Knocknagoshel
Oftentimes at ease in England,
I have told my tales of Knocknagoshel,
Described the place and named the people.
Listeners nodded, smiled in pleasure,
In their eyes, a glance uncertain,
Is there such a place as Knocknagoshel?
The long bog road and splendid scenery,
Glennaruddery Mountains forest fair,
The Owveg rivers constant flow,
O’Connor’s at the Friday Céilí
Music, song and conversation,
Is anywhere else like Knocknagoshel?
In Walsh’s for a glass and turf fire
News of the Mall and Nations of the World
From friends, family, familiar faces,
Of Kerry footballers past and future,
Present form of dogs and horses,
Just such a place is Knocknagoshel
Patrick Mullin May 2010
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Excuses, excuses, excuses
I cannot believe that it is so long since I have posted; since the last time that I wrote there has been a series of prime ministerial debates, elevation of Nick Clegg, a General Election, the defeat of new Labour – defenestration of Gordon Brown formation of a ConDem coalition Government. Some of which you may have noticed.
I have successfully completed the Great Manchester 10k run and revisited Knocknagoshel with Diane, Sara and Lisa then Dawn & Mike in the latter’s company climbed Mt Brandon on a glorious day from the Cloghane side. Built a stone cairn in the rear garden to be translated when leisure permits into an outdoor oven.
Visited Solihull for Jade’s communion celebrations; when a good time was had by all and begun collaborations on joint birthday festivities.
Two months of Irish reading have passed with no mention from me. Not inconsiderable writers either George Bernard Shaw & Samuel Beckett. All this while I have been composing in my head which I never got round to posting. So Céad mile leìthscéal (A hundred thousand apologies) or more exactly, on consulting a translation site : a hundred thousand excuses. Which then threw up the infinitely more appealing Tá brón an domhain orm – the sorrow of the world is on me. My next post is I hope by way of reparation…
I have successfully completed the Great Manchester 10k run and revisited Knocknagoshel with Diane, Sara and Lisa then Dawn & Mike in the latter’s company climbed Mt Brandon on a glorious day from the Cloghane side. Built a stone cairn in the rear garden to be translated when leisure permits into an outdoor oven.
Visited Solihull for Jade’s communion celebrations; when a good time was had by all and begun collaborations on joint birthday festivities.
Two months of Irish reading have passed with no mention from me. Not inconsiderable writers either George Bernard Shaw & Samuel Beckett. All this while I have been composing in my head which I never got round to posting. So Céad mile leìthscéal (A hundred thousand apologies) or more exactly, on consulting a translation site : a hundred thousand excuses. Which then threw up the infinitely more appealing Tá brón an domhain orm – the sorrow of the world is on me. My next post is I hope by way of reparation…
Friday, 16 April 2010
Jogging in the Morning
Jogging in the morning; with the whole of Britain cowering in fear below plumes of Icelandic ash...
I continued to jog through Clayton Vale; this is my usual jog running for 40 minutes or so alongside the clough up hill and down dale. My other semi regular route is up to Daisy Nook and back along the side of the disused canal.
Each of these runs seem of the order of 2.5 miles with ⅗ of a mile between, so in preparation for the Great Manchester run (6.1 miles) I ran the combination of the two last Sunday. Imagine my delight on examining the pedometer which claimed that I had in fact run 4.45 miles in total!!
Thursday morning I was cresting the hill, constructed from the grassed remains of generations of East Manchester spoil and landfill. Feeling a little out of puff enormously encouraged by a c.7year old Afro Caribbean boy in his Ravensbury school jumper, running alongside on the other side of the school chainlink fence, clapping his hands and grinning. “looking good man, keep it up.” Enormously encouraged I picked up my feet and sprinted onwards with a smile on my face.
I really enjoy running most of the time but I have been feeling under the weather for the last few weeks with an inconvenient severe outbreak of psoriasis (dreadful having a condition that you have to spell check). It’s not a sexy condition – the only writer I know of that has written anything about it being Denis Potter in the Singing Detective – old songs and sexual fantasies.
