Ireland-Calendar 2009
Sketches from the Repeat’s Reunion Tour
dedicated to Ken Carney
www.andreas-raesch.de
Unlike some monarchs in neighbouring sovereignties the King of Tory is
there by general consensus of his fellow islanders. Patsy Dan revels in his
position as a representative of Tory Island and carries out his ambassadorial
duties with great aplomb. He greets each passenger ferry that lands and
welcomes visitors 'Fáilte romhat,' Likewise, those departing the island are
bade a personal 'Slán go foill'.
January 2009
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Nestling in Glenade (from the Irish "Glen of Jealousy") valley, half way
between Kinlough and Manorhamilton, Glenade Lake, though small,
offers good coarse fishing amid spectacular scenery. All around are the
towering peaks of the Dartry range of mountains. In its waters are char
and perch which will challenge any angler. The lake has its own monster
legend. A poem tells the story of the Dobharcu (pronounced "Dowarcoo")
which, with its mate, emerged from the depths centuries ago to bring
tragedy to the area. We know of no recent sightings, but who knows
what might emerge from the lake's placid waters one day!!!!
February 2009
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March 2009
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The smell of fish
By Matthew Sweeney
A smell of fish filled the valley
And all the seagulls came inland.
Cats ran everywhere, sniffing.
Men checked the level of the sea.
Some could be heard hammering.
Churches filled to pray for wind.
April 2009
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Ode For Ben Bulben
By Paul McCann
Once more to go, beyond County Sligo,
With thoughts of the country I've come to know.
A vision beyond Ben Bulbens delight.
Where dark clouds part to the morning sunlight.
Twelve misty peaks over green grassy glens,
Displayed there are natures high clustered Bens.
From the ground to the top are paths to tread,
For the pilgrims to ascent where they're led.
Who hears pilgrims prayers in heavenly flight,
As angels wait bathed in morning sunlight.
...
May 2009
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...
Generations of Gaels soft spoken words
Have been carried by wings of the birds.
In a rapturous song perfectly sung.
on twelve peaks strange shadowy shapes have clung.
Thick are the clouds found to be coming down
In a mist covering this holy ground.
Oh what a sight welcomes all those who might,
find their way to the mountain top at night.
A star clustered show at County Sligo,
Shines a glittering ethereal hello.
Majestic the sight from heavenly height,
As on the summit humble prayers take flight.
God has cradled there in heavens soft glow,
Something of a miracle to bestow.
A beauty rare, you can never compare,
All we can do is for that moment share.
A grateful prayer for all that we see
Oh what splendour to my God glory be.
So if your feet are set on a path there,
come back home safe on a wing and a prayer.
June 2009
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July 2009
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The mysteries of the megalithic monuments:
Carrowmore is a site where 200 or so of these megalithic monuments once
stood. Sadly, in the dark ages of Irish history (the 1800s depression and
famine) many of them were destroyed for building material and to make way
for productive farming. Today only about 40 sites are visible at all, and about
another 20 lie buried. Carrowmore covers about 40 acres of ground.
August 2009
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Current legend says Queen Maeve (ancestral hero and fore-mother of the Celtic peoples)
is buried here standing up in full battle gear facing her enemies to the north. But she
was allied with the people to the north via marriage and the cairn was made five hundred
years before Maeve by pre-Celtic peoples. It was possibly built as a symbolic tomb of
mother earth, and she faced her enemies to the north (the winter darkness) and then her
legend was appropriated by the peoples who came later.
So we had to climb Knocknaree and view the cairn. It's over 40 tons of stone and never
been excavated. It may contain passage graves, but the effort to pull it apart and put it
back together would take archaeologists 50 years, so there's no plans to do it. For now,
its mysteries are safe.
September 2009
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Things have changed
Once the cottage was a restaurant.
Nowadays birds are coming
For a picnic on the thatched roof.
October 2009
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An old boat wreck on Bunbeg beach. This boat was shipwrecked
about 40 years ago on the Donegal coast.
Nobody seems to remember or know the name of the vessel.
November 2009
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Digging
By Seamus Heaney
By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.
My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
December 2009
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