Go Raibh Maith Agut

I return to Chicago tomorrow morning, and I leave with much food for thought. This trip has been filled with powerful moments, highs, and challenges. I've learned a tremendous amount about Ireland - its people and its cultures. I've also discovered a love for Irish brown bread, and a new found appreciation for orange marmalade. Perhaps most importantly, I leave with questions... more questions than I came here with. So, this adventure is not at an end. For now, I say, "To Be Continued..."

Go raibh maith agut (Thank You) to the following people who made this trip so incredible: Ancona School's Reepmeyer Committee, Jenny Hempel, Deborah Sukenic, Lisa Sukenic, Paul Moore, Paula Clayton, Shanti Elliot, Catherine McGettigan, Marie Trait, Paddy Trait, Toby, Susan McKeown, Taye Brown, Faith Caron, Peggy Malone, Janet Musich, Rahel Mwitula-Williams, Marsha Stewart, Bonnie Wishne, Cristoir Mac Carthaigh and Johnny of the UCD National Folklore Collection, Nyree Landry from the Dublin Writers Museum, Anne at the Griffin Lodge, Treasa Harkin at the Irish Traditional Music Archives, and Katie Persons at CEX, v'hamishpacha sheli.

Stoker, Yeats, and Cosmetic Surgery

I didn't expect any success today. It was raining, and I've noticed that it's a bit challenging to get a lot accomplished in Dublin when the pavement is slick. Might it mean that the Irish lad in me is growing into a bit of an Irishman? I was able to cover more ground than I originally thought!

I still wanted to find Bram Stoker's home. It's interesting that the man responsible for writing Dracula was Irish and attended Trinity College. He never visited Transylvania.

(As a side, a gentleman from Romania I met in Kilkenny told me that Bram Stoker has done wonderful things for the country's tourist industry.)

I did a little research on the Internet, and found that Stoker had lived at 30 Kildare Street in Dublin. This is not far from Trinity College and close to the National Library.

So, I crossed the Liffey and headed in the general direction of his home. I found the address without too much difficulty. The strange thing? 30 Kildare Street is home to a cosmetic surgery center called The Hospital Group!

I rang the bell and was buzzed in. Inside I found a receptionist on the phone. She was explaining to someone why they were not eligible for lap band surgery. (Whoever was on the phone with her was quite stubborn; their conversation went on for quite some time. How many times does one have to listen to information about their BMI?)

Once the receptionist was off the phone, she told me that I had found Stoker's former home, and that the new owners intend to put up some sort of plaque in the future. (In all honesty, I'm not certain this would be such a good idea. Would one want to advertise a cosmetic surgery clinic as being situated in the former home of the author of world's most famous vampire novel?)

After that, I set out for the Irish Traditional Music Archives (ITMA). Susan McKeown had recommended I visit it when I saw her in Kilkenny.

While I got lost along the way, I was surprised to come across W.B. Yeats' former home... located almost next door to a Montessori school. (What are the odds?)

Eventually, I found the ITMA; it was absolutely amazing! The organization describes itself as, "a national public archive, information centre, and resource centre for everyone one with an interest in contemporary artforms of Irish traditional song, instrumental music, and dance, and in their history."

The center has an extensive collection of sheet music, books, periodicals, musical recordings, and several instruments. An extremely helpful woman named Treasa gave me an orientation to the collection and resource center. I spent quite some time going through their collections looking for references to Irish folklore... I was looking to see how Irish folklore is represented in traditional Irish music. For example, I explored different supernatural beings. The word fairy yielded 417 hits in the ITMA database. Banshee came in second with 108. Others that were "up there": mermaid (46 hits), leprechaun (42), sidhe (37), witch (23), and giant (20).

I tried experimenting with instruments. Can you guess what instrument was represented in the collection most prominently? The harp. The harp is the national instrument of Ireland, and it yielded 851 hits. Fiddle came in second with 422 hits. Not a surprise. Other ones that were high up on the list? The violin with 112, the concertina had 109, the traditional Irish frame drum called the bodhran, had 103, as did the banjo.

Finally, I was fortunate to see some beautiful instruments including an Irish harp and melodeon. There was also a unique gramophone.

All in all, a very literary and musical day.

What is a Fairy?

It’s my last in Dublin, and I have quite a bit planned… I hope to visit Trinity College and the Book of Kells, the Irish Traditional Music Archives, and the house that Bram Stoker lived in today. At this point, it’s all going to depend on the weather. (Will this rain let up?)

Over the last several weeks, I’ve traveled to three of the five ancient provinces of Ireland. I think it’s time to put together a short list that describes what a fairy is, and what a fairy is not.

1. Those cute little bright, docile and delicate fairies that flitter around children’s and new age stories DON’T EXIST in Irish folklore. In Ireland, fairies are dark, savage, and mischievous. Think ‘scary fairies’ from now on.

