by David Yeadon
“And those Wicca exponents too, I suppose?” I asked.
“Well, Wicca’s a little different, isn’t it. I’m becoming more interested in that. Bob’s not so sure, he thinks it’s a bit too…‘witchy.’ I try to explain that Wicca is like ‘white’ as opposed to ‘black’ magic—y’know, ‘the black arts.’”
“Well,” said Anne, “you’ve picked the right place to sense all these things. And on the winter solstice too!”
“Yes! And it’s so beautiful, isn’t it? This place is so…resonant. Part of a huge network of circles and standing stones and ley lines—you know—lines of earth energy…”
“Right,” I mumbled. “Ley lines…” (a subject I’ve always regarded with some suspicion)
“You feel you’re touching something timeless—a great mass of ancient knowledge and truth and wisdom—thousands of years old. A power that used to be understood, but it’s been forgotten for so long. The power of the Earth Mother—all these great eternal forces of nature…”
Suddenly she stopped and giggled. “I’m sorry—really I am. I don’t normally talk so much…honestly…I hope you don’t mind…”
“No, no, not at all,” said Anne. “Go on. It’s very interesting.”
Obviously complaints about the cold and the deep dark and the menacing stones had been forgotten for the moment. And that was just fine, even though the skeptical me was wondering about the veracity of this strange little person sitting all by herself in her black garments surrounded by these tiny candles. All very odd.
“What do you and your partner do…you know…living in your van. Do you do crafts…are you writers?”
“No—and yes,” she said ambiguously. “We kind of do whatever we feel like doing. I’m trained in calligraphy, so I usually find someone wanting signs or wedding invitations…anything. I’m also an illustrator, so I make cards that sell pretty well down south, in Kent, where I come from. And Bob—my partner—oh, I’m sorry. I’m Mary, by the way—I forgot to introduce myself.”
We all introduced ourselves and she continued. “Bob is a fantastic carpenter and builder. And a folksinger. He’s well known in the south. Gets a lot of gigs and stuff…oh, and a lot of other things we do. It seems to work. We get by. Living on the road isn’t that expensive—except for the petrol! That monster drinks the stuff like a thirsty camel. That’s why we call it the Camel…”
“Great name,” I said to Anne, and we smiled reminiscently. We’d begun our own traveling lives in a similar fashion eons ago, long before I started writing and illustrating travel books. In a way listening to Mary was like listening to our earlier selves—except for all the stuff about solstices and equinoxes and Earth Mothers. Somehow we’d never seriously explored those particular avenues. But I was certainly willing to hear more.
“So—why are you doing all this? What are you personally looking for?” I asked.
Mary giggled again. It was enticing. She didn’t come across at all like one of those “I’ve found it, and you haven’t” New Age converts. There seemed be no complacency. No preaching. She didn’t seem to demand control of the channel changers. She seemed to be just someone reaching out to aspects and forces in our world that most of us either scoff at, reject, or blissfully ignore.
“I’m not always sure what I’m looking for. I’m not even sure if there’s any specific ‘it.’ I think it’s more of a process of letting go and opening up and seeing what comes…does that make any sense?”
“Yes,” said Anne adamantly. “Yes, it does.”
Mary continued. “I don’t think there’s any end-thing I want or need. I’m just excited to…‘go with the flow.’” She laughed out loud. “Clichéd—but it’s what it feels like, you know. Flowing. Seeing where the flow takes us. There’s so much inside us—all of us—that we rarely use. We don’t even know it exists much of the time. I think the ancients knew. I’m sure they felt themselves intuitively to be part of these powerful forces—a huge network of forces—that linked them with…well…everything.”
“That’s the impression you certainly get when you read about ancient cultures—tribes in Amazonia, the Australian Aborigines, Native Americans…,” I said.
