by David Yeadon
I’d like to, but in all honesty, I can’t. Because that’s not what I did. I was deluged not only by the rain but by memories of my own early ineptitudes. On previous hikes, particularly as a young Boy Scout, I gained the inauspicious reputation of “the lost one,” as a result of my uncanny ability to confuse marked trails with meandering cow tracks that invariably ended in pernicious, cow-pie-filled bogs. So—determined not to repeat such a fiasco—I continued on up the path until it finally merged a few miles later on with a narrow boreen. Here I checked my map for the location of our cottage and hitchhiked home from the Beara Way with visions of a hot bath, a large Irish whiskey, a loving welcoming wife, and a huge dinner of roasted chicken and cabbage and colcannon. The visions dangled like gorgeous fat carrots on the end of an extremely wet stick.
And it all came to pass just as I had envisioned! In fact, come to think of it, Anne’s splendid chicken dinner was just a little too extravagant and well prepared—almost as if she was expecting me back home as soon as the storm hit. And as usual, she was correct in her somewhat demeaning expectations.
Anyway—blaming the notorious fickleness of the southwest Ireland climate—I decided to walk the Beara Way thereafter in shorter segments within relatively easy reach of boreens and pubs. It’s a fine experience if you can put up with constant fogginess, snatching clumsy fistfuls of knife-edged marsh grass, and occasional break-a-leg confrontations with rocky outcrops. And of course, if you’re a true marathon-masochist and the 125 miles of the Beara Way seems far too modest a challenge, there’s always Jim O’Sullivan’s 600-mile O’Sullivan Beara Breifne Greenway. Commemorating the notoriously decimating march of the O’Sullivans following the devastation of their Dunboy Castle in 1602 by the English Elizabethans, the route roams northward deep into County Mayo and ultimately to the city of Leitrim. And if you attempt to complete the whole course, then my hat’s off to you and I’ll toast your progress while watching our almost-tame robin seeking his bread crumbs around our table and sipping my Jameson by our warm fireside at the cottage, or out in the cow-cropped pasture in gorgeously drenching sunshine.
Onward!
26
Weather Signs
(and Visions Too)
IT ALL BEGAN WITH ONE OF those throwaway remarks over lunchtime at Murphy’s. I was chatting with a sprightly-eyed young woman and happened to mention the zaniness of our peninsula’s weather pattern—“utterly unpredictable and fickle” was the euphemistic way I described it following my Beara Way fiasco.
She chuckled and thought for a moment. “Listen. I’m a teacher over in Bantry, and I’ve been working on a class project about weather lore and whatnot. It’s time the students had a chance to show off what they’ve learned. Would you like to be a spectator? You might enjoy it…even learn something!”
I wasn’t too sure I felt like spending an afternoon in that particular fashion, especially as it was quite a long drive to Bantry.
But there I was anyway a week or so later, in Bantry, perched on a very small chair in a classroom with twenty or so kids in the ten-to twelve-year-old range. The teacher was ready to go—the students looked a lot less enthusiastic.
“Sean—you won our last class competition. Tell the gentleman a few of the most important signs we look out for in the weather here.”
No one said anything. No young Sean arose to face the teacher.
“Sean…Come along now…You did very well in the test last week. Stand up now…”
Still no movement. Somewhere a very sensitive Sean lurked, wishing he was the size of a dust mite.
“Sean!”
Actually, he was huge. Relatively speaking, of course, in this class of preteens. And unusually adipose. And unusually red in the face. He towered above his peers—a picture of pure terror caught in a cross fire of smirky sidelong glances.
“I forgot…miss.”
“Sean!”
Sean took a deep breath. “Well…,” he began, “if the stars look dim, very bad weather will follow on the morrow…but when the swallows fly very low, it is a sign of good weather…uh…uh…”
“Tell the gentleman about the winds.”
“Winds, miss?”