2. The term ‘fairy’, or sídhe, refers to a family of mythic creatures that, depending on one’s set of beliefs and upbringing, may include figures such as the leprechaun, brownie, pookah, banshee, clurichaun, and selkie. Many call them the wee folk. (These creatures may be found elsewhere in the world, but all are found in Ireland.)

3. Cultural anthropologists and folklorists believe that the pre-Christian deities of Ireland, the Tuatha de Danaan, are based upon chieftans that once ruled different tribes, the tuatha, in prehistoric Ireland. Over time, the Tuatha de Danaan morphed into the spirits known as fairies. In other words, there is a fairly linear relationship between the tribal chieftans (tuatha) of prehistoric Ireland, pre-Christian deities (Tuatha de Danaan) and fairies (sídhe).

4. Fairies are neither alive nor dead. They live on the margins of life and death. They reside in the Otherworld.

5. Many Irish went to great lengths to keep fairies far from their homes. If someone disturbed a fairy mound or rath, trouble was to come. (Even today, people will take steps to not build upon, or destroy, a rumored fairy fort.)

6. Fairies often kidnapped humans and livestock, and substituted them with changelings. Babies were especially vulnerable to fairy abductions. It was possible to rescue those kidnapped.

7. Fairy changelings could be “chased away” by various means. The administration of herbal medicine to the shapeshifter, along with threats of iron, salt, Christian symbols, and fire, were common.

8. Fairies are often invisible. They reside in the ground, water, and air.

9. Fairies are sometimes depicted as being slightly smaller than humans. Other times, they are, as Angela Bourke wrote, “so tiny that a grazing cow blows hundreds of them away with every breath.”

10. Belief in fairies in Ireland seemed to dissolve for the most part by the beginning of the late 19^th century and early 20^th century. Still, there are those in remote areas of Ireland that still believe them to exist.

11. Fairylore has woven its way into pop culture in every generation.

12. Variants of the supernatural creature known as the fairy exists in societies around the world.

The Aran Islands

It’s raining in Galway today. While it’s a bit of bummer, I am grateful for having had the opportunity to explore the Aran Islands yesterday while it was fairly bright and warm.

The Aran Islands are comprised of three islands that rest approximately 25 kilometers off the western coast of Ireland in Galway Bay. It is home to roughly 200 people. The islands belong to the Gaeltacht, an area of Ireland where Irish is the predominant language. During the summer, teenagers from all over Ireland come to this region to study Irish in various immersion programs. The small community that calls the Aran Islands home leads a more rustic and “traditional” lifestyle. In addition, the Aran Islands are known for their rugged beauty and as home to some of Europe’s best-preserved prehistoric monuments.

Individuals I spoke with on the mainland told me that I could learn a lot about Irish folklore on the Islands. Apparently many of the elderly residents still believe in fairylore. Still, I wondered how “authentic” the rustic way of life could be given that so many tourists flock to the Islands to see, what many call, a living museum.

I took a ferry with approximately 100 other people across Galway Bay to get to the largest of the three islands, Inishmór. Like me, they were armed with cameras and smart phones. (OK, I don’t own a smart phone, but I digress.) As we sailed, I noticed one woman reading a Kindle. A Macy Gray song piped through the boat’s speakers as we docked.

The moment I got off the ferry, I, along with the other visitors, was approached by older men with vans offering tours of the island. There were other folks offering other kinds of tours: bike or horse buggy. One couldn’t help but notice a large restaurant called the American Bar, and several gift shops… one, an outlet store!

I wanted to make it to Dun Aengus, a prehistoric fort built at the edge of a cliff approximately 100 meters above the sea. I only had four hours to explore, so I opted to take a van along with other tourists. For 10 euros, our driver would show us around the island, give tidbits of information, drop us off at Dun Aengus, and return later in the day to show us the island’s seal colony before returning us to the ferry landing.

The drive around the island was like nothing I have ever experienced before. The van zoomed around dirt streets the size of alleys. The driver told us that these were two-way streets; he shared them reluctantly with cars going the opposite direction, cyclists, horses, and carriages. I don’t know how we made it around without crashing into anyone, or horse, for that matter.

Along the way, I jotted down some of the anecdotal information he shared. Here are some the figure he gave us, in the order in which they were given. On the Aran Islands, there are...

• four pubs.
• three Catholic churches.
• one supermarket.
• two policemen.
• one bank that is open two days a week.
• 85 students that attend one of two primary schools.
• one school for secondary education.
• only 80 sheep.
• four ring forts.
  

It’s very difficult to come up with words to describe the scenery. First, imagine predominantly dark greens of varying shades filled with mazes of stonewalls, about four feet high. The walls are made of limestone, and are not cemented in place. Essentially, they can be rearranged. The stonewalls create very small field-like enclosures for livestock to graze in. I asked why the land was filled with these stone “fences”. I was told that farmers built the “fences” this way so they could take down the borders of their fields and move the livestock around as they saw fit. Nothing permanently etched in stone makes for farming cattle easier in a harsh climate. Makes sense to me.

