Travelin' Down an Irish Road

Although I love to travel I have always avoided going on a group tour.  What if I didn't get the chance to do what I wanted to do?  What if the others on the tour were boring or whiney or obnoxious?  However, I love Ireland and I love Switchback!  And really, could other Switchback fans actually turn out to be boring, whiney, or obnoxious?  So this year for the first time I decided to travel down an Irish road with Switchback.

Clearly my fears were groundless.  Right from the beginning when meeting my fellow travelers at O'Hare Airport, I knew that this was going to be a fun group of folks to spend a week with.

Our tour guide Mick met us at Dublin Airport.  This was Mick's fourth tour with Switchback.  As we traveled down those Irish roads, Mick was a fountain of information.  He told us not just
about the countryside we were seeing but also about Irish history, Irish sports, tinkers and fairies, complete with pictures and written information.  No guide book is needed when you have Mick telling you about Ireland.  To quote him, "Gee, Mick, fascinatin' stuff!"  And really it was.  Would I have known about fairy circles and fairy trees if I had been driving myself around Ireland?  I think not.

Our tour base this trip was Kinsale, a lovely town in southwest Ireland.  Our hotel was right on the harbor with all our rooms overlooking the water.  From there we made excursions including a drive to Waterford on a beautiful sunny day (yes, the sun shines in Ireland!), a full day excursion driving through the lovely lonely countryside of the Beara peninsula, and a trip to Blarney to kiss the stone.  Because nothing is required on a Switchback tour we were free to be as busy or lazy as we wished.  Want to do absolutely everything offered and pack it all in?  Go for it!  This was my style.  Want to stay in town and stroll the streets and shop or relax in the pub with a pint of Guinness and a good whiskey instead?  Feel totally free to do so.

Of course no Switchback tour could possibly be complete without some Switchback concerts.  We enjoyed three wonderful concerts.  The first was in Cobh, a historic coastal town which was the center of emigration for thousands of Irish.  The entire tour group was joined by some local Cobh residents for an evening of music.  Our second concert was at De Barra's Folk Music Club in Clonakilty, a fascinating pub and performance venue, and a great time was had by all.

We finished the trip with two nights at Cabra Castle, about an hour north of Dublin, with the chance to spend a day and a half exploring the fair city of Dublin.

Cabra Castle was a lovely place full of atmosphere including Oscar, the resident Irish wolfhound.  Our last evening concluded with a group dinner which included the prize winners of the yearly limerick contest (I am proud to claim 2^nd place!) and a final concert by Switchback.

All too soon we were back at Dublin Airport boarding a plane for Chicago.  It truly was a week of good times with excellent food, excellent beer, great whiskey, fabulous music and the camaraderie of new-found friends.  I can't wait until next year when our base of operations will be Donegal.  Come enjoy the north of Ireland with Switchback and friends.

Michele Shubutowski

Switchback Team (STeam) President

Change in the Air

“Look at that,” said Keith Riker, who is part of our Rocky Mountain Combo, as we drove along Upper Bear Creek, just north of the town of Evergreen, Colorado. “The cottonwoods are already starting to yellow at the tops.”  Sure enough, alongside the rushing waters of the Bear, we looked up and saw the trees in passing, yellow tipped against the pure blue sky.  Fall had announced its return and even though Labor Day hadn’t occurred yet, a slight feeling of cold and the inevitable snowfall on the Rockies betrayed the warm day.  

Change. There was a time when I did not like the word, mainly because I would confuse it with growing older.  Change always signified something unsettling to me and yet, over time, I realized that there is the gift of growth in there, too.

We’ve certainly been going through a great deal of change in Switchback.  Our songwriting is becoming more solid and the number of shows continues to grow.  By the time you read this newsletter, we will have performed Falling Water River with the Grand Pops Orchestra in Dubuque.  It certainly marks a historical milestone for Switchback and one that hopefully will see us taking the stage with more symphonies around North America. (Click here to listen to a sample of music from the orchestral debut).  Those fans of ours who saw us playing at the Irish Times of Brookfield, Illinois on a late Sunday evening back in the 1990’s certainly will appreciate that change.  

