Day Five
Today the tour headed down to the Cliffs of Moher and the Burren. I love to travel across the Burren and enjoy the beauty of the Connemara region. There is no other place like it on earth I feel that combines the sea, sky and land in such wild, stark beauty. But today I had a promise to keep to a fan of ours, Wanda Schoonover from Peoria, Illinois.
Wanda was part of our Switchback Team, which meant that she was involved with helping us reach out to the places and people of central Illinois. Indeed, John Martin with the Peoria Irish Feis would get a yearly call from Wanda, asking specifically if we were coming to the festival. She also would travel to shows throughout central Illinois and eastern Iowa and had attended our Haybarn Rendezvous a couple of times. Peppery and talkative, she was the real item. When she passed away last year, he son John called me and asked if I would be kind enough to bring some of her ashes over to Ireland. “She had always wanted to see Ireland”, he said. “And I am hoping that you can give her that chance.” I immediately thought of a great spot to see so much of Ireland: Croagh Patrick. Some months later, a package arrived that contained a small porcelain vial of Wanda’s ashes in a velvet bag, some pictures, and a badge from the Haybarn Rendezvous that had her name on it. I brought it all over to Ireland and told Fitz that we were going to give Wanda a great send-off and let her finally get to Ireland.
So, with the weather cloudy and with some cold showers sprinkling through, Brian, Maggie, Nick, Annie, and I formed a team to climb to the top of the Reek. It was my third time to the top of Croagh Patrick. The first time I climbed it was back in 1989, when I made the mistake of heading up and down in cowboy boots. I think my feet never forgave me for that, for the memory of that climb came back as soon as I started up past the heather-banked streams that bordered the pathway. I had a backpack on with Wanda and water. I chuckled to myself that I was technically carrying a person on my back up the mountain.
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| Maggie & Brian FitzGerald on Croagh Patrick |
With St. Patrick’s stay on the top of the mountain, the Reek was Christianized to the extent that a small chapel was erected up on its top. Pilgrims come to climb it still and some of the very reverent will attempt to make it in their bare feet.
As we started climbing, it was easy to feel the heart beating right away. Even past the statue of St. Patrick, the view of Clew Bay and the surrounding mountains was rapturous. We continued on, with Brian and Maggie, known for their mountain climbing prowess, loping up the path until we could only make out the white of Maggie’s hat. Nick, Annie, and I plodded along, stopping to photograph Wanda’s first and final visit to the Emerald Isle.
In the years since I stood on top of Croagh Patrick with my siblings, I was saddened to see that something else has now taken over the spiritual feeling of the mountain, that of the modern day tourist. Along the path were plastic bottles and wrappers, most likely blown out of climbers’ backpacks, but they were an eyesore just the same. About half way up there was a field that had people’s names all spelled out in stone, including a big “I LOVE MEGHAN” with the word “love” a heart-shaped pile of stones that the lover painted pink. It felt like people carved their names on all the redwoods. But still beyond and below lay the turf bogs and the lakes, which were sparkling deep mercury, silver from the sunlight.
A bit from the south came a slow moving rainstorm, right before the final approach to the top of the mountain. We decided to wait it out as Annie had on her office shoes and could easily slip on the slippery shale. Gary and Linda Witcombe were there, wearing plastic ponchos and waiting out the storm too. I was so impressed that these two from our tour decided to climb the mountain as well. We huddled against a cairn and talked as the rain pelted our faces with a stinging blast of cold wind. At that point I was thinking that perhaps a lovely glade might had been a better place for Wanda, but knowing her sense of adventure, I quickly dismissed that thought and was determined to see her to the top. Nick and Annie were as equally determined and pretty soon the rain cloud passed us by and floated on its way toward Westport. Out came the sun and up we went.
The final approach of the mountain summit is pretty challenging in that you basically have to climb it somewhat prostrate. Imagine an almost vertical slope of loose gravel with a harsh wind and you get the idea of what the climb is like. Brian said it gave him a deep appreciation of true mountain climbers and what they have to face. We picked our way carefully up the side of the mountain, greeting people coming down from it along the way. There were young kids and adults, ladies moving with their dogs, all of it sort of surreal and encouraging at the same time. “Good luck,” they would say, “not much further now.”
And then we saw a stone enclosure and pretty soon the white chapel at the top of the Reek. Brian and Maggie were there to greet us and we walked around a bit taking pictures. Some pilgrims would stop and kneel at an indentation in the ground that had the sign reading “Saint Patrick’s Bed.” The breeze was strong on the top and the view as commanding as I remembered it to be.