We drove past small crumbling cathedrals once used by Dominican monks, and a small cemetery with large tombstones of Celtic crosses. Next, we drove by a house made for a leprechaun. (Yes, really. Apparently there is a man on the island that likes to make these homes for the wee folk in the winter.) And we passed large, open tubs sitting out in the middle of fields, some filled with water. Their purpose? To collect rainwater for the cattle.

I couldn’t quite figure out where I was… not just geographically, but time-wise.

Finally, we arrived at the Tourist Bureau where we could purchase tickets to the trail leading up to Dun Aengus. What else was at this stop? Two restaurants, a snack stand, and about four gift shops. Elderly men with thick wrinkles and yellow, snaggleteeth smoking cigarettes, were lined up with their horses and carriages waiting to take tourists on a ride on one of the many paths circling Dun Aengus.

The horses were beautiful. Calm, compact, and strong, they took care of themselves while their drivers either waited in the carriages or sat on the other side of the path. One dark brown horse fed itself out of a bag of hay.

I asked one man missing a front teeth what kind of horses these were. He responded, “They’re a dying breed.”

I asked what the dying breed is called, and he answered, “I don’t know, but it’s dying.”

This struck me. It almost sounded like a joke.

“What kind of horse is this?”

“It’s a dying breed.”

“What’s the breed called?”

“I don’t know, but it’s dying.”

Anyhow, I continued on up the path to Dun Aengus. It was a somewhat steep walk, and the path was largely made up of giant rocks of black limestone.

The path and the fort are a photographer’s dream. The ancient limestone walls - about four meters thick - enclose rocky land filled with long, soft green grass. Also found within the fort? A ledge at the place where the sidewalk ends. You know, the one that Shel Silverstein wrote about? The land just comes to a halt and, after that, a huge plummet into the Atlantic. People lied on the rocks at the edge of the fort and stared down into the ocean. A truly unbelievable spectacle.

Archaeologists still question how old the fort is, but their best guess it that it was built during the Iron Age. While the fort was used by the original inhabitants for defense from invaders, it was also probably used by druids for religious ceremonies.

After taking a ton of pictures, I hiked back down the path.

It took some time to find the van and driver as, he was apparently driving other people’s vans and taking different groups of people up, down, and around the island. (The others in my group were not happy.)

Once we did track him down, and were nestled in the vehicles, we made our way back to docks. Along the way we stopped at the shore where the seals rest. Much to my chagrin, the seals were not there. The tide was too high. However, we were lucky to spot one gray seal bobbing his head up and down in the waves. In an instant it was easy to see why seal-lore abounds in western Ireland and other British isles.

My ferry departed Inishmór at 5pm. Pop music from the 1970s was playing on the speakers this time… I think it was the Bee Gees. I, along with the other tourists, was heading back to the 2011 that I know.

Since having come to Ireland, two people have told me that the Aran Islands is their favorite place in the world. They love the wondrous beauty and isolation. However, the skeptic in me wonders how isolated the islands really are. At what pace are things changing on Inishmór? Have some things been left static in time to build the islands’ tourist industry? I read in another book that the only real way to experience the Aran Islands is to stay overnight and go about once the tourists have left. Sounds reasonable.

I should have asked the toothless man with his horse at Dun Aengus about the community. Perhaps the conversation would have gone something like this:

“What kinds of people live here?”

“They are a dying breed.”

“What kinds of people are dying?”

“I don’t know what they are, but they’re dying.”

A Noteworthy Concert

Susan McKeown is arguably the most talented vocalist working today. I had the good fortune to see her perform at the Kilkenny Arts Festival on Sunday night. Years ago, I arranged a concert and fundraiser at which Susan performed, at the International House in NYC. While she is widely known for her reinterpretations of traditional Irish music, Susan has that rare ability to sing anything… from alt-rock to klezmer to sean nós (traditional Irish music sung a capella). The joy she emanates while singing is something I have seen unparalleled from any other performer to date. It was wonderful to speak with her after her gig. Surprised to see me in Ireland, we talked briefly about the work for the Reepmeyer Award, and her new album Singing in the Dark.

Almost ten years ago, Susan released a mesmerizing album called Prophecy. It contains alt-rock songs with Irish underpinnings. One standout song, River, is a “hope song” for Ireland. It expresses hope that the Troubles that have divided Ireland will soon be a thing of the past. As she has said, and I paraphrase, the rivers of the island have run red with the blood of her people. (Geography teachers take note!) The names of a number of Ireland’s rivers make up the chorus: the Rivers Liffey, Slaney, Barrow, Nore, Suir, Blackwater, Banderlee, Shannon, Foyle, and Erne. (Full lyrics are below.)

I recommend checking out the album for a terrific way to learn more about contemporary Irish music, and other creative music! There’s a link on the blog.

