Tag: Synge

A Bit of Lore

On By judith zinisIn Ireland and ScotlandLeave a comment

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My Irish grandmother, Nana, told us that if there is a blue sky bigger than a man’s pants, the sun will come out.  After I grazed a nettle bush and was tortured for hours by it’s sting, Joe, owner of The Man of Aran Cottages, said they had a saying, “Don’t put your fist around nettles.”  The next day, he couldn’t quite remember if that was the actual phrase.  I’m not sure about Nana’s prediction although I will steer clear of nettle bushes.  And I’m no closer to any of the “lore” I was seeking, but one bit of information direct from Maura, Joe’s wife, does seems right.  She claimed that when she went to church, she could tell by the “jumper” a person was wearing who it was before she even saw a face. And she added the same was true for stone walls.  Each family has its own patterns when they knit and when they build a wall.

My Irish grandmother also spoke knowingly of the “little people.”  In The Aran Islands,  Synge repeated the tales he had been told about faeries.  I might have fallen under that spell myself when I visited Inishmaan, the island in the middle, and the house where Synge stayed on his visits.  Inside beside a peat fire sat an older man, the grandson of the people who hosted Synge.  I could barely understand most of what he said even though it was in English.  Luckily what he did say, he repeated several times.  This isn’t the first time I have encountered such manner of speech.  Many islanders did the same. So when he directed me to the newspaper articles and photographs on a table, he said, “Yes, my grandparents, my grandparents.” When I asked if I could take pictures, he answered, “No, no. My sister, my sister, says no.”

The room seems to be exactly as Synge described: the warmth of the peat fire, a stool next to it, the red petticoat worn by the women of Inishmaan hanging on a hook.  His room, on the left of the central room, was large and more austere.  On the right side in the smallest room, the couple slept.

Magic followed me on another remarkable walk home from Ti Joe Watty’s pub.  This evening, I was on the low road a bit earlier, closer to eight.  The soft gold from the setting sun infused the air, the green fields shimmered, and stone walls mirrored the light. Coming across the abandoned kelp factory, the time of the fairies engulfed me, making me a believer.

The Low Road to Kilronan

On By judith zinisIn Ireland and ScotlandLeave a comment

The Low Road

On his first day in Inishmore, John Millington Synge, author of The Playboy of the Western World, recalls sitting in front of a peat fire with “a murmur of Gaelic” in the background.  Like Synge, the lilt of Irish was with me on my first day in Inishmore.  An older couple who sat behind me on the ferry used Irish the whole trip, their sentences spilling softly over each other’s.  A good beginning.  Synge wrote in 1898 that he had to leave commerical Inishmore for the more authentic Inishmaan.  Over 100 years later, and I haven’t had that experience.  I had been warned that staying two weeks would be too much, that I wouldn’t last more than a few days.  During my first dinner at the Man of  Aran B&B, I mentioned this warning to several lodgers.  Two American women were sure I had made the right decision.  An Irish couple envied me.  And right they were.

A treasured fantasy of mine is to live on a sparsely inhabited island small enough to navigate by foot.  So far, I think I’m on to something.  I take long walks, read in my room or write, and, sometimes, talk to people at breakfast or dinner.  Some ask me why I don’t bicycle.  For example, the three hour trek to Kilronan  would have taken 20 minutes.  I prefer being a flaneur, walking, pausing, looking, talking to the animals I pass.

Using the low road to Kilronan, I met two horses, a donkey, two billy goats, a teenage goat, and some kids.  All moved as slowly as I did.  Most meandered to the stone walls that separated us, in hopes I would give them food or set them free.  One old horse was adamant.  After he licked my hand, he pushed insistently into my bag searching for a treat.  The two billy goats were tied to one another and it took them awhile to reach me. Their plight saddened me, my empty pockets disappointed them.  The teenage goat just wanted petting, nudging his head against my hand, following me along the fence in hopes for more.  The kids enjoyed the simple pleasure of running and jumping.

The Ti Joe Watty’s Bar sits at the end of the low road and the beginning of Kilronan.  I was going to head directly to the tourist office as planned, but the bar called to me.   I sing the praises of Inishmore’s natural beauty, but the Guinness I drank was a little bit of heaven as well, the black/brown liquid with its tan head, its sweetness.

 

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