I gave a little thought to various illnesses which one might catch. The Government is about to introduce a system whereby sickness benefit claimants have to be examined by a GP and issued with a wellness certificate describing the work that they can do. Self certification having been regarded as a failure ... I think that people should only be allowed to claim sickness for conditions they could actually spell – myocardial infarction, pulmonary embolism, pneumonococcal influenza. Too many cosy afflictions are permitted, “I’ve been under the doctor with me chest!” Flu, dodgy ticker!
So I’ve got this skin condition, had it for years doesn’t usually bother me at all in any way, slight scabbing on the elbow or back of the calf. This time however it had flared up all over my arms, legs and torso. Wandering around producing surplus skin like a Winter snowfall.
I tried everything conventional medicine and mumbo jumbo medicines, balms, lotions, salves and potions each as effective as the other. The truth is that no one knows the cause or effective cure. Some things work some of the time... so as I ran I invited a noble tradition for my affliction.
Back in the Middle Ages doctoring was primitive largely concerned with the black death, typhoid, yellow bile, bloody flux, bubonic plague from which you either lived or died. A London Quack gained significant popularity and built up his reputation via his phenomenal blood letting techniques using only the choicest leeches. One morning a rich and very well connected influential nobleman rolled up to consult the Quack. He showed him a collection of marks on his body... the Quack thought “what the hell, this bozo has got a rash, doesn’t appear to have any buboes or anything that indicates his imminent demise. But so far as I can tell there is nothing wrong with him that cutting back on drink and taking some exercise.”
The Quack was wise enough to know that this was not what the nobleman wanted to hear. So he wrote a note saying “apscaritis...” and told him to take it to his supplier, the young farm boy with the incurable boil, the pharmacyst (it should be noted that spelling had not settled down as such Sheakspeare, Shakspeere, Marlowe).
This is what he wrote henbane, marygold, 4 draughts aqua regia, lapis lazuli, 1 handfull willow bark, frogspawn, 2 draughts of essence of the witch known as Hazel.
Still the most effective remedy for psoriasis – but bloody hard to get hold of...
I continued to jog through Clayton Vale; this is my usual jog running for 40 minutes or so alongside the clough up hill and down dale. My other semi regular route is up to Daisy Nook and back along the side of the disused canal.
Each of these runs seem of the order of 2.5 miles with ⅗ of a mile between, so in preparation for the Great Manchester run (6.1 miles) I ran the combination of the two last Sunday. Imagine my delight on examining the pedometer which claimed that I had in fact run 4.45 miles in total!!
Thursday morning I was cresting the hill, constructed from the grassed remains of generations of East Manchester spoil and landfill. Feeling a little out of puff enormously encouraged by a c.7year old Afro Caribbean boy in his Ravensbury school jumper, running alongside on the other side of the school chainlink fence, clapping his hands and grinning. “looking good man, keep it up.” Enormously encouraged I picked up my feet and sprinted onwards with a smile on my face.
I really enjoy running most of the time but I have been feeling under the weather for the last few weeks with an inconvenient severe outbreak of psoriasis (dreadful having a condition that you have to spell check). It’s not a sexy condition – the only writer I know of that has written anything about it being Denis Potter in the Singing Detective – old songs and sexual fantasies.
I gave a little thought to various illnesses which one might catch. The Government is about to introduce a system whereby sickness benefit claimants have to be examined by a GP and issued with a wellness certificate describing the work that they can do. Self certification having been regarded as a failure ... I think that people should only be allowed to claim sickness for conditions they could actually spell – myocardial infarction, pulmonary embolism, pneumonococcal influenza. Too many cosy afflictions are permitted, “I’ve been under the doctor with me chest!” Flu, dodgy ticker!
So I’ve got this skin condition, had it for years doesn’t usually bother me at all in any way, slight scabbing on the elbow or back of the calf. This time however it had flared up all over my arms, legs and torso. Wandering around producing surplus skin like a Winter snowfall.