Another change has been the growth of participation in our tours to Ireland.  We have over 40 people joining us for the tour to Kinsale this year and already are starting to take names for next year’s visit to Donegal.  Since 2004 we have conducted a yearly tour and sometimes even two tours in a year.  All in all several hundred fans have now walked the fields and forests of Ireland and shared a pint in a pub with Switchback.  

Another change has been the growth in collaborations with renowned artists.  On October 16th, Chicagoans will have the chance to celebrate the return of WayGood Presents, the series that brings unique artists and Switchback to perform an intimate concert.  The first concert will feature Alyth McCormack and Triona Marshall, who currently tour with our friends the Chieftains.  There are plans to introduce a similar concert series around Memphis.  Stay tuned.

The change of the seasons used to be something that meant a slowing down for Switchback, but Brian and I are starting to play through the winter months, too. January and February will see Switchback roam from Canada to a few miles north of Mexico. We’ve also taken to the air quite a bit as Labor Day weekend saw us move from Chicago to Iowa, Minnesota, Colorado, and back to Minnesota and Iowa all in five days!

This February will bring us the arrival of the album Kanoka, which will once again feature the producing and stringmaster talents of Lloyd Maines as well as the heavenly harmonica of Howard Levy.  These are stellar musicians to be able to play with and we feel truly blessed.

Through it all, we attempt to keep focus on our mission with Switchback:  to touch as many souls through music and to reach out to those who need a little music in their lives. Yes, the leaves are starting to change, but it doesn’t signify anything sad for me anymore. I now look at it as a reminder of the blessings of music and our gratitude to have traveled this trail with our fans.

See you at a show!

Marty (and Brian)

Marty's Ireland Journal Day 5

Sunday, September 25


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.

Maggie & Brian FitzGerald on Croagh Patrick

The climb up Croagh Patrick is very mystical, if one chooses to look at the role the mountain has played in the sacred life of the Irish. Way before St. Patrick climbed it, fasted 40 days and nights, and then drove the snakes out of Ireland; the druids had found that the entire mountain worked as a keeper of time, especially the solstice. Unlike the man-made wonder of Newgrange, this solstice worked on a natural level. On each solstice, standing at the right place that was eventually marked with a standing stone, the sun would literally travel down the side of the mountain during the day. At the visitor center there is a great time lapse photo from the standing stone, showing how the sun traveled during the solstice. The pyramid-shaped mountain also had meaning to the Celts, who lit the top with bonfires to mark the solstice, too. Being an agrarian society, it was extremely important to mark these passings of the calendar wheel as they gave the farmers the exact time to plant and harvest.

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.

Marty's Ireland Journal - Day Four

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Day Four

Morning came really early and I got out of bed feeling a bit wobbly from jet lag, Jameson, and Guinness.  Brian stayed up later than I did last night so I don’t know how he looks so much more awake than I do, but somehow he does.  We had our Irish breakfast and all climbed into Michael Feeney’s car with Annie sitting on my lap and waved goodbye to the tour group who are heading up to Sligo and Donegal today.  We were taking our instruments to a military dedication for Tom Carey of Bekan, who was part of the U.S. Army and was killed in World War I.  Our friend Pat Gorman from Dixon, Illinois, has been working with Michael to help locate graves of American soldiers who did not receive plaques of honor from the U.S. government.  This grave was found through Pat’s research and Michael’s on-the-ground hunting for the actual grave site.  When Michael found it, it had been forgotten, covered with leaves and grass and needing an immediate sprucing up.  He and Ernie took it on, coming out to help power-wash the grave site and remove all the years of overgrowth.  Some relatives were found living not far from Bekan, and they had been invited to the cemetery.  One of them could remember visiting and seeing a folded American flag sitting in Tom Carey’s mother’s home.   

