Ireland 7

August 5, 2012
Gulls cry in the dark air. A cloud has settled on Sligo, and the roofs are hard to see, let alone distant Knocknarea. Though I think the time has been hard to fill, I somehow haven’t found enough of it to report here faithfully. Friday afternoon I went to a lecture by a nun, de Lourdes Fahey, on the history of the Barony of Kiltartan. She was a good historian and a good speaker, and observed what I had been observing, that Lady Gregory’s Kiltartanese were the best documented peasantry in Europe. That evening there was a show at Hawk’s Well called “Perfect Beauty,” wherein a visual artist and a musician chose Yeats poems to interpret. Except for some photographs which could be presented as representing “Romantic Ireland’s Dead and Gone,” the visual art ranged from weak to ludicrous. The music, though, was uniformly good, and in some cases superb. I went out afterward to some places I had not been before, and met some people I had not yet met. I had mixed red wine and Bailey’s, though, and my stomach suggested the folly of that. I did meet someone beside the river, and did not spend the night in my hotel.

Saturday morning early I went home, showered, and hiked to the station to take the train to Dublin. The man I had spent the night with turned out to be the station master, or whatever you call the one who opens the door and writes something on your ticket. We had not talked about what we did for a living. He is a very big man, with a square head and the confidence of one who has always been the strongest in the room. His arms are twice as thick as mine, and his big belly shows when it hits his belt, but blends in more handsomely when there are no clothes. He lacked finesse, but I didn’t care. When we saw each other, beyond a quick smile at the irony of things, we knew we should say nothing. He wrote his little mark on my ticket and I took my seat. But just before the train pulled from the station he walked over and put his open hand against the window where I sat, so all the way I looked at the passing countryside through a frame made of his fingertips. Beautiful horses were in the fields that morning, and in one a red stag and a doe, a steam of dew coming off their shoulders. A troupe of children got on at one point, the boys in Boy Scout uniforms, they were very loud and most of the others moved from the car, but I didn’t. I loved hearing them. One boy had a laugh so pure that every time he laughed, I did too.

In Dublin I was oddly un-nostalgic. I didn’t go to all the old sacred places, but jogged from the station to the Temple Bar bar for tea. The other patrons at that hour were six happy German boys who were there for a bachelor party– a very big deal in Europe– smiling continually and laughing at each other’s comments. I wanted to be one of them. No one on earth was having a better time. It was Zombie Day in Dublin, with a stream of young people got up as zombies passing one on the street. Went briefly to the National Gallery to get reacquainted with old friends. New friends included a display of surprisingly fresh Yeats cartoons for Punch. Visited the Leinster Gallery. Again, Loretto was not there, but I found a pair of tiny Jack Yeats prints (from a series of playing card designs, I think, a full set of which are in the National Museum) and wanted them, and a phone call to the absent Loretto allowed me to have a deal on the pair. They’re even small enough to go in my carry-on, with some readjustment. Crossed the street from Loretto’s and ate at an Italian wine bar, toast with tart cheese and honey, surprisingly delicious. Wandered Grafton Street, then back through the Temple Bar and, in good time, to Connolly Station. The ride home was exhausting, unending. I slept sometimes, sometimes watched the landscape, sometimes blazing and beautiful, sometimes dulled with squalls of rain. Watched the Olympics for an hour, then back to Hawk’s Well for a vaudeville based on the songs mentioned by Joyce, with a few songs added for the Yeats people, including a sing-along of “Gather Round Me, Parnellites.” Good show, revealing the surprisingly rich music hall repertoire of Edwardian Dublin.

In the lobby before the show a blond woman called me by my name. I had no idea who she was. She reminded me that her name was Margaret, and by slow accruement I gathered that she and her husband Michael and I had met at Furey’s that famous night. I have no memory of this whatsoever, and when I met Michael later on in Hagardon’s I had no memory of him, either. They both were pretty well informed about me, so I must have still been coherent. I apologized for having been blind drunk. She said she saw no such thing. At one point I said, “I have to go now” and went out the door, looking steady and dignified, said she. I do remember saying, “I have to go now,” but I thought I was talking to myself, and it was at the last moment before complete incapacity. Should I worry about this? Apparently I did not disgrace myself in any way, and the people I met that night did not fly at the sight of me. I could not believe I’d had conversation of which no trace remained whatever. Margaret said, "Here all this time I thought you were Irish, and you can take that as a compliment." I did. Margaret and her friend Brigid were dressed in period costumes for the Yeats Festival desss-up day, which I missed, substituting for them the zombies of Dublin.

Came home last night and chatted in the Glass House lobby with a big guy from Chicago. He’d been a swimmer in high school, so was glued to the Olympic swimming events. He told me I must see Wiesbaden, and I have no doubt must.