I tried everything conventional medicine and mumbo jumbo medicines, balms, lotions, salves and potions each as effective as the other. The truth is that no one knows the cause or effective cure. Some things work some of the time... so as I ran I invited a noble tradition for my affliction.
Back in the Middle Ages doctoring was primitive largely concerned with the black death, typhoid, yellow bile, bloody flux, bubonic plague from which you either lived or died. A London Quack gained significant popularity and built up his reputation via his phenomenal blood letting techniques using only the choicest leeches. One morning a rich and very well connected influential nobleman rolled up to consult the Quack. He showed him a collection of marks on his body... the Quack thought “what the hell, this bozo has got a rash, doesn’t appear to have any buboes or anything that indicates his imminent demise. But so far as I can tell there is nothing wrong with him that cutting back on drink and taking some exercise.”
The Quack was wise enough to know that this was not what the nobleman wanted to hear. So he wrote a note saying “apscaritis...” and told him to take it to his supplier, the young farm boy with the incurable boil, the pharmacyst (it should be noted that spelling had not settled down as such Sheakspeare, Shakspeere, Marlowe).
This is what he wrote henbane, marygold, 4 draughts aqua regia, lapis lazuli, 1 handfull willow bark, frogspawn, 2 draughts of essence of the witch known as Hazel.
Still the most effective remedy for psoriasis – but bloody hard to get hold of...
Thursday, 25 March 2010
The Aran Islands
When writing about the Aran Islands and JM Synge I observed that he had of course fallen in love with it, which perhaps requires some explanation.
When JM Synge knew the islands Insihmoor: trans The Big Island,(translations from the Gaelic and thus spellings will vary throughout) Inishmaan :trans the middle island and Inisheer: the eastern island + a couple of generally unoccupied much, much smaller islands. I rather think that the inhabitants of the larger island looked down on the inhabitants of the smaller. In Synge's time end of 19th /early 20th century the islands had a largish population – there are currently c.900 permanent residents on the islands. They were a generally self-sufficient community, fishing from currachs - creating fertile lands by spreading seaweed finely producing up to 6 inchs of soil and grazing cattle. Life for the islanders met the classic definition – nasty, brutish and short. JM describes some boat rides between the islands which would make my hair turn white (if nature hadn’t got there before him!).
Many of the fisherfolk lost their lives through accident at sea; one wreck could kill all the menfolk of a single family. They developed the traditional spinning and the famous knitting patterns, fishermen wore a type of soft shoe the pamploose made from cawhide softened by being permanently wet. The majority of families had menfolk going to England & Scotland for seasonal work and women to New York!
The people spoke what was then considered the purest form of Irish (many of the women only appeared to speak Irish amongst themselves) and had developed a very rich oral tradition; one developed in isolation not corrupted by the introduction of traits or neologisms from other parts. The diet was monotonous – making use of the range of produce locally available; JM refers to a mother preparing a cormorant for the men’s evening meal.
The islands have evidence of habitation from the earliest times with clocháns (beehive huts) in abundance. The monastic tradition is very evident the vast majority of Irish saints having a connection with the Aran Islands. The islands had a reputation for sanctity during the dark ages.
Perhaps the most startling artefact on Inishmoor is Dun Aenngus an outstanding iron age fort perched high on a cliff top overlooking the Atlantic. The sound of the sea crashing below booms and echoes constantly audible from a considerable distance away. The fort is surrounded on the landward side by a chévasse slate / granite shards vertically angled to prevent the attack of horses.
Inis Mór
Having visited the Aran Islands I can appreciate the rugged and beautiful attraction of the place.
Several years ago Linda and I had a holiday – where we travelled around Ireland using public transport – carrying large rucksacks on our backs. A night or two in a range of places B&B’s, and hostels around Ireland – fair to say that some were “interesting”. It was on that trip together that we first visited Cloghane, on Kerry’s Dingle peninsula. Attempted for the first time to climb Mount Brandon beaten back by horizontal sleet and mist where you couldn’t see the hand in front of your face on the broken rock track above the paternoster lakes.