The  day was very cold with a stiff wind blowing from the East, but the sun managed to break through the clouds in time for the ceremony to begin.  Standing there was Ron Howko, an American veteran who fought in Vietnam and is now the post commander of the John Barry VFW post in County Mayo. (Yes, there are enough veterans of Irish descent and Americans living in Ireland that there are VFW posts here.)  In addition, there were four other veterans who had fought in World War II all the way through Vietnam.  They were here, each decked out in medals and wearing the distinctive military hat of the the VFW.  A representative of the British Army was also on hand as well as a member of the Irish Defense Forces.  A piper played a lament after the American National Anthem.  I stood there with Brian, hands over our hearts, and sang the anthem.  It is one thing to sing it on American soil, but quite another to be the representatives of America singing the the anthem.

It hit me that Michael Feeney had not only brought honor to people who live in Northern Ireland and the Republic, but he also had conveyed the understanding that no matter how they served and where they lived, they are still all Irishmen and women.  I felt a chill go up my spine as Ron Howko read the history of Tom Carey and how he served his adopted country and died.  Ron went on to talk about the great love that America has for Ireland and the debt it owes this nation for sending so many of its people to our country.  How many of these people willingly gave their lives for this new nation that offered them a decent chance at having a good life!  It was a sacrifice that Tom Carey made without ever having the chance to get married and have children of his own.   At several points during his talk, Ron paused, getting choked up with emotion.  I looked at the other veterans and understood from their faces that knowledge they each have to carry after being in war and seeing comrades die.  It was something that thankfully I never had to experience.

Ron called the soldiers to attention, and they slowly folded up the American flag.  Brian and I walked over with Ernie and solemnly rolled back the black cloth that was covering the bronze plaque.  After a short talk by Michael Feeney, we proceeded to play Falling Water River.  My cousin Liam suggested that it would be a fitting piece, and I told the crowd there about the song and how my own grandfather was very much like Tom Carey, that he came over in 1916 to America and was immediately made part of the U.S. Army Military Police.  He luckily didn’t see action but easily could have and just as easily could have been in a grave over in Ireland.
We took some pictures with the various branches of military and then headed off to Liam and Kay’s home which was not too far away for tea and cakes.  Later we spent time at Seamus’ home in Claremorris and had a nice dinner before saying our farewells and heading to Castlebar for the second evening’s performance.

The show was quite special in that the band felt much more relaxed.  During the performance, Brian, Nick, and I headed to the front of the stage and played an acoustic version of Climb That Mountain.  And the dancers really did a fantastic job!  Colleen Kosier, the director of the studio, explained to the audience how clogging was named that by Queen Elizabeth.  The dance is truly a mixture of Scottish, English, Irish, African, and American Indian dances…all coming together in the mountains of Appalachia in the early 17th century.  Hearing this, I think the audience was able to appreciate even more the girls’ dance steps.  I was very proud that they could now claim that they have performed internationally!

After the concert, we headed back to the hotel to round up all the folks to head back to Westport.  I walked into one part of the pub, and there were a good number of our tour, surrounded by the most ancient of Irish customs—Saturday night dancing.  There were teenagers dressed to the limit…the limit of taste perhaps and all heading onto the dance floor.  The music was terrifically booming, and I had to grin, as nothing had changed in the over 20 years I have been visiting Ireland.  What made the whole scenario great was that just down  from the gaggle of giggling girls and gawking guys were two elderly ladies, dressed in nice skirts and sweaters, each holding a glass of cider in their hands and looking around with sort of a bemused expression.  It was something that has always made Ireland special, that Saturday night is not just limited to the young, but an opportunity for everyone in the community to head down to the pub and socialize, even if the traditional music has been replaced with the thumping and bumping of hip-hop.

Marty's Ireland Journal Day 3

Friday, September 23, 2011

Day Three

Woke up this morning to a light misty rain.  The Irish have all been complaining that they did not get a summer this year and today looks like they will still be denied one.  But a good Irish breakfast of sausages, fried tomatoes, eggs, blood sausage, rashers and beans can get one all the inner sunshine necessary.  Now Irish sausage is not like American sausage.  It is more of a mixture of meat and meal, with a slightly sweet taste.  Brown sauce, which is a mild mustard-ketchup combination, goes great with it.  Blood sausage is not bad in spite of its name.  It is indeed made from pig blood and mixed with barley.  Grilled, it tastes close to sausage patties back home without all the greasiness.  Rashers are nothing but bacon closer in style to Canadian bacon.  There is really no such thing as American bacon, and in fact the Irish would look upon such bacon with disdain, as it is filled with fat and very little meat.  Rashers are somewhat thicker and have a good, meaty quality.  Add to it a pot of tea and your Irish breakfast can keep you running pretty much all day, which was a good thing for us as we headed down toward Leenane and a tour across the Killary Fjord.  

