid replied with a smile.
Dylan had no idea how to pronounce the man’s name. Sounded like deer and mud stuck together, but that probably wasn’t right, so he decided against trying to say it.
‘Where are you off to next?’ Diarmuid asked. ‘Em…we’re on a bus tour, so I think we’re staying in
Kinsale tonight.’
‘Well Dylan, we’re playing a session tonight at The Armada in Kinsale if you want to hear more. We start about half nine so maybe I’ll see you then. If not, enjoy the rest of your holiday in Ireland and keep on playing that guitar.’
Dylan walked back to the coach feeling happier than he had felt in as long as he could remember. He was definitely going to that session, which must be an Irish word for gig. Yes, he thought, things are definitely looking up.
Chapter 6
Anna had spent a delightful afternoon in the shops in Blarney buying presents for her friends and family. It would have been nice if Elliot had been able to come with her, but he had discovered that the hotel next door to Blarney Woollen Mills had a business centre, so he spent the three hours in there, checking his emails and talking on the phone.
He had promised, however, that tonight he would leave his phone in the room and take her out to dinner in one of the lovely little restaurants on the waterfront that she had found on the Internet while she was researching their trip. Now, as she lay back in the bath in her room in Kinsale’s luxury boutique hotel, The Blue Haven, deciding what she would wear that night, she smiled to herself. Their vacation could really begin now. Everything was OK in the office, Elliot had said earlier so, hopefully, that meant he would now concentrate on her and on their relationship. As she emerged from the bath, Elliot called through the bathroom door.
‘I’m just going down to the bar for a pre-dinner cocktail, come and join me when you’re ready.’
Anna smiled. She was always happier when left to
dress alone, a perfectionist who never wanted Elliot to see her until she had completed her look.
‘You’re so considerate,’ she replied, ‘I won’t be long.’
While initially Elliot had been dead against the trip, in the week before they left New York, he had warmed to the idea. He knew a lot about the Irish economy, it seemed, and she had even overheard him talking to Conor about Irish planning regulations and land prices. It touched Anna that he took such an interest in a country that she had chosen for their vacation. As she heard the bedroom door shut behind him, she emerged from the bath and looked critically at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Julie might be right; she was getting too thin. On the other hand, Elliot hated fat women, and he always commented when she put on a pound or two. Maybe tonight she could treat herself to an entrée and a main course, but not a dessert – she hadn’t eaten one of those for four years.
As she made her way across the foyer wearing a sleeveless black Donna Karan mini dress, fuchsia pink Manolo Blahnik mules and a matching silk wrap, heads turned. Sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with someone, was Elliot.
‘Hello Darling,’ she said as she approached him.
‘Oh hi,’ Elliot replied and continued talking to his companion.
‘Well, this must be the lovely Mrs Heller. You’re a lucky man Elliot. What can I get you to drink Mrs Heller?’
‘Anna, please’ she replied, ‘I’d like a sparkling water.’
Elliot never chatted to people. He must be really relaxing at last, she thought.
‘Ah now Anna, if that’s what you really want then thy will be done, but since we’re celebrating, maybe I could tempt you to something a bit more cheerful?’
‘What are we celebrating?’ Anna asked, raising an eyebrow at Elliot. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name Mr...’
‘Tony, Tony Walsh. I’m sorry Anna, I thought Elliot had mentioned me. Obviously, he was so preoccupied with your beauty and your charm that a big eejit like myself didn’t come up in conversation. Frankly, I don’t blame him. If I was lucky enough to be married to you, I wouldn’t be talking business either,’ Tony said smoothly.
‘Business?’ Anna said, sounding surprised, ‘I didn't know you knew anyone in Ireland Elliot? What sort of business?’
‘It’s nothing,’ Elliot replied briskly ‘Tony and I have been talking for the past few weeks, just bouncing a few ideas around about a bit of potential real estate development over here, nothing for you to worry about Anna,’ he added dismissively.
Elliot turned his attention back to his companion, ‘So where are we going for dinner? I’m starving.’
‘Well, I told the architect and the planning rep to meet us in Jean-Claude’s at eight if that suits you both? It’s French, but the portions are Irish. So you won’t be going for chips afterwards! Righty-ho will we go so?’
Tony stood up and drained his pint, Elliot finished his whiskey and, as Anna never actually had her drink, they walked out of the bar.
Patrick was enjoying himself as he walked into the town with a pronounced spring in his step. The late afternoon sun was reflecting off the water in the harbour and the clinking of masts on the dozens of boats moored in the harbour provided a pleasant soundtrack to this colourful and cheery little place. He felt truly at home.
He had done some family research before his departure. He had visited an aunt-in-law in New York, who told him that she thought his great-great grandfather had come from County Cork, but as he emigrated in the 1870s, there was nobody still alive who could provide any more detail. Patrick would have loved to hear all about a long Irish lineage, and maybe even meet up with some cousins here, but based on the little information he had acquired to date, that seemed impossible. Strolling along a side street, he caught a waft of garlic coming from a nearby pub. He’d only had a light lunch, so maybe an early dinner mightn’t be a bad idea.
He found himself a corner table and made himself comfortable. A thin waitress with unnaturally black hair and a very pointy nose appeared, and, in heavily accented English, asked him what he would like to order.