After our stay with Betty and Clare we boarded the weekly bus from Cloghane to Tralee, where we caught another onwards through Listowel, the jewel of North Kerry. Catching the ferry to Inishmoor from Galway Bay, after two or three weeks travelling carrying a heavy rucksack can lose its attraction; so it was with some trepidation that I enquired from Linda the whereabouts of our accommodation. As we approached Kilronan the principle (!) town of Inis Mór, we saw the name of our B&B whitewashed on the red tin roof ( the sophistication!).
The ferry passengers are greeted by what seems all of the islanders drawn up with jaunting cars, and one or two minibuses – although most of the transportation is via cycles.
We hired bikes to explore the island discovering the clóchans and Dun Aenngus mentioned above with the aid of an excellent locally produced pamphlet to assist in our further appreciation of the island. The bother teorann ( showing off now!) road network on the island is basically a simple circuit. Linda and I established a pattern here of hiring a pair of bikes, mounting them and proceeding to travel twice as far as any sane people would. In this case we had hired for a day or two, so were able to travel far and at leisure. Heading back from Dun Aenngus, the iron age fort, at the far end of the island in the late afternoon when we met some cyclists displaying even more velocipedenal ineptitude than ourselves asking how far to the fort? Can we get there and back in time for the return ferry. We looked at each other, it was my considered view that the wearer of the Tour de France Yellow Jersey flat out couldn’t do that. “You might struggle,with that” I opined.
You will be immensely surprised to learn that we went into the bar, which had all the semblances of a frontier bar, “The last bar before New York” sort of thing! Wandered into the vault where a group of locals were happily bantering to each other in Irish, immediately switching to English so we wouldn’t feel excluded (compare and contrast with Wales!) Purely in the interests of research we also went into the Lounge which had a pool table and vast quantities of kids screaming running tumbling climbing falling crying eating and drinking. Over the bar was the sign, “No hen parties, or Stags” believe me the kids would have had them for breakfast.
Speaking of breakfast – back at the B&B the bedroom was something to behold. A vernacular cottage with scarcely a straight line in evidence anywhere. The floor sloped from door to window causing a slightly disorienting feeling of being pitched outside from the bed. We needn’t have worried upon inspection we discovered that the bed was propped up and levelled on bricks.
Now for the breakfast – around the communal breakfast table we joined with fellow foreign backpackers in a repast of sliced white loaf – direct from the packet, teabags, kettle and milk bottle gracing the table centre. And the name of the B&B propriertorial paragons...Mullin!
When JM Synge knew the islands Insihmoor: trans The Big Island,(translations from the Gaelic and thus spellings will vary throughout) Inishmaan :trans the middle island and Inisheer: the eastern island + a couple of generally unoccupied much, much smaller islands. I rather think that the inhabitants of the larger island looked down on the inhabitants of the smaller. In Synge's time end of 19th /early 20th century the islands had a largish population – there are currently c.900 permanent residents on the islands. They were a generally self-sufficient community, fishing from currachs - creating fertile lands by spreading seaweed finely producing up to 6 inchs of soil and grazing cattle. Life for the islanders met the classic definition – nasty, brutish and short. JM describes some boat rides between the islands which would make my hair turn white (if nature hadn’t got there before him!).
Many of the fisherfolk lost their lives through accident at sea; one wreck could kill all the menfolk of a single family. They developed the traditional spinning and the famous knitting patterns, fishermen wore a type of soft shoe the pamploose made from cawhide softened by being permanently wet. The majority of families had menfolk going to England & Scotland for seasonal work and women to New York!
The people spoke what was then considered the purest form of Irish (many of the women only appeared to speak Irish amongst themselves) and had developed a very rich oral tradition; one developed in isolation not corrupted by the introduction of traits or neologisms from other parts. The diet was monotonous – making use of the range of produce locally available; JM refers to a mother preparing a cormorant for the men’s evening meal.