We decided to build a little cairn for Wanda on the east slope of the mountain, weighing down the pictures with stones and placing the applewood Rondy disc in the cairn as well. I took out the vial of Wanda’s ashes, and we discussed the best way to open them. Annie suggested that Fitz take a big stone and smash the vial, which he did. It broke near the top and I picked it up and held it up to the wind. A beautiful gust of wind picked up her ashes right from the vial and quickly she was off to see Ireland. “Blessings on your journey, Wanda,” said Annie. “Enjoy your stay in Ireland!” A small bit of Wanda’s ashes remained on the hillside, which I covered with the big rock. And like all great things Wanda is truly off on a mystical journey from a mystical mountain. It felt joyful and sad at the same time.
After we sent Wanda off on her journey, we were met by a very friendly ewe. The type of sheep in Ireland has horns for both the ewes and the rams. Apparently this was a ewe that had learned that a lot of tourists come to the top of the Reek with snacks. She hung around us and I decided to feed her some peanuts, much to the enjoyment of our party. About this time, Gary and Linda had made their ascent. In the breeze Gary looked a bit like St. Patrick himself, with the wind blowing his beard and a climbing staff in hand. We all took pictures and started down the mountain.
The descent was interesting. For one thing, we came across a football team of young men who were making the climb in their bare feet. It was something to see them going along. “How far?” one lad gasped. “Not too much further,” said Annie, who was delicately picking her way down the slippery stones. I don’t know if the young guys were doing it out of team pride, religious duty or just a dare. But they went on their way and we went along on ours.
Next came a TV crew. They were working their way up the hill with a microphone and camera system. We were a bit puzzled by that one, especially with them carrying such expensive equipment up a fairly challenging slope. But our questions were answered as we continued to descend. There was a young man with a reddish-brown beard, wearing a tweed suit and clutching the broken remains of a television set.
“Can I help you?” I asked. “Ah, no, I am fine,” he replied. “What are you doing?” we asked. He would close his eyes as he replied to our answers. “Ah, I am doing a television show for the local channel here. It’s called Shamrockracy and we are filming a bit about how people are too attached to mass media.” “Oh,” I said, “that’s why you have broken television set?” “Ah, yes,” he replied, a bit out of breath and humoring my obvious observation. His crew yelled from above. “Ah, I got to get going, good luck!” he said and hoisted the broken television set on his shoulder. We watched him pleading to surprised climbers as they made their descent. What would St. Patrick say?
And what would he say about all the trash? I made a point of picking up as much as I could on the descent and pretty soon had my hands full of bottles, cans, and wrappers. We made it down past the statue of the venerable Saint himself and deposited an armful of windblown bottles in a bin. A short while later, we were whisked by taxi back to the hotel.
Later that night after dinner, we stopped off at Matt Molloy’s to help honor his wife Ger, who had died from cancer a few years back. There on the stage was Matt and his son, along with a Canadian dancer from Riverdance, giving the packed house a rousing air and dance. Canadian step dancing is like a cross between Irish, clogging, and tap. The dancers’ hands are not bound to the side but loosely swing about as they complete some very intricate steps. It somehow belies the freedom of the new world in a way by a carefree sort of look. The people were wild. Our friend, Seamus Geraghty came up to us. “You are going to perform in 10 minutes,” he said. “We are?” I said. “Yes, Brian said the other night that you could.” I looked over at Fitz and was sure he did not have much recollection of it. The band “The Wild Geese” had taken the stage and was playing. They were an Irish group out of England and they had a very good sound. Takeshi had his bodhran and I decided that it would be great to give the audience the full Switchback sound, so I ran down the street and over to our hotel, quickly grabbed the bass and my cowboy boots, and ran back. The Wild Geese were just finishing up and Seamus motioned us toward the stage. Fitz grabbed a guitar from one of the band and I plugged in my bass. There was some sort of problem with Fitz’s sound and so the crowd seemed a bit restless as they waited. I decided to sing a cappella or sean nos, a song called The Wind That Shakes the Barley. The audience got really quiet, which is a mark of respect for the singer that truly only occurs spontaneously in Ireland. It is a high and sad song, a true Irish lament about the fighting of 1798, and people were quite moved. Someone muttered “beautiful” and it felt really good to look over and see my friend Matt beaming. After I concluded the audience set up a roar and I yelled at Fitz to jump into Connemara Man. Takeshi jumped up on stage with us and we gave a great show. It was nice to have the boots on as I could really stamp on the stage for the necessary percussive sound. We finished and the audience was now up on its feet. We quickly followed with “Go Lassie Go” and I invited everyone to sing along and dedicated the song to Ger. Her sister afterward pulled me aside to say that it was some of the most beautiful singing she had ever heard, which really felt good. Our last number we featured Fitz and tore it up on Folsom Prison Blues, which is a perennial Irish favorite. I looked across the room and saw Annie, along with Sue and Andy Arnold, clapping and giving encouragement. The folks from our tour who were there said it was the highlight of the tour.
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