‘Well Miss, what would you recommend for a returning Irishman?’ he asked jovially.
‘Specials are on board, everything else is on menu, it is all good,’ she replied brusquely, clearly impatient to take the order.
A bit chastened by her attitude, he asked for fish and chips and a pint of Guinness. Patrick had hoped to be served by an Irish colleen, all freckles and smiles, not this vicious looking creature from behind the Iron Curtain. But, hell, he was determined not to let anything, certainly not that sour broad, spoil his vision of his homeland.
The pub began to fill quickly, and soon there wasn’t a single free table to be had. As he was tucking into his beer battered fried fish, he heard a voice say:
‘Excuse me, I wonder would you mind awfully if I sat here? There don’t appear to be any more free tables.’
Patrick looked up to see a tall, bizarrely dressed woman with wild hair smiling down at him.
‘Of course,’ he responded enthusiastically, ‘I can recommend the fish too, it’s really great.’
‘Well I might just order that then,’ she replied, ‘though I usually have a salad. My name is Cynthia Jeffers by the way, and you are?’
She stared at him, one hairy eyebrow raised inquisitively. ‘Patrick O'Neill, Boston, USA at your service ma’am, delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he added with a flourish. ‘I’m here on a tour of the old country. My folks came from Ireland, so I’m settling in just fine here. Are you on vacation too?’
‘Gracious no! I wish I was. I live here, well not here exactly, further east, County Waterford. Do you know it?’ and, without waiting for an answer continued,
‘My aged uncle died recently and, as he had no children of his own, I’m rather afraid that dealing with his affairs and sorting through his impedimenta seems to have fallen to me. Old Uncle Herbert was a nice but totally dotty old goat. Daddy and Mummy despaired of him, forever chasing the stable hands and trying to goose the maids, but of course fairly harmless really. His house is just outside the town here. I’ve been working on his stuff all day, so I really deserve a nice meal and a glass of wine! God knows the last time anyone cooked anything in his kitchen. An ancient local woman came in once a week but, apparently, he was being a bit frisky even with her. I think she used to just look in, check that he wasn’t dead and then leave again. The place really is in the most dreadful state. The vicar’s wife called around earlier – a mousy little thing, but she means well one supposes – with a pot of rhubarb preserve. But I felt I deserved something a bit more substantial to eat. So, here I am.’
She had a tinkling, girlish laugh, which belied her odd appearance and her age, which Patrick guessed was mid- forties or thereabouts. He examined her closely as she spoke to the scary waitress. She was wearing what appeared to be men’s shoes, albeit in a small size, purple woollen panty hose with several holes, and a caftan dress of the type favoured by hippies in the 1970s. Her hair was a tawny blonde colour but seemed badly in need of a comb.
When she had finished placing her order, Patrick said, ‘Wow Cynthia, you sound like you’ve had a busy day. By the way, did you say you grew up here?’
He was confused. Her accent sounded English – like one of the Royal Family if the truth be told –but she had said, or had implied, that she was Irish.
‘Oh yes, we live at Kilgerran, near Dungarvan. Daddy wouldn’t ever leave but Mummy has never missed a season in London. She dragged me along a few times but in the end, she just gave up. She claimed the reason I never made a good match was because Daddy insisted on confining my social life to the local fellows. I do rather enjoy going back to the mainland occasionally, catching up with school chums and so on, but not to live, gracious no! The hunting is gone for a start. In addition, England now is so full of dreadful jumped-up types with lots of money. But I mean to say, who are they? An old school pal of mine had to sell their seat to a used car d
ealer! His ghastly wife is buying up everything she can find in Laura Ashley. Mummy nearly choked when she heard. Oaklands had been in the Gore-Patten family since Agincourt.’
Patrick was mystified. Although Cynthia spoke English, he had absolutely no idea what she was on about. Still, something about her made him want her to keep talking.
‘So you went to school in England?’ Patrick tried again. ‘Naturally, I mean it’s what one does, isn't it? Though thankfully Daddy lost a packet at Ascot the year I was to go to that finishing school in Switzerland. Saved me from that horror due to lack of funds. One can only imagine how ghastly that would have been. Arranging flowers and designing interesting table settings, dear me no, definitely not for me! Though that’s another reason, Mummy claims I didn’t manage to make a good match. No, after that, I came home and a jolly good thing too! Honestly, Mummy and Daddy are simply hopeless. So, I took over the estate. It’s doing well now. I have a frightfully clever chap over from New Zealand of all places, a genius with the geldings! Oh, hark at me blathering on... I’m so sorry. I haven’t spoken to a single human being all day!’
Patrick just gazed at her mesmerised. He was sure of one thing. Never in his fifty-six years had he met anyone like Cynthia. She might as well have been speaking Arabic for all he understood, but God she was highly entertaining.
As they enjoyed their meal and ordered more drinks, the conversation flowed. Her tales of her Uncle Herbert and a DNA test for paternity had him wiping his eyes in mirth. The loveliest thing about her, he thought, was the fact that her humour and chatter was effortless. He was amazed when he checked the time to discover that the pub was about to close. When they were ordered to move outside by the Stalinist waitress who was busy mopping the floor, he had a brainwave.
The Tour Page 5