“Sean—you know all about the winds. That’s how you won the prize, isn’t it now? Why don’t you start with the east wind…”
After a long pause, “Er…the east wind…brings hard cold weather and very often frost…The west wind brings the fine weather…The southwest wind brings the rain…and er…”
“The north wind, Sean?”
“Er…the north wind…um…”
The teacher was obviously becoming most disappointed by this particular student. His performance was not reflecting well on her prowess as an educator, at least in the area of weather signs.
“Anyone else?” she asked lamely.
Sean immediately sat down and hid behind a sea of heads. His aura of relief was tangible, despite the fact I couldn’t even see him now.
“Me, miss! Me!”
An obviously excitable young girl with bright auburn hair and a flurry of freckles across her cheeks jumped up and down in her chair, waving her hands.
“All right—Maria…”
Maria leapt up, delighted to be the focus of attention and obviously used to it. “Miss, a north wind over the ancient stones brings cold showers, Miss.”
“Very good, Maria…”
“And the wind that blows down the chimney and makes the soot fall into the grate is a sign of rain coming soon or late.”
“Excell—”
“And when the wind raises up the fine dust on the road—that’s rain coming, and if there’s light blue smoke on the hills in May, that means the fine weather will come and stay…and—”
“Thank you, Mar—”
“And if there’s a ring around the moon, it means rain is on the way very soon…”
“Maria—thank you.”
“Yes, miss.” An abrupt break in her eloquent, well-rehearsed flow.
Ancient Stones—A Fallen Dolmen
“That’s very good now. Thank you.”
“But there’s more, miss,” said a frustrated, on-a-roll, precocious Maria.
“Yes, I know, but let’s ask…Finbar. Finbar, stand up please…”
At the far side of the classroom a tiny Finbar rose slowly from his desk, his face pale and sallow. Obviously the sudden spotlight of attention had been unexpected, which caused what one might call a sudden embarrassing and noisy explosion in his preteen gut. He gave an odd gurgle, clutched his stomach, and rushed out of the classroom, leaving the poor teacher uncertain as to her next move.
“So—well now, let’s continue to show this nice gentleman what we all know about our weather. Brendan, it’s your turn now.”
Brendan was obviously destined for stardom. He was a charmingly urchin-faced boy with apple cheeks, a welcome-all smile, and a disarmingly confident “I’d-be-delighted-to-help-out” manner. “Yes, miss—thank you…there are some I really like—the ones that rhyme like, when the stars run bright and low along the darking sky, the frost and the freeze are both close by…”
“Very good, Brendan. Now go on and tell the gentleman about insects and the like.”
“Ah.” Brendan smiled confidently. “Sure indeed I will.” (Oh, yes. I could see this lad on TV in no time at all with his broad grin and twinkling green eyes. A real Irish charmer.) “First, there’s the ants—the ones with the wings—and if they should fall to the earth, it’s a sign of good weather coming. But then, with the bees, if they are noisy and buzzy around the hive, then rain will be coming before the day’s out—as with the midges; if they’re all over in moving clouds over your head, that means rain too.”
“Excellent, Brendan!”
“Miss—I have one, miss…better than Brendan’s!” Brendan laughed as a complete clone of himself rose up at the back of the classroom. Obviously his twin brother.
“All right, Ryan, let’s have it. You won’t be happy until you giv
e it to us anyway.” The teacher grinned, obviously used to their sibling rivalry.
“Well, my grandfather used to say: ‘Mackerel sky and mare’s tales make lofty ships carry low sails.’”
“And what do you think that means, Ryan?”
“It’ll soon be pissing it down,” came a whispered response, but not from Ryan. The class burst out with pent-up laughter.
“Now—who said that?!” demanded the teacher.
The laughter continued. No one rose to admit responsibility.
“We do not use that kind of language in front of guests!”
“No—only at home!” came another subvocal wisecrack from the opposite side of the class.
“Now—look. Who said that?”
A whirling of questioning heads, but still no admittance of guilt from anyone.
“Miss—I haven’t finished yet,” said Ryan as the laughter faded into sniggers. This was obviously a fun class to be in. Although maybe not for the teacher.