River by Susan McKeown

Bathe me in the waters of the Lagan of the Boyne
Of the Liffey of the Slaney, of the Barrow, Nore and Suir
Of the Blackwater, the Bann, the Lee, the Shannon, Foyle and Erne
Bathe me in the waters

O bless the water that flows from the fields
Into the sea that surrounds our little island of green
Hope is a river that flows from these stone walls
Into an ocean we have never seen

Hope is a dress that my mother once wore
A fiddle tune I heard that has no words
Hope is the one thing we have never lost
Though we are tired from the old war

Same anger in our hearts, same desolation and loss
Why are we divided
Bind us in friendship so rage will never rise again
In fair Eire between friends

The Táin

Years ago I got stranded at the Cincinnati Airport. I spent some time in a small Food Court-ish area where travelers could wait for their flights. On one side of the Food Court was a Starbucks, on the other side, a Seattle’s Best Coffee. I remember thinking how funny it was for two coffee companies to be competing for customers in such close proximity. I imagined the owners grimacing at each other, mumbling, “It’s on!” fiercely under their breaths.

I had a similar reaction the first time I read a translation of the The Táin.

The Táin (pronounced tawn and short for Táin Bó Cíailnge), is one of the most important legends in Irish mythology. At the beginning of this epic tale, King Aillil and Queen Medb of the province Connacht compare their fortunes. Each insists that they are wealthier than the other. All comes to a head when Aillil reveals that he possesses the great white bull Finnbhennach. Medb has no bull in any of her herds that can match Finnbhennach’s virility, and she becomes determined to search all of Ireland to find a stronger bull. Eventually one of her servants locates the powerful Donn Culaigne of the province Ulster, an enormous brown bull capable of competing against Aillil’s white bull. The Queen tries negotiating with Donn Culaigne’s owner for possession of the bull to no avail. Thus she amasses her armies and declares war against Ulster. The great brown cow will be hers!

“It’s on!”

The epic continues and supernatural deities, heroic warriors, and magical spells come into play before the resolution. The tale is gory, bloody, and savage.

The Táin seemed ridiculous the first time I read it. How could an entire nation possibly go to war over a cow? However, in Ireland, livestock are everywhere. I admit that I am smitten with the Irish cows. They are much hardier than those I see driving cross-country in America. I stare at the cows here, and imagine the absurdity of a nation going to war over one of these animals. However, in ancient Ireland, cows and other livestock equaled wealth. Men and women that had the greatest amount of livestock were the richest and, thus, the most powerful and respected.

Is it such a stretch to ask how a nation could go to war over a cow when nations today go to war over petroleum? Have the values of the culture in which The Táin was conceived really changed? Are we still fighting for bulls, or are nations just fighting for a different kind of cow?

Kilkenny and "A Sorta Fairytale"

Kilkenny is known as “Ireland’s Medieval Capitol”. It is situated about 60 miles southwest of Dublin. The River Nore meanders slowly towards the city before it flows through the town. The small city has impressive castle and cathedrals. Kilkenny Castle was built in the 12^th-century, and several of the cathedrals were built in the 13^th-century. The town bustles during the summer time… brightly colored artisan studios, shops, and pubs stand along narrow roads made of brick. This is an area of Ireland with a largely devout Catholic population, but also an area steeped in rich folklore. Another place where monotheistic and pagan beliefs often intermingle.

I am staying at a family-run inn called Ard Alainn. Ard Alainn is the Irish way of saying ‘beautiful view’, and it certainly has one. From the front door one can see miles, miles and more miles of rolling green fields and pastures dotted with cattle and farmhouses. The house is located about four kilometers outside of the Kilkenny. I find it interesting that the streets don’t seem to be labeled with signs, and that the houses don’t have addresses.

Anyhow, I’ve read many folktales as I’ve traveled from city to city. I am beginning to notice consistencies and inconsistencies between the tales since having visited the National Folklore Collection at University College Dublin. I’m noticing similar themes and characters, and different styles of writing. The voice in which the tale is written says a lot about both the story’s “collector” and author.

Moving on… I am pleased to say that I am fairly certain that I had my first run-in with one of the wee folk last night. I’ll try to recount the experience as best I can. Here it goes…

It all began when I arrived at Ard Alainn. I met the owner, Marie, her son, Paddy, and their small, scrappy dog Toby. Paddy is a redheaded man in his mid-thirties that was injured on the job. He is recovering from a back injury and, as he put it, it is, “good to have a back, back.” The tiny Toby looks to be a mutt of sorts with the traits of a beagle, corgie, and terrier. He seems to be a happy little guy. He trots merrily around the property, and well, he is always there! The dog’s ubiquitous. No matter where I am on the property, Toby is somewhere close by.

At one point in the late afternoon, Paddy and I sat down in the living room to talk. (Toby was somewhere close by.) Paddy told me about his experience growing up outside of Kilkenny City, hurling tournaments, schooling in Ireland and its mandatory courses in Irish, about learning Irish mythology in school, and his desire to go back to college and study literature and anthropology. (I asked him what was stopping him from going back to school and he said, “How could I find a job with that kind of degree?”)

