On the Road of an Irish Graveyard
Dean Mulroy is the kind of guy who needs room to roam and access to the stars, which is why he lived way back in the bog behind the house I rented in Inverin. Only a certain kind of guy would want to live as he did. At the time, he was unimpressed with technological conveniences, including a telephone, and the first thing he did when he moved into the lackluster, two-bedroom stucco house he rented beside the bog’s serpentine stream was rig the existing phone to such a pitch that people could call in, but he couldn’t call out. He had what he thought of as a reasonable explanation for this, but I didn’t learn it until much later, after our friendship had taken root and he no longer held me in suspicion.
It had been my habit to walk the endless bog behind my house after I got home from work in Galway. It was summer time, and sunlight hovered well until ten thirty during this halcyon time of the year. I ambled through the bog because it seemed to ground me to the soul of this particular region of Connemara. One foot after the other gave way to a rhythmic cadence that put me in tune with something soulful and unnamed. I did my best thinking on my walks through the bog because it gave my feet purpose and allowed my chattering mind to unleash into an impressionable, free-floating stream of consciousness. This is how I learned to interpret rural Ireland; by dreaming my way through, step after meditative step.
The third time I passed Dean in the bog, he abruptly stopped me. He’d had entirely enough of not knowing who this stranger was in his midst. A slightly built girl with long blonde hair and a pair of Wayfarers in rural Ireland must have been anomaly enough, but to see a face repeatedly in Inverin and not know the whole story was an unpardonable sin. People in Inverin don’t keep to themselves; tacitly, it isn’t allowed. By virtue of the fact that one lives in Inverin, they are automatically a part of a collective consciousness that operates under the assumption that all of its residents are members of the same tribe. And because the Irish are not prone to insinuating themselves upon a stranger, Dean Mulroy chose the colloquial way of introducing himself, which is to say that he cast his eyes skyward and commented on the weather. “Ah, she’s blowin’, all right,” he said standing firmly in my path with his hands on his narrow hips and an even stare. I’d been in Ireland for two months thus far and knew how to respond in the Irish way. I raised my eyes to his dark frame of wavy black hair and met his blue-eyed glare. “She is, yeah,” I said rhetorically.
We next got down to the exchange of names and I learned he already knew where I lived because there is no place to hide in Inverin. A single American female living in a holiday home on the side of the coast road is big news in a town the size of Inverin, but Dean still wanted the unadulterated facts. It took him all of two minutes to invite me to call out the next day for a cup of tea. I knew now that people in Ireland are always “calling out,” which shouldn’t be confused with just showing up, because calling out has a much bigger purpose. I turned his invitation over and jumped to what any American would immediately ask. “I’d love to,” I told him, “what time would you like me to come?” Dean looked at me for a heavy, pregnant pause, with a brow so knotted I thought surely it hurt. “Don’t put a time on it,” he said. “Come when it suits you.”
I had two thoughts as I continued my walk through the bog that day, and the first was about the weather. For a population that revolves around the vagaries of the weather, it’s easy to see why the weather in Ireland is personified as she. It’s because she is pervasive and dictates everything, so when someone in Ireland uses the word “she,” everyone knows what is meant. The second thought on my mind was how authentic and unselfconscious the Irish are as a culture. If I extended an invitation to anyone for the following day, I’d be ready and my house would be perfect, but that is not the way it is with the Irish. Dean’s lack of concern over the timing of my arrival demonstrated the open-armed way the Irish receive anyone: There is always an open door, no matter the time, and they are ever at the ready to put the kettle on and offer a cup of tea.
It was a thirty minute walk from my front door to Dean’s rented house, deep in the bog in Inverin. I took my time the next day sauntering through what came to be a habitual pattern along a quiet gravel path through turf and brittle bracken. When I arrived, it was two o’clock in the afternoon and I found Dean in his kitchen, freshly shaved and waiting. He held a guitar on his lap, looked up when I appeared, and said in a matter of course, “I’ve been singing me heart out all day.” We exchanged personal histories and drank tea until our heads were swimming. Dean told me about the dolmen that lay in the bog behind us and said he’d show me himself, but he wanted it to be my own discovery. He next told me that the ancient graveyard down the dirt road across from my house was haunted. “Tis a brave soul, it would be, who would walk that road at night,” he said fixing me with a challenging stare.