We all got on the coach that Dave was driving this morning.  He has lived in the south of Ireland near Cork since 1972 and grew up in England.  It turns out he has a great affinity for plants and history, the former suiting my wife Annie, who is an herbalist and the latter myself, a history buff. We rolled through the back roads of the northernmost reach of the Connemara.  There in the distance looming over the other mountains stood Croagh Patrick.  The reek (an Irish word for mountain) has a slash up its side, which is in fact the final shale pathway up to the top of the mountain.  My cousin Mike used to climb it in his bare feet every Reek Sunday, which occurs in August.  For now, it stood in the distance, the top of it obscured in cloud.  

We pulled into Killary Harbor and got on the boat.  We were running a bit late, in part as a result of our policy that no activity takes place until 10 a.m., so everyone can get a restful night of sleep.  Already there were some couples waiting on the ship, but for the most part the ship belonged to our tour group.  We started out in the only fjord in Ireland.  On both sides of the fjord, the mountains reared up, showing on their lower slopes the old lines of the “lazy beds,” the spots where the pre-famine Irish lived and raised the chief crop of the peasantry, the potato. The boat pulled into a pretty strong wind and we all worked our way to a bit of shelter, with a few of our group determined to hold out in the gale.  I took out a video camera and captured some of the clouds being dragged along the mountaintops.  The area here is very dramatic and desolate looking which has drawn a lot of artists, writers, and philosophers to it as it is a welcome respite from the rest of bustling Europe.

As we sailed toward the mouth of the fjord, we were told about the mussel farming that takes place along its banks.   On a bit of the shore there would be 40 to 50 floats with a rope and little floats between each.  Under each float runs a rope that is anchored to the bottom of the fjord. On it little mussels are placed and there they grow.  When they reach maturity, they are pulled up and cleaned off the ropes.  They are then bagged and dragged to the side of the road where they sit waiting to be brought to a shop or restaurant.  (In fact a few hours later we drove by about 20 such sacks sitting alongside the road.  Ron asked Dave, “How long can those mussels sit there?”   Dave looked back and said, “Well, as long as they like I guess.”)  

We passed next a bunch of salmon farms.  I was surprised to hear that they were farming salmon on Killary Fjord as early at the 1870’s.  I had thought this was a recent development, but here we were, going past these large cages that were about 10 feet above the water and completely covered in mesh.  These go straight down into the water and are about 150 feet across.  In each are hundreds of good-sized salmon that would break out of the water and leap into the air as they heard the sound of the boats motors.  Obviously they were expecting to be fed.   Being an avid fisherman, it was quite a shock to see such trophy-sized fish all in one spot. It also made me think about how wonderful Irish salmon is to eat.  I was hoping that the ship would have that or mussels for lunch.

Some Irish history concerned the grave of Diarmuid and Grainne, who were Irish folk heroes. There up on a cairn looking over the waters was the reported tomb of the great Irish warrior. Some recent history was even more spectacular.  Back in World War II, neutral Ireland was visited by both German and British warships.  On one occasion, a terrible storm was taking place off the west coast of Ireland, causing both a German submarine and a British destroyer to be drawn into the fjord for safety.  There to each other’s surprise they sat.  Instead of firing upon each other, they chose the more prudent route and decided to ignore each other, thus avoiding an international incident.  After the storm cleared, the sub quietly made its way out of the harbor and well away from the destroyer.