I told Paddy about my trip; that I was learning about Irish folklore by traveling to different areas of the country.

“Ah!” he asked with understated excitement. “You’re studying fairies, are ya?”

“In a sense,” I answered.

Paddy told me many anecdotes about fairylore. For one, his grandmother believes in the ban-sídhe (banshee). Ban-sídhes are a member of the sídhe (fairy) family that are said to be harbingers of death. Intense, piercing screams can be heard as they approach. Paddy told me that I will believe in them should I ever walk up a hill when the wind blows fiercely. Paddy also told me that “educated men” will not build property on areas reputed to be fairy forts. (This is particularly interesting as I’ve read a number of stories in which humans that don’t respect the property of the fairies find themselves to be recipients of some very cruel trickery.)

Finally, Paddy told me that he could direct me to a small fairy fort. We went outside and looked out over the hills and hills of rolling green. He pointed towards three particular trees. Beyond the trees is land that belongs to a farmer named Mr. Nerry (spelling?). If I were to go around the trees and cross the pasture with the bulls in it, I would come upon a circular mound surrounded by a ditch. He advised that I take a large stick with me just in case a bull should try approaching. Sounded like great fun to me!

I asked if it was okay to trespass on the farmer’s land, but Paddy assured me that the farmer was very nice and that it would be no problem… as long as I had a large stick. (He also warned me to mind the wired fences in case the electricity was on.)

Perhaps street-smart people wouldn’t take on this kind of misadventure. But I only put my street-smart hat on when I’m in the city. So, I found a large stick and went for it. I climbed over a stone fence that surrounds the farmer’s property, and walked alongside the cows’ pasture. The bulls didn’t mind me at all; they just stared from a distance and chewed their cud.

I crossed over the hill, sidestepped down soft earth on another, and then came across a small area filled with dense trees and violet thistle. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything that resembled a fairy mound, so I went back to the house, stick in tow, and slightly disappointed.

Later in the evening, Marie and Paddy advised that I visit a local pub down the street called An Roc. It was an approximately ¼ mile walk down a countryside road overlooking the green hills and pastures. Along the way I passed a dilapidated, abandoned house. The front door was gone, and the windows had blown out. Of course the thing to do was to have a look inside. (Who wouldn’t?)

I made my way into the house. The roof had fallen in, in several places. The only things in the old living room were a small fireplace and pitchfork. The kitchen sink and counters had been toppled over as if a giant had had some sort of horrible temper tantrum. Green moss grew out of the sink, and a small lanky tree was growing out from the cracked tiles in the floor. Finally, the old bedroom had a few trinkets in it. A shadowbox was hanging on the wall. Inside was a plastic figurine of a once regal man wearing a crown in flowing garments. As I was leaving the house, I turned around and saw a dog peering out of the bedroom window at me. He didn’t bark. He was just there.

I walked away, haunted, and made my way to An Roc.

One thing that fairies are known for is playing tricks on those that have disturbed their property. After some fun at the pub, I left and began walking back “home” as the day turned to dusk. Thirty minutes later, nothing looked familiar. The houses, the cows, the pastures, nothing! The houses I was passing were not the same as those earlier in the day. I wondered how I could have possibly made a wrong turn; there were no turns to make!

It grew darker and darker until I could hardly tell where the road ended and the curb began. Along one side were pastures obscured by tall grasses and prickly weeds. The other side held deeper forest. I wondered what people living in this part of the country might have thought were lurking in the wooded areas hundreds of years ago. What might one think if they had been walking in the woods, gotten lost, and heard rustling in the leaves?

I’ll spare you the details of how I finally made it back to Ard Alainn. There’s enough in that part of the story for three more posts. I will say that it involves a damsel in distress, a carpenter, strange signage, and danger. However, what began as a simple walk to a pub turned into an absurd misadventure. Is it possible that I ventured too close to one or two fairy forts? Had I angered the fairies? Or, as I suspect, did Toby have something to do with the whole mishap? Is he a changeling that spends his time spying on humans in the form of different dogs?

All I know is that I feel that something played a dangerous trick on me, and I have no desire to go back to An Roc at dusk again.

The Troubles

I spent a number of hours today at the Ulster Museum, and learned a tremendous amount about The Troubles.

I was saddened to find this article in today's copy of the Belfast Telegraph: Bomb Plot to kill police revealed.

The Giant's Causeway

Take your mind back to the third century A.D. It’s probably a little difficult to remember, but try. You live near the coast of northeast Ireland, in what is now known as County Antrim. It is a land of verdant hills and bogs. The weather is rainy and grey more times than not, and wind blows feverishly in the winter. The trees are sturdy and strong. The cattle are large, strong, and stubborn. The terrain, weather, and livestock often require some battling. You must also possess some of these traits to survive here.

Consider what you think if you stumbled upon steep embankment and found a river of rocks separating the land from the sea? What’s more, what would you think if you ventured down to that river of rocks only to find that its waves were frozen in time in the shape of tall solid columns – both long and narrow… columns that each had five or six sides… columns that locked together into what looks like a huge stone honeycomb sprawling into and out of the sea?

