Patrick O'Keeffe Festival

 I don’t think I’ve ever really mastered anything in my life. But I’ve dabbled in a lot. When I was a little girl, on my roller skates on our bumpy, sloping driveway (so unfortunate), I envisioned myself being a graceful Olympic figure skater going for the gold. Then in my busy early thirties when I needed a few hours a week to “take
care of me”, I slipped away to the local ice rink and took lessons once a week. Let’s just say I was not a natural, and there were no fancy medals with their sights on me.

I do, however, remember the exact moment when I reached a milestone. I was caught up in the music from the Walkman hanging from my belt when I realized I was actually dancing. I was no longer teetering to stay upright or dodging the traffic around me. I was somewhere else where time and space either didn’t exist or merged. Einstein would have been impressed! This was all I ever wanted from my efforts…  to dance in complete abandon… on ice. This continued to be my great meditative escape for several years.

At some point I had an epiphany. I realized that what was really feeding my spirit was no longer the skating but the music I was skating to. So I hung up my skates and took guitar lessons and later picked up a fiddle. I’ve never grown tired of either, but neither have I become a virtuoso. I’ve been content to use the guitar to accompany my singing, but I’ve always been driven to become a great fiddler. 

I began playing “old-time’ which is akin to bluegrass, but what I really longed to play was Irish traditional (trad) music. I don’t know why. Maybe there was something in my Irish DNA that beckoned. After retiring early, I went through a self-teaching Irish fiddle book with a couple of motivated musician friends but we didn’t get far. It’s not something you learn overnight. Formal lessons didn't help much either.

After mulling over it for a couple more years, I planned a trip to Thurles, Ireland for a week of lessons at a Fiddler’s Retreat I’d found online. You know the rest of the story. I now live in Thurles and the fiddle teacher is a dear friend. I am absorbed in the music, history and culture of this land of my ancestors.

However… progress on the fiddle has been slow. Most tunes can be learned in my head in just a few minutes and played slowly. But playing up to speed requires technique and tenacity. 

I believe I have just reached a milestone. Like dancing on ice, I just realized that on many tunes, I’m actually doing it. It’s a great affirming feeling that I only achieved through perseverance and support from a number of very patient fellow musicians. I’ll never be a soloist, but I know my practice is paying off and that brings me so much pleasure.

Last weekend, we took our RV, the AvantBard, to the Patrick O'Keeffe (a famous fiddler) Trad Festival. We “wild” camped four nights in a parking lot in the middle of  Castleisland (which is a town, not an island, but was named so because in 1226 a castle built there was surrounded by a formidable moat) in Kerry. There were sessions in every pub, day and night, with some of the best musicians in the country leading. Dixie was in his element on the guitar but I mainly sat and listened. 

Sample session schedule

The first evening was chilly and, after returning from the pub, we turned on the gas for heat and there it was… gone. What a time to discover the second gas canister we bought straight from the dealership was empty! The nearest source of a refill was 20 minutes away. It would have to wait til morning. I layered up but still shivered in the night. Maybe I’m just a glamper at heart.

All that was sorted the next day and by early afternoon we were back in the pubs, flitting from one to another like butterflies high on nectar. I enjoyed the Guinness and watched Dixie join in the sessions. I hardly played at all because the standard was so high and most of the tunes were unfamiliar. I slipped away on Saturday afternoon to a singing session where at least 50 seniors had gathered to share the old ballads. One after another they sang with no accompaniment, songs I’m sure many had learned from parents or grandparents. There was a sense of serenity in the room that sharply contrasted with the high energy of the trad. 

The next day as I was sitting at a bar, an obnoxious drunk (there’s always one, right?) tried luring me into conversation. I didn’t want to give up my seat because seating is precious at these sessions. So I leaned over to the gentleman on my other side and said, “If you don’t mind, I’m going to start talking to you so hopefully this guy over here will get the message and leave me alone.” 

He laughed and was accommodating. He said a few of his friends were looking for a place to meet for a few songs if I wanted to join them. He soon left but returned to let me know they were in the back room of the pub next door.

I gladly followed. There were just eight of us together sharing ballads. They were so welcoming and that became one of the highlights of my weekend. (Dixie said my strategy could have landed me tied up in the trunk of a car but who thinks of that at a trad festival?)

We’re back home now anticipating our trip to the US for Thanksgiving. I always say I’ll practice while I’m there but I never do. I’d rather meet with friends and play with the grands. But by mid December I’ll be ready to cross back over the pond, decorate my Irish home for Christmas and resume the dance. 

  

Sneem

To me, the Irish weather is like a mild chronic pain that I’ve learned to live with and mainly ignore. I jump for joy on the days the sun shines bright and wonder if it’s climate change and it’s here to stay. But after a day or two at most, the sun grows weary of my jubilation and bids us a mournful farewell. Then it’s business as painful usual.

