I recall 1974 when we were tossed around
in a ferry
like a rotten auld turnip on the turbulent
belly of the Irish Sea,
such was its disdain.
God it was rough. Five nuns in a row,
hands going like the divil on those rosary beads,
lips moving rapidly, soundlessly
praying for Divine intervention.
A fellow, hanging upside down on the stairs to the bridge
praying for Divine intervention.
There was but one way to counter the constant
slam of the sea, and that was to join the rollicking
session below decks. Which found us there
double quick juggling pints of Guinness
spirited by jigs, slip jigs and reels, music and mayhem.
Divine intervention delivered.
We were six, three Ledgers, Josh, Liz and Annie,
Josh's girlfriend Wendy plus Denise and I.
Some Irish heritage, in this ancestral home
happy and wary to be among our own...
We wandered into a Dublin record shop.
Liz had spent some years in a novitiate
outside Sydney and had a refined accent, almost English.
She proferred the question to Yer Man Behind The Counter
as to whether by chance he might play some Elton John.
'D'yez know The Wolfe Tones?” He barked.
“Come out ya Black and Tans/ come out and fight me like a man”
at full blast can be a tad intimidating.
Trinity College with The Book of Kells
Bewleys and Slatterys
then someone had the grand idea
of a horse drawn caravan, so we took the bus to Wicklow
sure de farm was 'foive minutes dowan de road.'
Nevermind... Along the way we spied a wee gate
into a field, two feet high. This is Ireland.
Our mare was X-Ray, 'both sturdy and strong'
He gave us a map, but 'the horse knows the way.'
Plus two bicycles.
X-Ray 'sturdy and strong', the most reluctant
neddy to haul a gypsy caravan
past
Eire's green and lush plump paddocks.
And many a defiant fart was to chart
that mare's disdain.
'Oh no' cried Annie 'she's blasted again!
Just as well no-one was smoking...
'Seamus, didya see dat up dere? Must be one
'o dem hippie rocket tinkers.'
Along the way, near The Meeting of The Waters
a busload of American tourists
pulled up to chat.
'Oh my, where have y'all come from? Australia?
All that way?
She's a strong horse you say? Strong and sturdy?
My Lord, backing her into the Pacific was tricky?
Wow I'll bet it was.'
Josh later, standing at the reins was amused
and philosophical
'I think she's a metaphor for auld Ireland
Languorous and slow she knows where to go,
an inkling perhaps, but she's fine taking
her time to arrive wherever
the destination might present itself.
And that's where the oats are bejasus.
'You know, here in these Wicklow hills
the O'Byrnes and O'Tooles harried that English rule,
sword, hook and pike slashed, hacked and cracked
bone and sinew, brain and limb,
the blood flowed into this holy ground.
Not all bucolic charm and bliss. I could kill a beer.
Annuder beer will appear? Thoughts?'
Farmers helped us when we parked at night
Horse unharnessed, fed and put to paddock
Seamus Macken was one, a kindly man
who drove us down to Bray where at a pub
we sang the Lime Juice Tub, bringing Oz to Eire
and a few Irish songs bringing coals to
Newcastle.
Going back, Seamus showed us a sacred site
at the top of a hill where we danced around
a ancient rock, sunwise mind, to bring good
luck, the other way would cast fortune awry.
This was deiseal, down from The Druids before
St Pat who banished that pagan perambulation
to proclaim sweet Ireland a holy nation.
Those snakes were, to be sure, a tidy metaphor.
[deiseal pron. jay-shall]
One morning Lizzie returned with Patrick Feeney
a loquacious local lad who's love of the gab
was barely matched by his tumble of words
he lit up the van with his talk, his chat
his eyes alight and his face aglow
'and honest to God I can tell you stories
you wouldn't believe, a heartful of stories
that would burst upon your eyes.'
And not enough words for them all at all,
not enough words for them all.
Patrick was head barman at Fitzgerald's pub
'Come down tomorrow and I'll pour you the best,
clean out the lines, tap a new keg
You'll not taste a better Guinness anywhere.
Be there before Mass is finished because
after de Mass de tirst has dem and it's over to
the pub and dere all into the bar, in.'
The caravan was cosy, four bunks and two
on the floor, condensation dripped from the roof
and the occasional wasp
one of which found its way under
Annie's nightie to investigate
her nethers no doubt and couldn't get out
while she leapt about, wailing like a banshee.
Those were memorable days, etched so clearly now
yet fifty years on surprisingly,
the stars set sharp and bright in a clear Wicklow night
Josh and I walking back to the 'van
carrying a skinful of Guinness, the night
festooned with wonder, the face of God perhaps
and we passed a village hall where
music was playing, kids singing and laughing
and dancing with chairs and this was
the land of some of my ancestors,
and I was happy to romanticise.
Yet close by at Arklow, Clonmore and elsewhere
had been tragedy and slaughter, and blood sprayed
in battles to break the English yoke.
Now, you may choose a train or bus from Arklow
to Atha Cliath, mostly on time I'm told.
Back to the night of the star filled sky
I saw fit to share my euphoric wisdom with
The X-Ray, firstly praise 'you're a big horse,
both sturdy and strong, and we are easy going
friendly Aussies and animal lovers. Why be grumpy?'
Then gently chiding by reminding her
that the neddies of auld Ireland were renowned
for their alacrity of pace over the turf
and why soil that legacy?
I put it in equine terms I'm fairly certain.
Anyway blow me down she was an
enlivened mare the following day I kid you not.
Never believe that horses can't understand.
Brittas Bay I think it was where Josh found
a round hollow. And in that space where you
could sit, the sea crashing nearby on the foreshore
not a sound could be heard. All was silence.
And there were boulders there, marked with runes.
This is Ireland.
A donkey drawn cart was bouncing towards us
pell mell down a dusty road and
prostrate in the back was Big Moon 'O Meara
sleeping off his nightly affliction
at The Growler and shooting home
to his darlin' wife, Thin Aoife. [pron. Tin Eefa]
The Xray sped up three times, the first
as I mentioned, after our heart to heart
me with a Guinness and the mare, all ears.
The second, when a black stallion
swung past overtaking us at speed
pulling two Sweedish gals in a carriage
and the Xray was moved by fart and whim
to a change of gear, almost a sprint.
And the third was when she was close to home
you wouldn't have known it was the same auld
plodder, so keen she was to reach that fodder.
Well Len, that's the story written as a ragged poem of sorts in free verse but with poetic conventions, aiming for a loose iambic pentameter, with internal rhyme, assonance, alliteration, some simile, metaphor and a few laughs. All pretty straightforward really. And its all true except for the names of the man in the donkey cart and his wife. They may of course have been true, I suspect they were.
We've kept in touch with Josh, Liz, and Annie on and off over the 52 years since, with an email from Wendy a couple of years ago. They were the best of travelling companions, in fact we later travelled through France and Italy, all meeting up in Rome, then up into Austria and Germany with some imaginative border solutions/adventures. But that's another tale.
Oh yes, and Josh and Liz visited Patrick Feeney at his house in the late 70s I think, where there is no breath between sentences, and hardly any between words, his brothers being just as loud and quick on the gab as Patrick himself. He is now happily married to his 'little cosmonaut' I think he calls her, a lovely and talented Russian lady.
The Ledgers are replete with their expanding family, another grandchild just landed, as we are ourselves with number nine, Joey, lobbing in last year. But despite the passing of time and circumstance in massive ice floes it seems, our week in Wicklow still shines through; it remains a sweet memory. Thanks for the opportunity to relive it.
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