Today, we know that this wonder, known as the Giant’s Causeway, is made up of basalt (solidified lava) that cooled and cracked over a period of two million years, forming columns of interlocking stone. But what might you think if you were here over 1,000 years ago? You might come up with the creation myth below. This version of the folktale of Finn MacCool comes from the National Trust of Northern Ireland.

Legend tells of Finn MacCool (Finn mac Cumaill) wanting to do battle with a rival giant in Scotland, known as Benandonner. The two giants had never met, so Finn built enormous stepping stones across the sea so that the Scottish giant could cross to Ireland to face the challenge. However, when Finn saw the great bulk Benandonner approaching, he fled home in fear and asked his wife, Oonagh, to hide him.

Oonagh disguised Finn as a baby, and put him in a gigantic cradle. When Benandoner saw the size of the infant in the cradle, he assumed that the father must be even more gigantic than he. Benandoner fled home in terror, ripping up the Causeway in case he should follow.

This is the reason that the Giant’s Causeway exists in north Antrim, along with similarly shaped columns of stone at Fingal’s Cave on the Scottish island of Staffa to the north. These are the two surviving ends of the Causeway built by Finn MacCool.

This legend entertains us today and provides insight into ancient Irish beliefs and imagination. The name Finn is etched into place-names throughout Ireland and Scotland, and in the surnames of people around the world.

Belfast

Despite the fact that the “always-reliable travel guides” described Belfast as a charming city, I predicted that I would see a worn down city clouded with the weight of heaviness in the air. I was proven wrong. Instead I've found a city that is welcoming and bustling… with just a faint taste of subterranean political unrest.

I spent my first full day in Belfast wandering the streets without any particular destination in mind. My hotel is very close to the beautiful Queen’s University, and I’m actually a block away from the Department of Education. This part of the city seems to be a college town bursting at the seams. There are at least three coffee shops on every block (great café au lait!), thrift stores, restaurants, and pubs. I love the colors. Buildings tend to be shaded a drastically different pastel from the one next to it.

On my way to the City Hall, I passed an old, rectangular fountain. I found an inscription for the visitor to read as while walking around the structure. It states: WHOSEVER DRINKETH OF THIS WATER SHALL NEVER THIRST. WHOSEVER DRINKETH OF THIS WATER SHALL THIRST AGAIN. Interesting. When I had a look inside the pools where one might have cupped their hands to drink some water, I found discarded plastic bottles and other garbage.

Across the street from the prophetic fountain are the North Ireland offices of the BBC. There was a group of people on strike. I asked one of the strikers what they were boycotting. She kindly explained that a number of people on staff had been let go and directed outdoors by security without warning.

I asked if I could take a picture. She said I was more than welcomed to, and the entire group of strikers posed for the camera and smiled. Interesting, again.

The Belfast City Hall is an impressive building with a great green lawn and beautiful fountain. Inside are many artifacts and statues that, along with label copy, tell the story of the British foundation of this city. Most fascinating to me was a golden trowel used to lay a foundation in 1898. (I found no mention of political strife in the exhibitry.)

There is a particularly striking statue of Queen Victoria outside of the front gates. Tall and imposing, she stares down at passer-byes with an imperious gaze. I wondered what she would say if she could speak.

After visiting the City Hall, I found myself in a bustling portion of the City Centre. Stores, stores, stores, coffee shops, coffee shops, coffee shops. The Disney Store. Starbucks. HMV.

Intermingling with the consumerism were older churches. My favorite was St. Malachy’s, a Catholic church founded in 1840s. As I made my way through the church taking in different images from the New Testament and votives, an elderly woman with brightly dyed red hair and caked on makeup approached me and asked where I was from. (Was it that obvious that I was a tourist? Apparently so.) I told her I was. She was excited as, she told me, she was too!

“I’m from Dublin,” she told me. “I’ve come all this way to find an adoration.”

I asked her what that was.

“You don’t know what an adoration is? Are you Catholic?” she gasped.

“No,” I replied. “I’m Jewish.”

“You’re Jewish, and you’re visiting a church?” she asked with surprise.

“Yes, I love learning about different religions.”

She blessed me and then explained what an adoration was.

* * * * *

I’ve been in Belfast for several days now. And the more time I observe and read, the more hushed whispers of the Troubles I hear. It seems that the city is making an effort to move on, to mention the conflicts between the Protestant and Catholic, North and South, British and native Irish under its breath.

In my opinion, The Troubles are not evident on the surface. But it doesn’t take much scratching to find their evidence underneath that surface.

The Gulf of Araby

I wrote this narrative approximately eight years ago। Believe it or not, it is edited down from the original. Somehow it seemed appropriate for this blog. The pictures are from this visit.