“Have you ever done it? “ I couldn’t help but ask.
“I have,” he returned, “but no woman would want to.”
The sky turned the color of bruised eggplant, releasing a torrent of mercurial pelting rain. Running for dear life to Dean’s tan-colored van, it took my full strength to pull the door closed against the rousing wind before we rattled the bog road to my house. Dean leaned his head through the window in the stinging rain, shouting as I ran to the shelter of my porch. “I’d call you, but I’ve cut meself off; too many late nights on the drink running me phone bill up. Unless it’s planning on bumping into me on one of your bog-trots, you are, you’re going to have to call in to me.” I told Dean surely I would then, ducked safely inside.
Later that night, after the rain let up, I put on a light coat and stepped outside my door. I stood in the darkened stillness until I’d made up my mind once and for all. There are no streetlights that far out in Inverin, but I had the light of a waxing moon. Cautiously, I crossed the coast road. I heard the gravel scratching beneath my steps and put one foot in front of the other in an intonation that sounded like a military march. A slight wind blew like a whisper, then rushed forcefully, just enough to startle me before it ebbed. I thought I felt a chill on the back of my neck and wondered if it was the night air or just my fear. Down the lane I continued, until the graveyard loomed on the hill to my left. Granite tombstones in varying heights crowned with Celtic crosses glowed eerily in the moonlight. It was a graveyard forever marking time, halfway down a lane all but forgotten. I walked steadily, not wanting to hesitate, not daring to stop; only wanting to walk the lane at night because Dean Mulroy had said no woman would want to.
Admin
Fran Reddy
Is there a part 2?? You MUST tell us about being in the graveyard!
Nov 16, 2015
Claire Fullerton
Yes, Fran, there is more to this story! Much of it is in my novel, "Dancing to an Irish Reel," which was released last March by Vinspire Publishing. It's available at Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble.com, and all other online book sellers in print, e-book, and audiobook. Http://www.clairefullerton.com will show you the book cover and tell you more. I call it my love letter to Ireland!
Nov 16, 2015
Admin
Fran Reddy
Thanks Clair!
Nov 18, 2015
Susan O'Dea Boland
This story is so beautifully told. I cannot help but think you could never leave the place, the way you have come to know and understand it. I will be getting your book for sure!
SusAn bolanf
Nov 18, 2015
Claire Fullerton
Oh, that's great, Susan, I hope you do get the book because the way I see Ireland is all throughout. And maybe I did physically leave Ireland, but deep inside, she never left me!
Nov 18, 2015
Heritage Partner
That's Just How It Was
It surely is in your souls Clare ............. I get it .
Nov 19, 2015
Honora Wright Weaver
I just finished this part in the book. You really have a way with words and bringing me right into the story.
Nov 23, 2015
Claire Fullerton
It's so fun for me to think of you reading Dancing to an Irish Reel! Thank you for letting me know!
Nov 23, 2015
michael dunne
Good Woman. I hope that was not the end of Dean? Irishmen of the fussiest kind work so hard to make everything in their early relationship with women seem so casual. If the truth be known women would be put off if they knew the lengths some fussy fellows go to in the wooing stakes. I knew of a Garda who would tidy up his flat to shipshape standard, and then after this rigorous tidy up he would deliberately untidy it, and lay different items of uniform and his best or most expensive clothes in strategically selected areas.
Weather permitting you may have been meant to walk the graveyard in company! Even the Gaelic language is fussy in its descriptiveness and graveyard habitat. A lot of night life goes on you know. For instance once when we visited a graveyard in Callinafersy, after a few drinks, we got a hell of a fright as an owl flew past at head height letting out an unmerciful screech. I learned later that that particular class of owl was "An Screachan Reilige" ...The Graveyard Screecher!
The following is an attempt at mixing oil with water and carries a sad cautionary tale which I heard for the first time in a friendly hostelry the" Lord Edward" delivered by one of Sliabh Luachras finest Bards. All we have here is the written version which is still humorous perhaps tragi comic. Any self respecting "Dub" would never let an opportunity slip as with this Mícheálín from an Gaillimh. Absolutely no reference to Dean intended.