Earlier this month it looked like one of those sunny portals was opening. Siobhan, the weather lady, pointed to a sunshine icon on her screen, so we took the hint and took to the road. 

Back in June, my niece and her family visited us from Georgia. We took a leisurely two days to drive the amazing Ring Of Kerry after having raved for weeks about it’s gorgeous vistas. Of course it rained the whole way and the kids sat in the back of our rented van playing their video games as we optimistic adults strained to catch a tiny glimpse of the sea or a mountain.

Anyway, one town we passed through was Sneem, just at the edge of the Ring. There is a campsite there called “Goosey Island” and now Dixie and I wanted to go back and see what that was about. Online we learned there were no reservations accepted and we should check in with Sean at Murphy’s Bar. Okay.

We planned to do just that but not until we had stopped in Kenmare along the way and revisited the Kenmare Stone Circle that we had explored with the family in June. 

At that time, it was crawling with tourists and felt very commercial. I wanted to “experience” it at a time when its magic wasn’t suppressed by iPhone photos and bustling crowds (yes, I did take photos this time but I wasn’t bustling).

As we had hoped, it was deserted other than the guy at the reception stall that took our two euro. After taking my obligatory photos I walked the circle, touching each and every stone and deliberately trying to be mindful… to not dwell too much on the ancient past which is tempting at a stone circle, but rather to appreciate my great fortune at being here and now as a link in the great chain of history. It could have been my ancestors (or yours) who hoisted those stones. Who knows???

Stone Circles are mostly from the bronze age which they say is roughly 2200-500 BC. No one is really sure but it’s believed they were used for ritual or ceremonies of some sort. The Kenmare Stone Circle is the biggest in southwest Ireland where there are about 100. It is also special in that it has a large central stone that is believed to be a burial monument. Wonder who’s under there! 

After all this dreaminess, Dixie finally succeeded in pulling me away so we could meet Sean and park up on Goosey Island. As we suspected, it wasn’t exactly an island but a large outcrop of land on the River Sneem. It was just on the edge of town, an easy walk for meals, drinks and of course lattes.

Goosey Island from the bridge in town

As I continue to blog, I realize that what I’m actually doing is making a record for myself of the towns and villages we visit. Just driving through, like we did in June, doesn’t really allow you to feel the distinction of each place and appreciate its uniqueness.

Sneem is another village right on a river, but with a pedestrian walk along its bridge that has a grated floor so you can look down at the rapids below and see mountains in the distance. You could stand there all day… if you didn’t mind getting wet because, contrary to what that bitch Siobhan led us to believe, it rained almost the whole time we were there. There were moments of misty reprieve and we explored the area, but it was mostly rain.

We loved the motorhome park. Because the season is about over, we had our choice of sites and chose to be right on the river with a view of the mountains. We didn’t realize right away that the river was tidal, morphing into an estuary before spilling into the sea, and the next morning we could walk out on the river bed and look for things… like rocks. There were plenty of rocks. I found a gorgeous little chunk of quartz with crystals embedded in it. 

Compare with first photo on this post. Same place, different tide.

Beside Goosey Island that really isn’t an island there’s a plot of land called The Way the Fairies Went. It’s a short walk with reproduction stone pyramids and “beehives”…a smart little architectural attraction but disappointing in its inauthenticity. It would be a good place to take kids.

We admired the historic church and many statues, had good food at O’Shea’s, good drinks at Murphy’s, a “hotdog” that wasn’t a hotdog from a roadside vendor, and shopped at Quills, a touristy place that sells Irish knitwear and gifts. I bought a wool hat that is very warm and won’t blow away in the wind (even if it does leave my hair flat).

Though it rained all the way home, we stopped and took lots of pix because it is Ireland after all… and every soggy place steals my heart!

Dick's Field

Florida was hot… very hot! We loved every minute of time spent with family, but when the day came for our flight back to Ireland, visions of cool breezes danced in our heads. We were also anxious to get back to our Irish friends and family.

 

We were sadly informed that one of our dear friends, Christy Shortt, age 92, had passed away just days earlier. He always said if he got Covid his days on earth would be over. He was an amazing musician and a true gentleman. He would always greet me on Wednesday nights at the Monks pub with a hearty handshake and a sincere “God bless”.

 

Christy always read and praised my blogs. He was a natural encourager. I hope he’s showing this post to Jesus and putting in a good word for me. Thank you, Christy, for everything.

We would be back in Ireland just in time to share grief with our community and offer condolences to Christy’s family. You might recall a post from my Suirly Goodness blog describing an Irish funeral. They are often multi-day affairs and involve much music and merriment as fitting sendoffs for the deceased. This one would be especially poignant.