I admit that I developed a slight crush on Natalie Merchant when I was in college. It began one day in a Borders bookstore when I first heard Merchant’s Carnival over the speakers and immediately connected the lyrics to my first experience walking the streets of a large city, in this case San Francisco.

An interesting feature of the recording was that of a smoky, raw voice that echoed Merchant’s in the chorus. The liner notes read that it belonged to a woman named Katell Keineg. I took note of the name and let it sink in somewhere into the folds at the back of my mind.

A year later, I was perusing through a used record store in St. Louis. As I made my way through the aisles, looking for bootlegs of Annie Lennox and Fiona Apple concerts, I came across a lonesome copy of a Katell Keineg CD. The cover of the album, O Seasons O Castles, was eye-catching to say the least।

Hues of reds, browns and golds shot forth from the blurred image of a lanky woman wearing what appeared to be an old dress that didn’t fit her well, smiling madly. This was Katell Keineg? How odd, I remember thinking. The CD insert was imprinted with a golden seal indicating that the it had been distributed for promotional purposes only, and that it was illegal for it to be sold. I thought that I had stumbled upon lost treasure. A rare, illegal, promo CD from the mysterious singer Katell Keineg.

I bought the CD for a couple of dollars.

Shortly, I found myself listening over and over to the album. I thought I had discovered a magical songstress. Keineg had the ability to belt out notes so high that they whistled. She had the ability to hold notes so long that they splintered into , what sounded like, the moans of a cow giving birth. Her voice was raw, powerful and, well, different from anything I had ever heard. I had discovered a new instrument.

The last song on the album The Gulf of Araby haunted me upon first listen। (As some of my friends will attest to, this is the one song I play on the piano that will bring me to tears.)

The words drew me in:

If you could fill a veil with shells from Killiney Shore,

And sweet-talk in a tongue that is no more,

If wishful thoughts could bridge,

The Gulf of Araby between,

What is and what can never be

(I've included the complete lyrics at the end of this post.)

Keineg’s knack for throwing in allusions to literature throughout the album impressed me. Surely Killiney and Araby must be references to some obscure text from the Middle East or Ireland. How could they not? I tried in vein to track these evocative places down. Unfortunately, searches on the pre-Google internet came up empty except for mention of the short story Araby by James Joyce.

Years later, I discovered that Killiney Shore was located south of Dublin along the Irish Sea.

* * * * *

This was the day that Pia and I designated to explore Killiney, in hopes of finding Killiney Shore.

We took the train south from Dublin for 45-minutes to the small town. On the way we sat opposite a red-eyed, older woman with thin, ghostly white skin and frayed grey hair. By this point in the trip, I had decided to affectionately give monikers to all of the individuals that Pia and I came across so that I might remember them in the future. I named this woman Mrs. Paddingcheek. She was quite friendly, and helped give us a sense of where we were going. Like the others we had met thus far, she was curious to learn about us as we were Americans.

We got off the train in Killiney and found ourselves in a small, seemingly abandoned train station resting on a lonely stretch of land along the Irish Sea. It appeared as if we were in the middle of nowhere save for some houses and a large castle-like structure in the distance. There were signs pointing to the nearby villages of Dalkey and Killiney. The stationmaster told us that we should walk down the road from the station for about 20-minutes and that we would then find some spectacular scenery.

As we walked, the road began to curve uphill. It was quite pretty. Misty grey clouds hovered and swirled above the sea. Grey waves pounded against a dark, sandy shore dusted with colored stones. In the distance we could see a steep hill containing a dark green forest that seemed to lead up to some kind of cliff overlooking the sea. Rising out of the trees was a brown, conic shape which we believed to be the top of a small, castle.

As we walked, we found luxurious homes and villas built along the seaside surrounded by walls of stone and iron fences. We first happened upon a man walking an overweight weimaraner. I named the pooch Killiney.

The road grew increasingly steep as we headed closer to the woods - the trees on our left, and a stone wall on our right.

Soon we crossed paths with Mr. and Mrs. Helpfulhands, an older couple entering Vico Road from a path leading down to the shore. They told us that we could go down the path to the shore there.However, if we continued to walk for another 20-minutes, we would find even more spectacular scenery.

Just as Pia and I were ready to continue our walk, Mrs. Helpfulhands asked if we had come to see Bono’s house. (Yes, Bono of U2 fame.) We said that we hadn’t, puzzled. She was surprised as she had expected us initially to ask her where his home was. We asked her why, and she told us that were standing front of it. Yup, right there at Killiney Shore, we found Bono’s estate. I had noticed that there was a good deal of graffiti on the stone wall, however I hadn’t realized that it surreptitiously protected a home. I looked closely at the wall. The graffiti spelled out notes to Bono – love letters and praise.

We continued uphill, and soon met another elderly couple. I named them Mr. and Mrs. Evergreen.

Mr. and Mrs. Evergreen encouraged us to hike up into the forest and continue uphill until we came across a concrete path. Apparently the view would be well worth it.