“Yeah—right. They were all tapping into energies that we don’t seem to understand anymore at all nowadays. We’ve got too many distractions—we’re all so…separate, I suppose. The people who placed these stones were fully in tune with the power of the seasons—Bealtaine, Lammas, Samhain—the Celtic New Year at the beginning of November when they light those huge bonfires. I mean, the whole layout of the stones here—and other places on the island and all over Britain—reflect the exact phases of the seasons. They show the great turning circle of Earth’s energies—the circles of everything in creation. From the tiniest bits of matter—all those revolving bits and pieces of atoms, right out to our own solar system, the galaxies…all circles…life, death, and back to life again. Round and round. You can sense all that here…circles within circles within circles…”
As Mary spoke, her hunched little frame rose straighter, higher, but then she stopped, slumped back to her former dark crouch, and giggled. “Or something like that. It’s hard to explain.”
“I think you’ve explained it beautifully,” said Anne softly.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Thank you.”
Mary smiled. “I know we’re living a bit of a crazy life—Bob and me. And who knows how long it’ll be…before we’re sucked back into the everyday things. But at the moment it feels right. We’re touching things we don’t quite understand…and it’s beautiful…”
“And you’re learning—and sharing,” I suggested.
“Yeah…we’re learning…” Mary smiled. “We’re very lucky to be able to do that.”
I wanted to give her something. A small thank-you gift. But all I could find in my pockets was a bar of chocolate. “I wish I’d got a bottle of brandy or something to keep you warm,” I said. “But maybe some chocolate…”
“Oh, thanks,” said Mary with what looked like genuine pleasure. “That’s really nice of you. I’ll save it until Bob gets back…well, some of it…”
We left her crouched down in the moonlight by the monoliths with her candles. We turned one last time as we passed out of the stone circle, and they were still flickering. Tiny warm glows in that dark, chill December night…
33
Rooting Around
A Final Adventure in Search of My Irish Heritage
“WELL—I KNOW YOUR GRANDFATHER, WALTER Wade Yeadon, was a famous comedian and singer…right? And Yorkshire-born too, like you and Anne.”
It seemed odd to be chatting with my cousin David, whom I’d met only on the rarest of occasions during our lives. We’re not a particularly close extended family, but by the amicable tone of our conversation, you’d think we’d been buddies for years. And somehow our chat now began encompassing aspects of our mutual family history and one character in particular who had always intrigued me—the great black sheep of our Yeadon clan. My father’s father. My grandfather. Walter Wade Yeadon.
I’d heard only tantalizing bits about him in the past. No one in the family seemed willing to discuss him or his life. It was, quite simply, a taboo subject. You just didn’t mention his name. I explained all this to David.
“Yes, well, I suppose that’s understandable.” He chuckled. “He was quite a rake. A naughty old boy of the first order. Used to travel with those music hall shows—and, of course, lots of those music hall chorus girls—all over the place…Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, South America, the USA—you name it! I think he went up the Amazon once or twice to that weird city—the one that used to control the rubber trade. The one with that enormous opera house!”
“Manaus.”
“Right—Manaus. I think he went there. And then, when he was home in England, he performed in all the big music hall theaters. He was billed as ‘Walter Wade—The Great Yorkshire Scot’ and also ‘Yorkshire’s Harry Lauder.’ He pinched the real
Harry Lauder’s act—you remember the famous Scottish guy with the kilt and the crooked walking stick? Did a kind of Andy Capp Yorkshire take-off of Harry’s spiel—flat cap, baggy trousers, wooden clogs, and all that. Apparently he was very popular. Kept on going for years with pretty much the same act…”
“Right—and he kept on going past my grandma’s house too, hardly ever popping in. And according to Gran, God bless her, when he did, it was a quick ‘So how are you and the kids doing and here’s a bit o’ cash for a few treats’ and then he was gone again, leaving four children behind and my gran weeping and furiously sticking knitting needles in his old music hall posters…or so my dad told me. Normally he wouldn’t talk about him at all. Well, actually, he wouldn’t until the last few years of his life. Then he seemed to make peace with his memories and forgave old Walter, who was long gone by then, and he began to talk about him…just a little at first and then later on with what seemed to be something approaching real affection. And he even gave me Walter’s battered, stringless violin—I still have it back at home. On display, even!”