The islands have evidence of habitation from the earliest times with clocháns (beehive huts) in abundance. The monastic tradition is very evident the vast majority of Irish saints having a connection with the Aran Islands. The islands had a reputation for sanctity during the dark ages.
Perhaps the most startling artefact on Inishmoor is Dun Aenngus an outstanding iron age fort perched high on a cliff top overlooking the Atlantic. The sound of the sea crashing below booms and echoes constantly audible from a considerable distance away. The fort is surrounded on the landward side by a chévasse slate / granite shards vertically angled to prevent the attack of horses.
Inis Mór
Having visited the Aran Islands I can appreciate the rugged and beautiful attraction of the place.
Several years ago Linda and I had a holiday – where we travelled around Ireland using public transport – carrying large rucksacks on our backs. A night or two in a range of places B&B’s, and hostels around Ireland – fair to say that some were “interesting”. It was on that trip together that we first visited Cloghane, on Kerry’s Dingle peninsula. Attempted for the first time to climb Mount Brandon beaten back by horizontal sleet and mist where you couldn’t see the hand in front of your face on the broken rock track above the paternoster lakes.
After our stay with Betty and Clare we boarded the weekly bus from Cloghane to Tralee, where we caught another onwards through Listowel, the jewel of North Kerry. Catching the ferry to Inishmoor from Galway Bay, after two or three weeks travelling carrying a heavy rucksack can lose its attraction; so it was with some trepidation that I enquired from Linda the whereabouts of our accommodation. As we approached Kilronan the principle (!) town of Inis Mór, we saw the name of our B&B whitewashed on the red tin roof ( the sophistication!).
The ferry passengers are greeted by what seems all of the islanders drawn up with jaunting cars, and one or two minibuses – although most of the transportation is via cycles.
We hired bikes to explore the island discovering the clóchans and Dun Aenngus mentioned above with the aid of an excellent locally produced pamphlet to assist in our further appreciation of the island. The bother teorann ( showing off now!) road network on the island is basically a simple circuit. Linda and I established a pattern here of hiring a pair of bikes, mounting them and proceeding to travel twice as far as any sane people would. In this case we had hired for a day or two, so were able to travel far and at leisure. Heading back from Dun Aenngus, the iron age fort, at the far end of the island in the late afternoon when we met some cyclists displaying even more velocipedenal ineptitude than ourselves asking how far to the fort? Can we get there and back in time for the return ferry. We looked at each other, it was my considered view that the wearer of the Tour de France Yellow Jersey flat out couldn’t do that. “You might struggle,with that” I opined.
You will be immensely surprised to learn that we went into the bar, which had all the semblances of a frontier bar, “The last bar before New York” sort of thing! Wandered into the vault where a group of locals were happily bantering to each other in Irish, immediately switching to English so we wouldn’t feel excluded (compare and contrast with Wales!) Purely in the interests of research we also went into the Lounge which had a pool table and vast quantities of kids screaming running tumbling climbing falling crying eating and drinking. Over the bar was the sign, “No hen parties, or Stags” believe me the kids would have had them for breakfast.
Speaking of breakfast – back at the B&B the bedroom was something to behold. A vernacular cottage with scarcely a straight line in evidence anywhere. The floor sloped from door to window causing a slightly disorienting feeling of being pitched outside from the bed. We needn’t have worried upon inspection we discovered that the bed was propped up and levelled on bricks.
Now for the breakfast – around the communal breakfast table we joined with fellow foreign backpackers in a repast of sliced white loaf – direct from the packet, teabags, kettle and milk bottle gracing the table centre. And the name of the B&B propriertorial paragons...Mullin!
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
More about JM Synge
More about John Millington Synge:
JM Synge was a quite exceptional writer, as I stated previously he was fluent in several languages studying languages at Trinity college, music and art at the same time (some people can make you feel inadequate seemingly effortlessly) and many of his travels were undertaken to support such study. This was not confined to his foreign travel; In Connemara and Mayo was produced after visits to the area in order to improve his Gaelic language skills. In fact his language/dialect was a source of comment on subsequent travels in Kerry and the Aran Isles.