We entered what seemed to be a temperate rainforest – lush, green, moist ferns and moss grew wildly alongside a muddy, narrow trail. We followed a path of dead leaves uphill, winding around and about. Eventually we found a smaller trail of dead leaves and mud leading away from our path and up to the incline towards the cliffs. Pia and I decided to take the road less traveled and ventured up a steep, slippery path. We hiked up and up and up; tremendous exercise, great cardio!

Eventually we found the concrete path at what seemed to be the top of the incline. We knew we were at a high altitude, but we didn’t know just how high.

We walked south, continuing uphill, and passed a number of people walking their dogs. Then we came across an opening the top of the cliffs along the sea! We had made it. The view was unbelievable. There was the long dark coast of Killiney running along the swelling seas. Green, green, green long grasses and short gymnosperms revealed large, elephantine rocks. The wind was fierce, and blew our hair madly. It was fairly cold but not freezing. There, I felt the splendor of being alive – free in the roaring wind surrounded by the sprawling earth and sea. Could this portion of the Irish Sea be the Gulf of Araby?

There were a few interesting structures atop the mountain. One was a pyramid-like monument with stairs leading to the top. A man wearing an Irish cap stood atop the pyramid looking out at the sea. Behind us was the cone we had seen from below. The structure was small, a castle-like monument built in the late 19^th-century. As we approached it, we passed the man with the Irish cap. I noticed that he had tears running down his cheeks. (I didn’t give him a name. He didn’t need one.)

Pia and I walked down from the summit renewed. The hike down was a welcomed change to our hike uphill. We wandered into the small town of Killiney and continued downhill until we found ourselves at the crossroads where we had met Mr. and Mrs. Helpfulhands. We followed their path down to the shore, walking along Bono’s stone wall. The narrow trail turned into a kind of corridor. Along the way I stopped and took a loose stone from the wall for my friends David and Irene, huge fans of U2.

The shore was magnificent. Huge, blackish, smooth stones filled with sands sprinkled heavily with smooth pebbles of different colors and sizes. There were a good number of folks and dogs on the beach. I knelt down and began collecting rocks and symbolically placed them in the hood of my raincoat. For me, I was filling a veil with shells from Killiney Shore.

We walked back to the train station and headed back to Dublin. On the train, we sat opposite a handsome, young man with dark, curly hair from sporting all black. He told us that he was from County Mayo. I named him Darkcurls. He, like many others, wondered where we were from. His accent seemed richer, somehow deeper than the Dubliners we had met, and his face turned a bright shade of crimson when he spoke.

Pia was exhausted so we taxied back to our inn to rest.

Once Pia woke up from her nap, we got spiffied up and took a bus to one of the quays at the Liffey. On the bus, I told Pia of my wish to go to as many exotic places around the world as possible. Places like Iceland, Suriname, Madagascar, Namibia, Thailand and on and on. We both agreed that we would love to travel to South Korea and Japan.

All this time, an older man with golden hair fading fast to silver, and big, swollen red eyes sat across from us. As the bus driver announced the next stop, he turned to us and said suddenly, “Make sure you go!”

“To South Korea?” I asked.

“To all the… places… travel… I could have… traveled but I… made a mistake… you only go through… life once!”

Pia was silent. I stared directly into his red eyes and asked, “Where did you want to travel to?”

“40 years ago… to England.”

That was all he said for it was his stop. He got up and hobbled off the bus, limping.

It was as if we had been visited by a prophet or a ghost. Pia thought he was drunk. “No,” I stated firmly. “He was not drunk. He might have some sort of palsy, but

he was not drunk.”

Pia nodded and said, “You know, you are living your dream.”

And the bus drove on into the night’s carnival।

The Gulf of Araby by Katell Keineg

If you could fill a veil with shells from Killiney's shore
And sweet talk in a tongue that is no more
If wishful thought could bridge
The Gulf of Araby
Between what is
What is
What is
And what can never be

If you could hold the frozen flow of New Hope Creek
And hide out from the one they said you might meet
If you could unlearn all the words
That you never wanted heard
If you could stall the southern wind
That's whistling in your ears
You could take what is
What is
What is
What is
To what can never be

One man of seventy whispers free at last
Two neighbors who are proud of their massacres
Three tyrants torn away in a winter's month
Four prisoners framed by a dirty judge
Five burned with tyres
Six men still inside
And seven more days to shake at the great divide


The Gulf, the Gulf of Araby
The Gulf, the Gulf of Araby

Well, we would plough and part the earth to bring you home
And harvest every miracle ever known
If they laid out all the things
That these ten years want to bring
We would gladly give them up
To bring you back to us
O, there is nothing we would not give
To kiss you and believe you can take what is
What is
What is
To what can never be

One man of seventy whispers not free yet
Two neighbors who make up knee-deep in their dead
Three tyrants torn away in the summer's heat
Four prisoners lost in the fallacy
Five, on my life
And six, I'm dead inside
And seven more days to shake at the great divide

The Gulf, the Gulf of Araby
The Gulf, the Gulf of Araby