“And,” said David, “y’ seem proud to know your grandmother was Irish.”
“Yes—well, yes I am, but that was another one of those family taboo subjects. Especially as I think she came from the south somewhere. Too many problems up in the English north with Sinn Fein and the IRA…”
“She was from County Mayo originally,” David told me, “but the family moved to Yorkshire in the late 1830s. Her maiden name was Forkin. Annie Forkin. And where is it you’re staying in Ireland—doing your book?”
“The Beara Peninsula.”
“Ah—Kenmare. And Glengarriff, right? Lovely little towns, those.”
“Indeed they are. And Beara itself is a wild and wonderful place. A bit of true ‘old Ireland.’”
“Sounds great. I never went farther west than Glengarriff, unfortunately. But look—it’d only be a three-or four-hour drive to County Mayo. You should go and check out your roots and whatnot…”
There was a long pause at this point. David is one of the few celebrities in our extended family. He’s a well-known TV actor, but I had no idea he had any interest in “rooting forays” and all that messy business of family trees and genealogical whatnot.
“Oh, I’ve been dabbling in charts and trees for years,” said David. “I guess I’m the family historian now—by default! I can send you some stuff, if you like—you might find it interesting. You never know.”
David was, indeed, a man of his word. A hefty package arrived the following week. In addition to a massive tome of photocopied birth, death, and marriage records going back in some instances to the late 1700s (he was right about our family when he described their Catholic breeding habits as ‘like rampant rabbits’!—more like a biblical bonanza of begatting). He also enclosed some rather more intimate—and touching—items. My grandfather, the one none of the family wanted to discuss, suddenly came alive. All I had previously to confirm his existence was that old violin. But now came a cornucopia of other tangible evidence. Most fascinating were photos of his stocky figure and ruggedly handsome face and copies of old music hall bills featuring his name prominently along with other favorites of the era, including Norman and Leonard in their “Old Time Melodies Musical Extravaganza”; Eddie Wells, “King of the Jugglers”; hoop manipulators; gentlemen performing novel singing and dancing scenes; Tiny and Mite, two very vertically challenged contortionists; a couple of short varioscope films, and an amateur talent competition “open to every kind of entertainer.”
Then, more sadly, were papers confirming his residency in a hospital at his death in 1923 at the relatively young age of forty-eight. Records from that last part of his life describe him as: “excited, aggressive, resents being questioned and makes threatening movements under examination. He says he has a huge hidden fortune but contradicts himself in all his statements and says he has the most beautiful ideas and could write the best book that has ever been seen.”
That last bit naturally captured my interest (was book writing possibly a family genetic trait?), but further reports portrayed him as: “Face flat and flabby. Complexion yellowish. Expression staring and vacant. Teeth very defective. He says his false teeth are platinum, but they are only gold. Rambling, garrulous and confused. Full of delusions. Says he must get discharged quickly as he has to go on tour to America.”
Gradually this multifaceted individual, also described in hospital records as “strongly built, well nourished, charmingly childish and exalted,” was slowly becoming reincarnated in my mind. And then David sent us a copy of some memoir notes made by my father’s younger brother in 1931, and we could sense Walter’s almost tactile presence:
On the theater posters I saw Walter Wade was always top-billing. I faintly remember that he, my father, was a close friend of Houdini. Mother took me to the Empire in Leeds to see his act…I can still remember some of his clever patter. He could be very funny. He was quite a dandy, too, and I saw him once with his paramour. Rosalind somebody. He even once played nearby at Yeadon Town Hall (how nice to have a town named after our family!) but he didn’t make any contact with Mother or any of us. I remember how angry I was at his attitude and having a strong desire to punch him in the nose, young as I was!
Now I began to understand my poor grandmother’s great sadness, my father’s anger, and why the family had decided to relegate Walter to taboo status. But I was also now even more curious to dig deeper.
“So, why don’t we go to County Mayo?” suggested Anne. “See if we can find some lost members of your family—go out on the limb of your tree, to coin a phrase.”