I heard a story, O mo Athair.
If you have no Gaeilge it does not matter
This rural Ireland tragic tale
narrates a sad, seductive sceal
concerning lust without discretion.
Is beagan rudai eile freisin.
uair amhain fado, fado,
on a little farm near Carraroe,
Lived buachall maith named Michael Mor,
an only son of 34.
When work was done at end of day
he would settle down with cupan tae,
He never felt the need to stroll,
or spend the evening time ag ol.
His intellectual needs were drawn
from books like "Peig and Iosagain".
Meanwhile up in Baile Ath Cliath,
a cailin deas had a bright idea.
When laethanta saoiretime came by
decided she would like to try
a little place like Carraroe.
No foreign food, not far to go
And there to meet the local clan
And bfeidir find herself a man.
This cailin deas with eyes so blue
was known in town as City Sue.
The lusty buachailli came crawling,
and all agreed she was go h-ailinn.
She left the men in state of shock.
O Michael Mor bi cuaramach.
She, heading West, beware a mhic.
Mar ta an cailin ana glic.
The lights shone in the parish hall
for the local Fainne-wearers ball.
Bhi Michael ann, bhi Susai ann,
dressed in most revealing gown.
This brave Cuchulain of the West,
with Hurling medals on his chest,
exclaimed when City Sue came in.
"In ainm De, will you feach ar sin".
Though nervous still he took a chance.
"Cead mile failte, will you dance".
Go luaith on the floor they strut,
cheek to cheek and head to foot.
She whispered into Michael's ear
"Eist anois. we'll disappear".
We'll use my place, the door's unlocked,
You'll stay the night in seomra a-hocht."
Chroist Michael's head was in a spin.
Ni raibh se ag smaoineamh thoughts mar sin.
He blessed himself, this Jezebel
would surely damn his soul to Hell.
He stood aghast, could barely stutter.
Off he pedalled ar a rothair.
Straight abhaile, into bed.
Decades of the Rosary said.—
EPILOGUE-
Michael Mor still sleeps alone
in his leaba beag, ochon, ochon
He often thinks of seomra a-hocht.
What would have been o Michael bocht.
Nov 24, 2015
Admin
Fran Reddy
Although I do not know the Gaelic language, I did not need to, to get the gist of this tale! ; )
Nov 24, 2015
Claire Fullerton
I love it! It speaks to me of how we handle, or mishandle opportunity. And love is the trickiest, which is what my book "Dancing to an Irish Reel" is all about. I call the book an "anti-romance" because in the story, the Irish musician is afraid of love, having never dived in before, because he is a "trad" musician from Connemara, and married to the music. Although it was not my aim to stereotype, many Irish insiders have told me I nailed what typically transpires when an Irishman is confronted with the prospect of love. And as for Dean, and I hope you'll love this: the scene I wrote specifically for The Wild Geese is true, but there is a name change and a variation of this scene in Dancing to an Irish Reel, and I furthered it by making Dean a central character. I'm not the only writer who pulls from real life and embellishes, but my point is that because I used his real name in the piece for TWG, I received an e-mail from Dean's current girlfriend that basically said, "I know this guy!" So Dean Mulroy is out there in the world shaking his head because that American he befriended years ago turned out to be a novelist.
Nov 24, 2015
The Wild Geese
Nov 24, 2015
Claire Fullerton
Thank you, I am, too! My habit of late, as I put the final touches on my 3rd novel, is to go to my desk, coffee in hand, and settle in to address what needs to be done, yet every day, I go to TWG first! Today, it's THIS! And away we go! Love the Geese!
Nov 24, 2015
michael dunne
That is one of the reason it was composed! What did you think of the idea and the message of squandered opportunity?
Nov 24, 2015
Claire Fullerton
I don't know if this poem speaks to missed opportunity as much as it speaks to our choices. And because there is the slant of religious influence in this story, it says to me that one's religious/spiritual/moral beliefs can override the basest of human instincts, meaning our longing to connect, which comes to Michael in the form of temptation. And therefore, here we have the myriad elements that go into the defining of a life. But with regard to opportunity, had Michael of chosen the other road, perhaps his life would have played out differently from this singular moment. This poem operates on many levels!