Occasionally the sun would break out of the clouds and race over the mountains and the fjord, which caused a breath-taking change to the cold gray Irish weather.  We turned around at the mouth of the fjord and made our way toward the mooring.  We all were expecting lunch and were quite surprised to find out lunch was not being served even though the dining area was set for a meal.  Everyone including Dave was a bit bewildered at that, and Dave called Mick back at the hotel to see what went wrong with the plans.  Turns out the ship forgot about our lunch and everyone was credited for the gaffe.  But we were without sustenance and so we headed into Leenane to see what was available for a meal.  That in turn was a blessing as it seems that what we were able to get in town was far superior to what the ship could have offered, for there was a bit of a competition between the pubs in Leenane, with each offering a lunch special for around 10 Euros.  In fact, we came across Gary and Linda, sitting outside and about to get into big bowls of steaming mussels that were smothered in a creamy garlic sauce.  When I found that the meal also included a pint of Guinness, I was hooked.  So Annie and I went in and we ordered the same meal.  Gary counted his mussels and there turned out to be more than 75 of the tasty little creatures in each mixing bowl-sized serving!   We ate that along with thick cuts of home-made Irish brown bread and deep draughts of cool Guinness.  Others had the competitions’ fare:  for 10 Euros they ate fresh whitefish in a butter broth with home-made brown bread and a pint of choice.  It was a great meal and we became very sleepy as we made our way through the historic town of Louisburg and back to Westport.

After about an hour to get freshened up, we all hopped on the buses and headed over to Castlebar for our first concert.   The girls from the Kosier Studio of Dance were very excited as we drove toward our venue.  Right outside the town at the first roundabout we were flagged down by Michael Feeney, who was the coordinator of the evening’s concert.   We parked the buses and walked over to the Mayo Peace Park so that each of us could get a better idea of what the evening was all about.

The Mayo Peace Park was created by Michael, whose grandfather had served in World War I for the British Army.   With the creation of the Republic, it became clear to him that there was not a proper way to honor the Irish soldiers who served not only in the British Army, but also the Irish who served in the American, Canadian, Belgian and other armies.   His research revealed that County Mayo had contributed a significant number of soldiers and many who lost their lives. They were all heroes, not only for the respective country they served but specifically for Ireland and County Mayo.  So the Peace Park was created.  The main marble slabs are shaped like an eye on the ground.  From each eye flows a tear that becomes the walk that people make along the path.  Little “eyes” on each side commemorate the other countries for which the Irish soldiers served.  The symbolism of course is weeping over the folly of war and the loss of these men who gave their lives so far away from Mayo.  But also, as Michael’s friend Ernie pointed out, “that these children, for they were no more than 16 or so at the time, made it possible for all of us to live in freedom.”  The culmination of the visit was to be the placement of a wreath by Brian and myself at the American memorial.  Instead, I suggested that we have the youngest of our tour group, Gabby Scott, bring the wreath over and place it.  As a nine-year-old, she was skipping around while the talks were going on and so, when I called for her, thought that she was in trouble.  But she was a real trouper and brought the wreath over and placed it there.  We took some group pictures and headed back to the coaches.

We arrived at the Linenhall and were quite happy with the stage.  Oisin was there to meet us and help us with the sound.  We were set up quite easily and Takeshi, Brian, Nick and I went through some numbers to make sure we had everything in order.  In addition, the Kosier girls ran through some songs.  We had to determine whether or not the girls should use their taps for the clogging as they were able to create quite a sound.  At first, we thought only one girl should use the taps, but the moms in the audience said that all the girls should tap away with the band. It was that sort of tweaking that helped the show come alive that night.

 
After sound check, we ate some curry that Maggie and Annie picked up at a pub.  It was very good and we were eating when my cousin Seamus came backstage with Liam and Kay Lyons. We had a quick hello and pretty soon it was time to go out and do the show.  The Mayor of Castlebar Gene McCormack made a nice introduction and there were representatives from the British Armed Forces and the American Armed Forces.   It was also noted that we had the senior club from Kiltimagh there as well.  When we got on stage I said, “I was nervous when I heard about all these dignitaries, but got really nervous when I heard the Kiltimagh Senior Center was here.”