I gave her a curious look. She was not normally one for puns. “You’re joking…right?”
“Well, that lousy pun was a bit of a joke, but otherwise I’m being serious. It could be a lovely drive up by Killarney and the Ring of Kerry and the Dingle Peninsula and then over…”
Anne had obviously been looking at a map, and as previously mentioned, that’s another thing she doesn’t do normally. Maps and my good lady wife are utterly incompatible. The worst suggestion I can make if we’re out driving is to ask if she might just want to take a peep at the map and provide the odd bit of navigational guidance from time to time. Of course in Ireland the maze of boreens is a navigational nightmare, so she always had a ready—and convincing—excuse for our invariably getting lost. But, to give Anne her due, she’ll invariably pick up the map (with a heavy sigh), unfold it with the reluctance of a kid taking a rigorous calculus exam, and then spend a good five minutes trying to figure out which particular part of said map is relevant for our journey (and trying hard not to ask for my input). Then she’ll sit like a frozen statue, eyes downcast, staring at the confusion of colored lines and blobs and words, as if they were the key to an incredibly complex cipher code.
“Darlin’—you don’t have to look at the map all the time. Enjoy the scenery. It’s so beautiful…”
The most I can expect at this juncture is a growling “huh?” while her eyes stay focused on the map, as if waiting for a sign from above to determine the next set of directions.
Eventually I give in. I can’t bear to see my mate suffering these pangs of outrageous misfortune and missing the exploratory joys of the drive itself, so I pull over and offer to have a glance at the map myself.
“It’s okay,” she’ll normally insist. “I know exactly where we are…”
“Okay—but let me just have a look, uh…Darling…um…you’ve got it upside down.”
“Yes, I know, I know. I’m just holding it the way we’re going. South. Makes it easier. Otherwise everything’s backward.”
Bit of a difficult dilemma here. Especially as we’re actually going north, which would explain her last two odd instructions. But I have no intention of spoiling what will now be a splendidly serendipitous journey as we try to get back on track. So very gradually, I turn the map right way up while pointing at some fascinating bits of scenery to distract her, and off we
go and the day is saved…until…
“I saw you do that, y’know,” said Anne in a somber voice.
“Do what, love? What did I do?”
“You know. You turned the map over.”
Fortunately I’d just made a right-angle turn off the previous road: “Oh, no no no. I’ve just changed direction so it’s better this way up now. Look, look—aren’t those rabbits over there…”
But she knows. And she knows I know. And I know she knows I know. And isn’t marriage wonderful.
Anyway. Back to the roots foray. Or actually not. I think it’s perhaps best to leave it where it is for the moment. Partially because nothing conclusive has been unearthed yet, and partially because it’s been such a strange and beguiling experience to date that I think the whole story is going to need far more pages and patience than I currently have left.
And so with apologies and a sincere by-your-leave, I’ll let the tale dangle for a while and see how it grows and blossoms and possibly morphs into the early part of a sequel…if there ever is one. Who knows? Meanwhile, my grandparents, the rambunctious ghosts of Walter Wade and the angry, ill-treated Annie Forkin, continue to lead us on, roiling and rooting down the narrow boreens of County Mayo…and way beyond.
Wish us luck on our ongoing ancestoring quest…in fact, please wish us luck in all our quests, both inner and outer, generated by our experiences and adventures deep in Ireland’s beautiful Beara. It was an amazing time here, and we continue to carry with us the craic of indelible memories—the long-genealogy locals and the blow-ins alike, the creators and healers, the fishermen and farmers, the seanachais and the seisuin musicians, the seekers and the finders—everyone who touched our lives and made our experiences so richly rewarding.
And we both leave you with a final enduring memory—of sitting together on the grass by our cottage, long after the sun has drifted down behind the Skelligs, watching the moon-blanched mountains slip into the ocean beyond our beautiful white sand beach. And listening to the silence. And the silence listening to us. And little bubbles of new insights and perceptions rising. And laughing softly together at the simplicity and synchronicity of our wandering lives.