Also, Dixie’s brother’s much anticipated retirement party was scheduled for the weekend. More music planned at the Monks celebrating the end of an era for Raz. Ireland was calling.

But so was Hurricane Idalia! She blew into Florida just in time to foil all our plans. The Tampa airport closed and our flight was delayed three days. By the time we got back to Thurles, all was quiet. We could only hang our heads and apologize for our absence.

It took longer to get over jet lag this time. I felt so tired and even wondered if maybe I had developed long covid. I had flown to America one week after a positive test in July and had been on the go constantly for five weeks. Now I was really feeling knackered.

So we decided it was time to take the AvantBard for another spin. Neither of us cared where we went, we just wanted to take off again. I needed an excuse to get active for a couple of days, renew my energy and chase away the blues.

There’s a field in County Waterford, less than a two hour drive, simply and fittingly called Dick’s Field. It’s an RV park that has few amenities. A few pitches have electric hookups and there’s waste disposal, but otherwise… it’s just Dick’s Field. You can’t reserve a space, it’s first come first served.

I heard about it from my motorhome Facebook group. We decided to “give it a lash”. It looked to be near the village of Ardmore where we’d been a couple of years ago, and I remembered the cliff walk and the beach. I think I even blogged about it. But all the fields looked alike so finding and staying in Dick’s Field would be a new experience, although staying in a field didn’t sound particularly appealing.

It was easy to find and, being a Monday, there was plenty of space. Dick himself greeted us at the gate and told us to just park anywhere we liked. It was actually a beautiful field, deep emerald Irish green and right on the water. We found a spot overlooking the surf and in a corner of the field, so no one would box us in.

Getting settled always involves two rituals: driving the Bard’s front wheels up on chocks to get properly leveled and then having a cuppa tea. When all was done, we made a plan. We would stroll on the beach toward the village, (me looking for treasures and Dixie basking in the salty mist), buy a few groceries, check out the coffee shops, have dinner back in the Bard, then go back to the village for a drink. Good plan.

I was never much of a drinker. I’m still not. They tease me in the Monks when I start the Wednesday music sessions with a glass (not a pint) of Guinness and take my last sip just before leaving three or four hours later. What can I say?

My parents stopped drinking when I was a teenager. I remember as a child they would host dinner parties and our kitchen table would become a well stocked bar. But then my mother’s best friend, Sara, went on a binge and never recovered. Long about that time my Uncle Hobo, Daddy’s brother, died of liver disease. They were both in their thirties and hopeless alcoholics. I saw my parents deeply grieve. After that, our kitchen table just held place mats and tea lights.

Irishmen love their pints. Dixie prefers “large bottles” as opposed to the tap. I don’t know why. And “large bottles” are apparently rare so he was happy the pub we chose in Ardmore had them in stock. I had a Baileys which seems more like a liquid dessert than a beverage.

When we left the pub around 11:00 (early), we stepped out under a magical canopy of starlight. I can’t remember when the Milky Way shone so clearly. I felt wrapped in a veil of glitter. Walking back along the beach I almost stumbled several times because I couldn’t stop looking up. I sat outside a while and tried to identify constellations but it was like trying to find Waldo… just too much going on.  

The next morning we walked the opposite direction on the beach until it ended in uneven rocky outcrops. A very narrow path divided the rocks from the adjacent field and led onto another beach. 

We could see a series of little sandy/grassy patches among the boulders that seemed like separate rooms designed specifically for picnics sheltered from the wind. We said we’d come back another day and bring sandwiches.

After a delicious lunch in the village we strolled up the hill to the cliff walk. The views were magnificent and there were historic stops along the way including two holy wells, cathedral ruins complete with three ogham stones, a round tower and of course, a delightful cemetery (I'm probably the only person who delights in cemeteries).

That night I texted my kids and sent a photo I’d taken of the Big Dipper (or The Plough as it’s called here) with my iphone. It was bright enough to show up. Thomas asked if I’d seen the new comet. Wuuuttt… a new comet??? How could I have missed the news. In August an amateur astronomer in Japan had discovered a blurry intruder that would not return for 400 years.

I decided not to wait that long. The conditions were so perfect I knew I could find it. Google told me exactly where to look and when… an hour before sunrise. Ugh! I set the alarm for 5 AM and crawled out of bed, threw on clothes over my pajamas and donned my heavy coat. Then I laid back in my camping chair wishing I’d brought gloves. I stared into space with and without my binoculars until the sun rose two hours later. No comet! Apparently I had missed it by a few days. I had to settle for the Great Nebula in Orion and a stunning waning crescent moon nudging towards Venus. I didn’t complain… much.

Our camping excursions remain brief

because we have weekly commitments on Wednesdays and the weekend. But we found our stay in Dick’s Field to be nothing short of... heavenly. We'll be back for more stargazing and that picnic. 