“Yes, I know, Ryan. And I know who’s being rude too. I will deal with you both later.” (I don’t think she did know, but she had to maintain face somehow. I nodded with a stern grimace, trying to show my support for her, but giggling like a loon inside.)
“Continue, Ryan, please…”
Ryan smiled as brightly as his TV-destined brother and began again: “Well—when the sun is on the rocks and makes them shine like glass, it’s a sign that rain will very soon come to pass.”
“Good…”
“And another…‘When the new moon is on its back, it is a sign that of bad weather there’ll be no lack…’”
“All right, good…”
“And another, miss—‘When the sea goes a-whistling on a summer’s day, it is a sign there’ll be rain without delay.’”
“Excellent, Ryan. You can sit down now.”
“Just one more, miss—it’s really, really good…”
“Miss!” said sibling Brendan. “Tell him to sit down. It’s my turn again now.”
“Brendan—sit! And Ryan, you, too, sit!”
But Ryan, while slowly lowering himself onto his seat, had to have his way. “If the sun comes out too bright on a winter’s morning, it will certainly rain in the evening without warning—”
“Ryan! Be quiet!”
In the midst of all the frenzy a tall, thin girl arose waiflike from her chair, and as she did, the class immediately quietened. Was she a class leader, I wondered? She seemed to exert a sudden powerful influence over her peers, and even the teacher.
“Ah, Bernadette…you have something to say?” asked the teacher in what seemed to be an almost fawning manner. Bernadette made no reply, merely stood, princesslike, looking over the scattered heads, staring intently at the blackboard. There was total silence. And then she began in a chantlike monotone: “When the smoke rises straight from the stack into the sky, it’ll be long-fair and warmly dry…When a star falls into the sea, it is a sign of a full rain to be…When the swallows are flying high in the sky, it’s a sign of fine weather in the bye and bye…When seagulls rest on land a fair distance from the sea, a storm will be coming, just you wait and see…When the house cat’s back is turned to the turf fire, it means bad weather is coming, likely dire…”
Bernadette nodded to indicate she’d completed her litany and demurely sat down. There was silence again. No wisecracks, no sniggering remarks, nothing even from the two twins, who were obviously the appointed class clowns.
Finally the teacher gave a brilliant if slightly servile smile. “Excellent, Bernadette…and beautifully expressed. Don’t you all agree, class?”
And—wonder of wonders—the class responded with a unanimous murmur of approval. Who was this girl? What was the hold she appeared to have on this class? And the teacher?
Later, when I was leaving, I asked the teacher about Bernadette. “She seemed kind of special. She was certainly treated with great respect by the class.”
The teacher leaned close to me and half whispered, “Well, she…she’s had a hard life, let’s just say that…oh—and then, of course, there was the sighting thing.”
“Sighting? You mean like second sight…seeing into the future?”
“Well no…not exactly,” said the teacher softly. She was obviously uncertain about continuing this discussion. “Y’see, there was talk of a vision…kind of thing…”
“Of…?”
I could tell the teacher was becoming even more uncomfortable, but she’d aroused my all-too-rampant curiosity.
“Well—they say…who knows if it’s true. Bernadette won’t say anything more about it…and the priests are not too happy…even the bishop…It’s something you have to treat very carefully nowadays, y’know.”
“What is?”
“A vision…thing…of the Blessed Virgin. But listen—I’m sorry, I’ve got to go back in. They’re terrible when they’re left alone. I’m sure somebody will tell you the whole story…far better than me.”
But the odd thing was that no one ever wanted to talk about Bernadette’s “vision thing.” It was hinted on a couple of occasions that it would be “best for everyone” if I forgot the whole story.
Which, for the moment at least, I did.