John Millington Synge sprang from a (presumably affluent) Anglo Irish family pursued his studies at home and abroad. JM frequently returned to the Wicklow countryside where he walked and talked with the ordinary local peasantry developed an appreciation of their lives and manners of living. He developed the habit at this time in 1896 - 1904 of writing down his impressions these essays provide an evocative and perceptive view of this time and place. JM appears as a character in the essays most of which are descriptions of his walks around the area.
Subsequently JM made the journeys and associated writings described in my previous postings, several of the tales which he subsequently used in his plays were collected during his sojourns on the islands of Aran Inishmor (Aranmor), Inishmaan, or in Mayo / Connemara. He understandably fell in love with West, the islands both the scenery and the people and their lives.
His first play written in Wicklow 1902; Riders to the Sea has a very powerful, simple style – mirroring the style and speech patterns of the Irish people e.g. each person entering a house will exchange a blessing in the Shadow of the Glen Nora: Good evening kindly, stranger. God help you to be out in the rain falling. God’s assistance will almost always be invoked “Dominus vobiscum! .... (to which people of my age and background would answer automatically “et cum spirituo” (trans: the lord be with you! And with your spirit). JM Synge was by this time involved with WB Yeats, Lady Gregory in the development of The Abbey Theatre.
This one act play and Shadow of the Glen written at the same time, began to establish a vernacular style of writing – speech within the play form. It is worth considering that the process of the development of Irish nationality and nationhood was at this stage still very much a work in progress. The “West Britain” mentality which might typically have been adopted by persons of JM Synge’s and WB Yeat’s, Lady Gregory’s class and type counterpoised by the Irish Nationalist / Gaelic League approach which produced / promoted an idealist and idealised approach to Ireland. Barefoot Irish speaking natives happily trotting around behind their donkeys watched over by a benevolent Catholic church.
JMSynge’s problems
Typically in keeping with the prevailing mores and customs plays were produced, often in Irish (which comparatively few people were at this time fully fluent in) extolling the attitudes & views of the prevailing nationalist / Gaelic League. JM Synge – whether intentionally or not, immediately fell foul of the prevailing attitudes, did not promote these attitudes. Shadow of the Glen described a loveless marriage between an old farmer and a younger wife. Suggesting that she conducted an affair.
This play was attacked by the nationalists for its suggestion that the relationship could be something other than ideal and that Irish women could behave in such an immoral fashion. This denunciation was as nothing in comparison to the furore which broke out over his best-known and probably most successful play The Playboy of the Western World , which when produced at The Abbey Theatre was greeted with orchestrated disruptions near riots.
Playboy concerns a young man, a strange who turns up announcing that he has killed his father with a blow from a loy. Rather than being arrested and handed over to the proper authorities is warmly welcomed by the community particularly the womenfolk. This was a story originating from the old storyteller on Inishmaan, it might seem strange that a community would embrace a parricide rather than turning him in; however JM explains the islanders view that the only way a child could kill a parent would be temporary insanity and as soon as a proper sense returned the murderer would be so overcome by remorse that any punishment which the law could provide would be irrelevant.
(A useful mitigation plea C&C? )
JM Synge was a quite exceptional writer, as I stated previously he was fluent in several languages studying languages at Trinity college, music and art at the same time (some people can make you feel inadequate seemingly effortlessly) and many of his travels were undertaken to support such study. This was not confined to his foreign travel; In Connemara and Mayo was produced after visits to the area in order to improve his Gaelic language skills. In fact his language/dialect was a source of comment on subsequent travels in Kerry and the Aran Isles.
John Millington Synge sprang from a (presumably affluent) Anglo Irish family pursued his studies at home and abroad. JM frequently returned to the Wicklow countryside where he walked and talked with the ordinary local peasantry developed an appreciation of their lives and manners of living. He developed the habit at this time in 1896 - 1904 of writing down his impressions these essays provide an evocative and perceptive view of this time and place. JM appears as a character in the essays most of which are descriptions of his walks around the area.