Unexpected Adventure

Summer in Ireland can be so unpredictable. June was gorgeous with the countryside surfing on a clear emerald crest that seemed to ripple on forever. We were looking forward to three full months of great adventures in our rv, the AvantBard. Then July swept in like a tsunami and upset all our plans. Rain Rain Rain… every day, all day! 

We sat mournfully staring out the window like the kids in The Cat in the Hat. “So all we could do was Sit! Sit! Sit! Sit! And we did not like it. Not one little bit.”

For weeks we had been planning to go to the Phil Murphy Weekend at the end of July. It’s another small Irish trad festival in a small town called Carrig on Bannow in the southeast. It seemed like a miracle when the clouds parted mid week and Siobhan, the weather lady, gave a cautious nod. The Bard was so ready to
get out there.

Most of the music took place in Colfers Pub, which I was told is really John Murphys pub. The Bard was parked at the school just across the street which was very convenient. The Thurles group of musicians infiltrated the session around 5 on Friday evening and played straight through until 11 that night. On Saturday, it was 2:30 until 11 with no breaks even for food. The Guinness was filling enough for everyone.

Or so they told me… I wasn’t there! Last week, I woke up with a scratchy throat and by evening I had tested positive for you-know-what… for the third frickin’ time! Feeling fine but still contagious, I insisted Dixie go on without me and take his brother, Paul, in the Bard. 

I would have missed it even if I hadn’t gotten sick. That Tuesday I was scheduled to fly to Atlanta to be with my brother, Hal, in Roswell. This is the bigger story that I’ll share with you because, though it has nothing to do with camping and music festivals, it has everything to do with unexpected journeys and the fragility of our dreams. You’ll remember what Bilbo Baggins said, “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door… there is no telling where you might be swept off to.” (That sorta ties into camping, right?)

Three weeks ago I was Facetiming with Hal. He likes to rise early and start the day with a cup of coffee on his secluded screened porch. We usually don’t talk so early in the day, but this day he was pumped and wanted to chat.

 

Hal is a singer/songwriter/entertainer. He had just played a gig at a local hotspot in our hometown. He had put together a three hour one-man show featuring the songs of the outlaws… you know, “Waylon, Willie and the Boys”. It was a big hit, he was invited to come back often and he was really excited about that and wanted to tell me how it went.

This wasn’t Hal’s first rodeo. He’s been a performer his whole adult life. He’s written songs that have hit the national charts and he’s in the Atlanta Country Music Hall of Fame. I’m just a little bit proud of him.

 

But he was never a full time musician. He owned a small business and still works from his home as a marketing coach. At 73, he’s anticipating his retirement and looking forward to more time spent singing, making people laugh, playing with his grands (and mine) and doing all the other things he enjoys… such as (over the years) fishing, turkey/deer hunting, mushroom foraging, beekeeping, moonshine making (I'm not kidding), historic reenacting, fur tanning, cigar rolling, reptile collecting, exotic plant propagating, hot pepper growing, wild game cooking and golfing. There's probably more but these are the things that come to mind.  

So we’re chatting away when he suddenly winces with pain and says he’s having a back spasm. He says he’ll have to call me back cause it really hurts. I can see that he’s lowered himself to the floor when we disconnect.

I thought about calling Lynn, my sister-in-law, to check on him but I figured she was still asleep and besides, Hal was holding his phone and could call her himself if he needed help. At that moment, Lynn posted to our family Wordle thread. So I knew she was awake and decided to give her a ring.

“Hal’s on the porch wincing in pain from a back spasm. You might want to check on him.” She did immediately and, long story short, it wasn’t a back spasm. He had an abdominal aortic aneurism that had ruptured and he was bleeding out! After all was said and done, the surgeon said five more minutes and he would have been in the boneyard.

He’s home now recovering nicely and I have flown to Georgia to be with him and Lynn, reminding him he doesn’t have to go to such great lengths to be the center of attention. Hitting the stage a few times a month should be enough.

 

The doctors say it will be a while before he charms a crowd or tumbles with the kiddos. But, against all odds, he’s expected to make a full recovery.

It’s these close calls that stop us in our tracks, force us to slam on the brakes and take stock of the sweet mercies in our lives. A part of me would be lost without my big brother, my only sibling. We know someday one of us will bury the other, and we will both embark on new adventures to frontiers that far exceed the boundaries
of the AvantBard. Thankfully, this has not been that day.

 

I’ll be spending most of August in Florida with Ted, Leah and little Carolina, the Scamp (as Dixie calls her). Dixie will be joining us soon.

The southern heat is oppressive but we welcome the saturation of vitamin D. We have decided when we return to Ireland, we’ll no longer be stymied by the dreary forecasts and relentless showers. We won’t Sit! Sit! Sit! Sit! and wait for a sunnier day to pack up and go. We’ll seize the day!!