The high point for me was singing Bolinree and dedicating it to Seamus, but the whole evening was quite wonderful.  Mary Babic, who came to join us from Serbia, was moved the most by the song “Far Away from Where the Fighting Is.”  She said she cried through it all as it reminded her of the horrible war that she lived through in the Balkans.   Other people had songs that meant a lot to them and the Irish were very taken with the American clogging.   When I introduced the Kosier dancers, I asked each one a question about their thoughts on Ireland.  The first girl got a roar out of the crowd when I asked, “What do you think of the Irish people?”  She looked at me and said in a very small voice, “I don’t know!”

We were presented with certificates and a book about the history of the Mayo Peace Park by Michael Feeney.  Each Kosier dancer was given a hoodie from the Castlebar Town Youth Soccer League, whose benefit we are to do tomorrow night.  If our tour thought the entertainment was over, they were greatly mistaken as we were brought over to a post-party at a nearby hotel.  There we had sandwiches as well as drinks.  A husband and wife musical team gave our tour quite a show with an introduction to Irish country music which draws mainly on a style that is closer to 1960’s style American country.  That era had more ballads and some pretty good entertainers, including Johnny Cash.  It was fun to hear everyone start singing, “I’m on the top of the world, looking down on creation and the only explanation I can find…”   Just when we thought this duo was going to take a break, out jumped a bald-headed man, who grabbed the mic from the lady and yelled, “How’s everybody doing?”  He immediately launched into the song “Where’s Your Momma Gone?” and had everyone clapping along and pretty amused by his antics.  He was a one-man cheerleading squad and everyone was really revved up after he finished his act.  It was a tired but happy pair of coaches that made their way back to Westport tonight.  We sat in the bar at the Clew Bay and drank a couple more whiskies and called it a night because tomorrow, I have to be up rather early to head over to the dedication in Bekan. 

Marty's Ireland Journal Days 1 & 2

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Day One

I know I drive my wife nuts. It must be some weird Irish custom that is deeply embedded in the genetic code. Every time I get ready for a trip, especially a trip overseas, I do what I call my “death clean.” I have this overwhelming urge to clean the house spotless. All dishes done, all dried and in the cupboard. All the trash and recycling out and in the alley. All carpets vacuumed and all specks of dust removed. I guess in the back of my mind, I hear the turn of the key in the door and the people coming in, mournful over my untimely loss. Then I hear the gasp as they survey a house totally undone and unkempt. “Oh, I thought he was such a good, clean man,” I hear them say. “Now we know; NOW, WE KNOW!” The prospect of such an indictment makes me get the house looking as good as I can get it, before I leave with Annie’s and my carefully weighed luggage off to O’Hare and on to Ireland.

We meet the FitzGeralds and Arnolds at the airport. Nick, our drummer, has been patiently waiting for us as we finally pay off the cabby and run into the international terminal. There we meet all the other people for the tour and hand out the special Switchback hoodies that were made just for this tour. It is a big tour that we are bringing to Ireland this year, about 60 people who are coming not only from the US, but Japan, Serbia, and Canada. It’s a wonderful affirmation that our music is reaching out to people from around the world. I can’t think of a better place to meet those people than here at the “home base” of Ireland.

The plane takes off from O’Hare and I switch on the screen on the seat in front of me to see where we are traveling. “You are such a geek,” says my wife Annie, who is watching some melodrama on her screen. But I am watching the flight for several reasons, mainly to time when I need to “sleep” on the plane. Usually that takes place after dinner, when others are settling into their films. The secret of east-bound flying is to get as much sleep as possible to cheat the body’s internal clock when you arrive six hours ahead of the time it is keeping.

But I am delayed over Canada. There is a dramatic electric storm outside the window. The thunderheads light up across the sky. We are cruising several thousand feet above them. One brain-shaped cloud pulses with light, like neurons sparking with some illuminating rumination of a thunder-being. It is powerful in its aspect and the modern 21st century planes pay homage by skirting around the front, their contrails and outlines sporadically made visible by the sharp flashes of light.

So after the light display I concentrate on dinner, which of course in airline-speak is always “chicken or beef?” One of these days, I long to hear “leg of lamb or rainbow trout?” but I am afraid that this will never happen. I am now attempting a gluten-free existence, so that quickly rules out half of what has been presented to me. But no fear, I find enough to make a satisfactory meal and then pull out my eye-patch and ear plugs and attempt to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in the economy section of the plane.