Subsequently JM made the journeys and associated writings described in my previous postings, several of the tales which he subsequently used in his plays were collected during his sojourns on the islands of Aran Inishmor (Aranmor), Inishmaan, or in Mayo / Connemara. He understandably fell in love with West, the islands both the scenery and the people and their lives.
His first play written in Wicklow 1902; Riders to the Sea has a very powerful, simple style – mirroring the style and speech patterns of the Irish people e.g. each person entering a house will exchange a blessing in the Shadow of the Glen Nora: Good evening kindly, stranger. God help you to be out in the rain falling. God’s assistance will almost always be invoked “Dominus vobiscum! .... (to which people of my age and background would answer automatically “et cum spirituo” (trans: the lord be with you! And with your spirit). JM Synge was by this time involved with WB Yeats, Lady Gregory in the development of The Abbey Theatre.
This one act play and Shadow of the Glen written at the same time, began to establish a vernacular style of writing – speech within the play form. It is worth considering that the process of the development of Irish nationality and nationhood was at this stage still very much a work in progress. The “West Britain” mentality which might typically have been adopted by persons of JM Synge’s and WB Yeat’s, Lady Gregory’s class and type counterpoised by the Irish Nationalist / Gaelic League approach which produced / promoted an idealist and idealised approach to Ireland. Barefoot Irish speaking natives happily trotting around behind their donkeys watched over by a benevolent Catholic church.
JMSynge’s problems
Typically in keeping with the prevailing mores and customs plays were produced, often in Irish (which comparatively few people were at this time fully fluent in) extolling the attitudes & views of the prevailing nationalist / Gaelic League. JM Synge – whether intentionally or not, immediately fell foul of the prevailing attitudes, did not promote these attitudes. Shadow of the Glen described a loveless marriage between an old farmer and a younger wife. Suggesting that she conducted an affair.
This play was attacked by the nationalists for its suggestion that the relationship could be something other than ideal and that Irish women could behave in such an immoral fashion. This denunciation was as nothing in comparison to the furore which broke out over his best-known and probably most successful play The Playboy of the Western World , which when produced at The Abbey Theatre was greeted with orchestrated disruptions near riots.
Playboy concerns a young man, a strange who turns up announcing that he has killed his father with a blow from a loy. Rather than being arrested and handed over to the proper authorities is warmly welcomed by the community particularly the womenfolk. This was a story originating from the old storyteller on Inishmaan, it might seem strange that a community would embrace a parricide rather than turning him in; however JM explains the islanders view that the only way a child could kill a parent would be temporary insanity and as soon as a proper sense returned the murderer would be so overcome by remorse that any punishment which the law could provide would be irrelevant.
(A useful mitigation plea C&C? )
Friday, 19 March 2010
In Search of Holy Places
In search of holy places
In the fallow day waiting for delivery of a new stainless chimney-piece the day dawned to early mist and fog causing the curtailment of my early morning jog. Kerry drivers are not wont to allow appalling visibility to curtail their speed. In short I turned around and headed homewards. After my shower the day had turned to bright and fair. I decided to pack a rucksack, pocket a map and explore the locale.
The road from Knocknagoshel.
From the map I spotted an area of potential interest within manageable walking distance. The spot for which I headed had a number of points of interest a barrow, a stone row and a holy well; apparently dating from earliest Celtic and Christian times (I speculate, I have got no idea what dates the artefacts have).
The day was wonderfully warm, I started off walking with rugby shirt, fleece, overcoat, bobble hat, scarf and gloves. The walk swiftly became an attenuated al fresco striptease. First the hat – pretty much where the telegraph posts are in the photo and so on.
I had been listening to a nature notes programme on Radio Kerry; the presenter told us that the birds where just about to commence singing. I was thrilled to hear numerous birds as I walked.
Other signs of approaching Spring immediately became apparent. Frogspawn by the roadside; walking on I was joined by an old dog (one of the joys of walking around Kerry byways is the willingness of various underemployed house dogs to accompany the solitary walker). He accompanied me for 2 miles or so, until I turned left off the main road when he looked at me with canine scorn, raised a hind leg, turned on his heels and departed.