Nov 24, 2015
michael dunne
The reasons for failure to avail of opportunity are legion. The most common is the son being too attached to his mother or perhaps more accurately, the mother too attached to the son. It could be over something romantic like you describe Claire, like the love of music. Ireland had a record it is none too proud of and that is we had the lowest marriage rates in Europe in the 19th Century. And it wasn't because all the good looking geese had fled the country centuries before. Marriage then and to a lesser extent today is a business arrangement. In the 19th Century many Irish women were induced or even forced to emigrate which was down to the effects of the Great Famine followed by the Great Silence. There was little talk of equality in those difficult times. It was the day of the 'Dowry' and women having their teeth pulled prior to marriage. Dental treatment then was comparatively even more expensive than today. The elderly suitor, usually a farmer, expected his dowry and not to have it squandered on expensive dental care.
Instead of blaming the Wild Geese we might be more to the point in focusing on the Cambro Normans who were Roman Catholic and were followed by the large Monastic orders to the Emerald Isle. They abolished slavery as it was against Roman Catholic teaching, introduced 12 man juries and a lot of other advances in Western Civilization. The bummer was they re introduced slavery of women by down grading them to being the property of their men / Husbands. The Catholic Church did not appear to have any difficulty with these measures which were in violation of our Brehon Laws! Queen Maebh mar Shampla ....
Nov 24, 2015
Claire Fullerton
What is the Great Silence? I've never heard of this, and would love to hear more! I hope you write something that expounds upon all you've so brilliantly said here! I, for one, am riveted to what you've said. And I will add this, with regard to "the son being too attached to his mother," I was told a couple of times while I lived in Eire that when one gets into the rural regions of Ireland, such as Connemara, a common family dynamic is that the fathers in the land tend to be off in the pubs at night, while the mothers are home with the children. This makes for an unusually tight relationship between mother and son, which is where the term "Momma's Boy" comes from.
Nov 24, 2015
michael dunne
Those that either perished in the Great Famine or emigrated left their holdings to the grasping snug farmers. For instance a family could not avail of the splendid fare of the Poor house without giving up their holdings down to the last quarter acre. This information under the notorious Gregory Clause was noted by officials controlling those who had to enter the poor house. If and when they survived this ordeal they had no place to go when they came out, except abroad or in to the towns and cities to beg or steal or whatever it took to survive. The Great Silence is the general notion that all land records were burned in the Civil war 80 years later. In reality 1847 is not all that far back and today's land owners would have a fair idea who owned the land if they had a mind to. This extraordinary sequence in Irish History is sometimes referred to as The Bloodless Revolution where land predominantly in Protestant ownership in the 19 C wound up seamlessly in the hands of Catholic ownership by early 20 th C, especially after the Civil War of 1923 and the cronyism that occurred.
Nov 24, 2015
Claire Fullerton
Thank you for this. I had no idea, which is exactly why I like being affiliated with TWG. Love the way you write, Mr. Dunne.
Nov 24, 2015
David Lawlor
Very fine descriptive writing, Claire . . . that 'bruised eggplant' sky and 'mercurial pelting rain' - I love it.
Nov 24, 2015
Claire Fullerton
Many thanks, David!
Nov 24, 2015
michael dunne
The "Mommas boy" syndrome may be an international feature of many cultures. to hit on a theme that has an appeal to an international community is often the gift of a great writer. It was James Joyce who averred "in the particular is contained the universal" or words to that effect. you might appreciate one great poem by Patrick Kavanagh entitled "Epic" Its a short enough poem but brings the idea of the international to a brilliant execution. The poor old hubby in the D. H. Laurence novel " Sons and Lovers" also highlights a mothers strongest instincts and so hubby is consigned to a sad isolated life whereas the sons are cossetted. Cest la vie.
Nov 24, 2015
Claire Fullerton
Love it, and I love your use of the word averred. I don't hear it often enough, as many use asset in its stead. Now, I'll beg you to confess your literary background!
Nov 24, 2015
michael dunne
I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided : who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.
I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."
That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was most important ? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said : I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.
Nov 24, 2015
michael dunne
Dont want to get too personal and feel like the poor old crow in Aesops fable the fox the crow and the cheese. Or maybe it was the vixen.