Thursday, September 22, 2011

Day Two

We land early in Dublin. The airport has finally completed its remodeling after years of our watching the construction. I am impressed, but our drivers Mick and Dave are a bit more jaundiced about the whole layout of the place. “It doesn’t cater to moving people,” Dave says. And I have to agree as we trundle out of the airport and have to walk a good distance, luggage in tow, to board the coaches. But that is not even a slight concern of our group as we happily pull our belongings, stow them with the help of our drivers, and begin again traveling down an Irish road.

We stop once in Longford and I am surprised and happy to see that the Paddy Keenan Banjo Festival is underway. Our friends Jeff and Vida from New Orleans regularly play the event, but they are not on the list for this year. Still several bands from the States, Canada, Ireland, and elsewhere are converging to celebrate the African instrument. The main thing we are aware of in Longford is watching for the stray splotches of doggie-doo that pepper the sidewalks. That’s hard to navigate on jet-lag, but after a good cappuccino, we are ready to head to Mayo.

Our driver Dave does a wonderful job of describing the Irish landscape and history, but he is pretty wise to well-worn Yanks and soon, in spite of our best intentions, the majority of us are dozing on the bus as we roll across the midlands of Ireland. We arrive in Westport, County Mayo around 3 p.m. and get settled into the Clew Bay Hotel. We haven’t stayed here before, but it is a wonderful place with a lot of space and a great, welcoming staff. Maggie, Annie, Takeshi, Brian and I decide to take a walk around the town and are very happy to see that the picturesque Croagh Patrick has shed her shroud of clouds, except for one trailing bit that looks like a feather boa being teased by a dancer. We aim to climb her this tour. Our hope is that we can reach the top on Sunday, but that remains to be seen.

We head back into town and who do we see but Joannie Madden of the group Cherish the Ladies. We have shared the stage with Joannie only once, performing a concert for the Northwest Indiana Symphony. But we had a great rapport, and with Joannie, a true professional musician, it only takes once to make a friendship. We welcome each other on the street and talk about meeting at Matt Malloy’s on Sunday. She is on tour with her group, playing a string of dates throughout Ireland. “Not much pay,” she says, “but a bit of craic.” Knowing Cherish the Ladies, that is an understatement on both accounts.

Our dinner at Clew Bay Hotel was wonderful. I had baked cod, resting on a light bed of potatoes, and supplemented by a savory mix of baked cabbage and carrots. That, along with a great smoked chicken salad and a fantastic dessert of ice cream, profiteroles, jello, and cheesecake made a more-than-sufficient welcome to Ireland. The tour group is very happy and seems extremely excited about the opportunities that await them over the next few days.

Michael Feeney, who is helping coordinate our concerts in Castlebar, stopped by the pub to go over logistics for the next two nights. A Member of the British Empire, he has spearheaded a campaign to bring honor to all the Irish citizens who sacrificed their lives for freedom. Throughout history, many of those served in armies from other countries, including the U.S. Army. Michael has helped find these graves of soldiers who have been buried in absolute anonymity and bring a dignified acknowledgment of their sacrifice for freedom. Many a Mayo soldier has fought and died in wars over the centuries. For this a beautiful Peace Park has been created in Castlebar. Tomorrow night, we will do a benefit to help raise money to help Michael and his folks continue the campaign to bring dignity and respect to these selfless soldiers. One person he tells me about is a Catholic priest, who entered as an army chaplain in the British Army during WWI. He persuaded the draft board to take him in lieu of his brother, who would be the only one to take care of their mother. This priest was killed on the last day of the Great War. He was returned to Ireland but was buried in an unmarked grave. For almost 100 years, he has laid, unknown and unhonored. But Michael and other volunteers have helped bring about acknowledgment through their work. So tomorrow, we play for these volunteers and indirectly for those others who have given the ultimate sacrifice.

Stay tuned for more installments of Marty's Ireland Journal!

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