He might have a point, I thought as the road deteriorated rapidly into a midden. Less bonhomous mutts became evident growling and barking threatening warnings until stilled by a suspiciously feral looking individual, only lacking a duelling banjo to create a hillbilly simulacra. However I had an archeological site to discover. It should be around here... no barrow! Perhaps farther up; on apace up the hill, there has been some planting by SWS forestry but it should be around here somewhere.
What does a barrow actually look like. I have seen several burial mounds before but they have been properly preserved and have easily identifiable features. It should be easier to identify the row of stones just over to the western side should be within a quarter mile of the barrow... no sign of the row of stones either. Probably if one finds one; one finds another, you see. I didn’t actually know what the other place I was looking for actually was, my Irish isn’t up to it. I realise that it’s not a holy well, however the only other place with the same title in the vicinity is adjacent to a holy well.
I quartered the area looking for the places to no avail. The problem of course being that the ancient Celts and holy saints couldn’t actually read maps which accounts for the stone row and barrow being in the wrong places.
Walked on and saw some more interesting little cottages amongst the forestry. I moved along a road which described a triangular route to intersect with my original path by the Corner cottage bridge. Passing a farmyard a numerous pack of angry dogs objected to my presence. After a half mile or so I then passed a gate into a vacant field.
In the fallow day waiting for delivery of a new stainless chimney-piece the day dawned to early mist and fog causing the curtailment of my early morning jog. Kerry drivers are not wont to allow appalling visibility to curtail their speed. In short I turned around and headed homewards. After my shower the day had turned to bright and fair. I decided to pack a rucksack, pocket a map and explore the locale.
The road from Knocknagoshel.
From the map I spotted an area of potential interest within manageable walking distance. The spot for which I headed had a number of points of interest a barrow, a stone row and a holy well; apparently dating from earliest Celtic and Christian times (I speculate, I have got no idea what dates the artefacts have).
The day was wonderfully warm, I started off walking with rugby shirt, fleece, overcoat, bobble hat, scarf and gloves. The walk swiftly became an attenuated al fresco striptease. First the hat – pretty much where the telegraph posts are in the photo and so on.
I had been listening to a nature notes programme on Radio Kerry; the presenter told us that the birds where just about to commence singing. I was thrilled to hear numerous birds as I walked.
Other signs of approaching Spring immediately became apparent. Frogspawn by the roadside; walking on I was joined by an old dog (one of the joys of walking around Kerry byways is the willingness of various underemployed house dogs to accompany the solitary walker). He accompanied me for 2 miles or so, until I turned left off the main road when he looked at me with canine scorn, raised a hind leg, turned on his heels and departed.
He might have a point, I thought as the road deteriorated rapidly into a midden. Less bonhomous mutts became evident growling and barking threatening warnings until stilled by a suspiciously feral looking individual, only lacking a duelling banjo to create a hillbilly simulacra. However I had an archeological site to discover. It should be around here... no barrow! Perhaps farther up; on apace up the hill, there has been some planting by SWS forestry but it should be around here somewhere.
What does a barrow actually look like. I have seen several burial mounds before but they have been properly preserved and have easily identifiable features. It should be easier to identify the row of stones just over to the western side should be within a quarter mile of the barrow... no sign of the row of stones either. Probably if one finds one; one finds another, you see. I didn’t actually know what the other place I was looking for actually was, my Irish isn’t up to it. I realise that it’s not a holy well, however the only other place with the same title in the vicinity is adjacent to a holy well.
I quartered the area looking for the places to no avail. The problem of course being that the ancient Celts and holy saints couldn’t actually read maps which accounts for the stone row and barrow being in the wrong places.
Walked on and saw some more interesting little cottages amongst the forestry. I moved along a road which described a triangular route to intersect with my original path by the Corner cottage bridge. Passing a farmyard a numerous pack of angry dogs objected to my presence. After a half mile or so I then passed a gate into a vacant field.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)