Nov 24, 2015
Claire Fullerton
Fair play to you, then. I love the last line of "Epic."
Nov 24, 2015
michael dunne
Too true... as 'importance' is in the eye of the beholder. The Munich bother was a major issue touching on Hitlers expansionist plans. Had other leaders taken a more positive role it is possible World War Two could have been avoided. Neville Chamberlain is noted for his statement on returning from a summit "we shall have peace for our time" More of an aspiration, as he knew there was no "Grand Alliance". Americans were also of an isolationist view and nobody had a wish for another war so soon after World War One.
World wars were necessary, but we cant have one anymore. We resort to local rows on a bigger scale. So Patrick Kavanaghs question "which was more important" is still valid for today. Ballyrush and Gortin are townlands in his native Monaghan. He wrote of it but even though he was of the soil, disliked farming and walked from Monaghan to Dublin where he wrote most of his poetry. He lived a rough lifestyle as like many bachelors and was not a man to spurn opportunity as liked women. Its the case that not many opportunities presented.
So if you visit his native townland of Mucklin, be sure to bring a pack lunch as there's little else to be seen except Patricks ghost. There's every chance you will find the answer to "which was more important"
Nov 25, 2015
michael dunne
Claire,
You might enjoy another of Kavanaghs poems again on the theme of unrequieted love sung by Luke Kelly of "The Dubliners" Not sure of the spelling of 'unrequited' or unrequieted but it can have a mentally deranging effect on men and women.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EuafmLvoJow
Nov 19, 2006 - Uploaded by kellyoneill
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one
day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of
the day.
On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along
the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of
passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making
hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness
thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign
that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and
stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems
to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like
clouds over fields of May
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her
walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay
-
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the
dawn of day.
Nov 25, 2015
Claire Fullerton
I can't resist sharing Sinead O'Connor's version of "Raglan Road" as well, Mr. Dunne. https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=youtube+sinead+o'connor+raglan+road&FORM=VIRE1#view=detail&mid=ADD40AFBC92DFC89FC67ADD40AFBC92DFC89FC67
Nov 25, 2015
Claire Fullerton
Perhaps I posted a general YouTube link to Sinead O'Connor singing "Raglan Road," but it's easy to locate on You Tube. Also, there was a CD put out about 10 years ago called "Common Ground: Voices of Contemporary Irish Music," on which O'Connor's version appears, along with a host of other Irish singers, singing the classics, if you will. Here is the CD's link and description on Amazon.com : http://www.amazon.com/Common-Ground-Voices-Modern-Irish/dp/B000002U4V Further, I had no idea that Patrick Kavanagh wrote "Raglan Road," so I stand informed! To read it as poetry is a thrilling experience, and I thank you!
Nov 25, 2015
michael dunne
Sinead is recognized as a great artist. Her turbulent soul is often reflected in her work. The way she courageously rolled up her sleeves and rescued Shane McGowan from his own excesses. She took some tough decisions in his interests indicating the calibre of the woman she is. Thank you for the comprehensive list and I look forward to listening to them, some of which will be new to me...
Regards and Best Wishes
Michael
Nov 26, 2015
Claire Fullerton
Same to you, Mr. Dunne. And be it known that I've worn out two copies of the CD, "Common Ground!" Brian Kennedy is on it as well, just so you know. And Kate Bush sings a song in Irish!
Nov 26, 2015
Heritage Partner
That's Just How It Was
LOve reading your articles Claire -------------- they fill my heart with joy when you are writing about Ireland
Dec 10, 2015
Claire Fullerton
So "chuffed" to hear you say this, Mary Thorpe, for my intention is to share with the flock, with the full understanding that each who read my Irish stories will understand completely!
Dec 10, 2015
michael dunne
The Joycean quote should read..."in the particular is contained the universal"
Dec 20, 2015
michael dunne
Fran,
The 'gist' is another verbal acknowledgement of the Joycean theory that ...."In the particular lays the universal"
Jan 12, 2016
michael dunne
Fran,
The 'gist' is another verbal acknowledgement of the Joycean theory that ...."In the particular lays the universal"
Jan 12, 2016