27
Danny’s “Song of Beara”
A FAINT VOICE EBBS AND FLOWS on the other end of the telephone line. A line that ends somewhere in the wilds of New Jersey far from the toxic wastelands of Interstate 95 and “Chemical Alley” and the strange, ever-diminishing swathes of reedy marshlands around Newark and its ever-expanding airport. A line that stretches way over three thousand miles to this little battered phone box outside Eileen Kelly’s post office in Allihies from a quaint colonial cottage on the eastern fringe of the USA set among huge shade trees by a skittering stream.
“So, I’m flying into Shannon next Friday—with Rob and Celia. That’s still okay—right?”
“That’s just wonderful,” I gushed. “You’ll have a great time. I’ve told a few of the pubs around here about your splendid reputation in the States as an Irish folksinger and recording artist supremo and they say come on in and give them a seisuin anytime. Tourist season is pretty well gone—although there weren’t too many of them this year anyway—and they say they’re ready now for a bit of true Irish craic.”
There was a chuckle at the other end. I knew that chuckle well. It always preceded Danny Quinn’s latest jokes, which he scattered randomly throughout all his conversations. In fact, most of our chats seemed to be mere interludes between his jokes, which he invariably laughs at long before he gets to the punch lines. “Did y’hear the one about…”
“What?”
“The one about…What the heck’s wrong with your line…?”
“Oh, nothing much, except it’s pouring outside and I can hardly hear a word from your end…”
“Okay—I’ll save it…It’s too good to lose in the middle of a Beara cloudburst…”
“What?”
A frustrated pause at the other end and then, “When are you gonna get a decent world cell phone or something so we can kvetch like normal people…”
“What?” The last was lost in the thundery roar directly over the phone box.
“Forget it. See you Friday. And tell Anne…”
The rain was now deafening as it crashed in columns on the leaky cast-iron shell of the phone box.
“Yes, okay, I will. Have a great flight…” I had no idea what I was supposed to tell Anne, but I knew that one more “What?” would eradicate the limits of our mutual patience.
“What?” That was him, not me. Followed by more of his gurgling chuckles.
“Get lost, Danny…”
SO THERE I WAS, rudely dismissing my friend, the mighty Danny Quinn, one of America’s finest Irish folksingers, creator of a dozen or more popular albums, composer of countless fine songs, compatriot of Tommy Makem and the Clancy Brothers and, when he was into one of his joke-laden, giggle-laced monologues, one of the funniest of all our fr
iends. And—finally—after much pestering, we had lured him from his rigorous schedule of concert, club, and pub dates in the USA to spend a few days with us at our Beara cottage along with Robby and Celia, longtime buddies from our lakeside neighborhood in the Hudson Valley.
“Anything you need me to do…or bring?” Danny had asked in a previous phone chat on a bright sunny day when conversation from the phone box had been a little more coherent.
Back in the USA Danny would occasionally stay with us at our home when on one of his laboriously long East Coast folksinging tours. And it had now become a most enticing ritual for him to bring a bagful of British goodies—Stilton and (real) cheddar cheese, chocolate biscuits, treacle, British bangers and bacon, and his latest finds in fine red wines.
“Well—you might as well bring a few of your CDs, because as soon as they hear your voice, you’ll be a local star…Oh—and one more request—actually it’s a condition of our hosting you at the cottage and catering to your every gastronomic and other whims…”
“This is sounding good…especially that thing you said about ‘other whims.’ I’ve always got a few of those floating about, y’know.”
“Yeah—and it’s just a simple request…”
“Okay—I’m waiting…But I’m getting just a wee bit nervous.”
“Well, I’ve told you what a fabulous place this Beara is—the scenery, the people, the history, the traditions, and a sense of touching something authentically Gaelic-Celtic…very Irish.”
“Yeah, yeah—I know all that. Why do you think I’m coming?”
“Well—to spend time with us primarily, I assume.”
“All right—that too…I suppose, if you say so. And what is it you want from me?”
“A song.”
“A song?”
“Actually not ‘a’ song, but ‘The Song’…the ‘Song of Beara’. No one’s written one as far as I know. There are plenty of Celtic long poems and all that, but not a really good folk song that captures the unique character of this place.”