interest in Writers’ Week. One lad told me that he felt that it had no relevance to him, so a lively discussion on Irish attitudes evolved which the whole pub got stuck into. I asked him if he thought that he was “a hurler on the ditch”; to which he replied, “No, a footballer; you’re in Kerry now, you know.” He sat on his high stool and sang “The Old Bog Road” in a beautiful tenor voice and with such feeling that an old man beside me, who had come from England for Writers’ Week, wiped a tear from his eye. When someone else sang a lively number, the same lad tapped out the rhythm on the counter with a long ice-tongs.
The pretty barmaid reached out, saying, “Give me that.”
“That’s a dangerous weapon,” he cautioned,waving it over her head.
“It’s not the only dangerous weapon you have,” she told him sharply, gripping the tongs firmly and taking it off him. She was young, confident and pleasant, and served the entire pub with great assurance, deftly managing a bedraggled drunk whom she soothed with the right word whenever he was getting out of hand. At closing time the lad off the high stool collected the drunk and took him home.
It had been an enjoyable night during which poetry was read, songs sung, and debate, conversation and arguments ranged from writing and country lore to love making and the curse of emigration, from which many present had suffered.
A historic tour of North Kerry displayed many aspects of Kerry life, including its tolerance. Our bus driver parked in the middle of a crossroads and passing motorists – or, rather, motorists unable to pass – took it all in their stride with no sign of impatience. Not one blaring horn broke the silence of that beautiful countryside.
The highlight of the tour was the unveiling of a plaque on the home of Maurice Walsh, which was performed with dignity, eloquence and the colour of Kerry wit. The only hitch, ironically enough, was provided by a small, dark man with a greasy cap who took up his position beside the plaque, where he contrasted vividly with the whitewashed gable end of the cottage. He felt the need to give a runningcommentary on proceedings and, because of his somewhat unusual appearance and choice of words, was in danger of turning the whole proceedings into a one-man comic act. However, he proved no problem to his resourceful friends, because while Dan Keane engaged him in conversation, the powerful figure of Sean McCarthy stood in front of him and obliterated the little man from our view. There was no hassle; he was one of their own and belonged there, so they did nothing to upset him. A Kerry solution to a Kerry problem.
Over the door was a giant key depicting
The Key Above the Door
, a book which must have found its way into almost every home in Ireland. The key was crafted by local man Michael Barry who every Christmas helps to bring out the Ballydonoghue parish magazine. Writing flows through the veins of Kerry, and maybe Brendan Kennelly wrote the truth when he had Maloney say that it was in the Listowel water supply. From the area around Maurice Walsh’s home came the ancestors of John B. Keane, Brendan Kennelly and Sean McCarthy. There must have been something special in that stretch of countryside.
There, in a little roadside thatched pub with an open turf fire and black crane, we had drinks and sandwiches. On a small, deep-set side window, a soundless television had its American soap opera obliterated when set dancers took to the floor and live music filled the pub. One woman who had previously played the bodhrán with gusto nowhopped off the floor, the rhythm of the music controlling every movement of her body. When asked if it was a hard floor to dance on, she answered with flushed face and sparkling eyes, “It fights against you, but that’s good, and the music intoxicates me.”
Sean McCarthy shook the rafters with his rendering of “Rattle up the pots and the old tin cans” and his hilarious stories
The pretty barmaid reached out, saying, “Give me that.”
“That’s a dangerous weapon,” he cautioned,waving it over her head.
“It’s not the only dangerous weapon you have,” she told him sharply, gripping the tongs firmly and taking it off him. She was young, confident and pleasant, and served the entire pub with great assurance, deftly managing a bedraggled drunk whom she soothed with the right word whenever he was getting out of hand. At closing time the lad off the high stool collected the drunk and took him home.
It had been an enjoyable night during which poetry was read, songs sung, and debate, conversation and arguments ranged from writing and country lore to love making and the curse of emigration, from which many present had suffered.
A historic tour of North Kerry displayed many aspects of Kerry life, including its tolerance. Our bus driver parked in the middle of a crossroads and passing motorists – or, rather, motorists unable to pass – took it all in their stride with no sign of impatience. Not one blaring horn broke the silence of that beautiful countryside.
The highlight of the tour was the unveiling of a plaque on the home of Maurice Walsh, which was performed with dignity, eloquence and the colour of Kerry wit. The only hitch, ironically enough, was provided by a small, dark man with a greasy cap who took up his position beside the plaque, where he contrasted vividly with the whitewashed gable end of the cottage. He felt the need to give a runningcommentary on proceedings and, because of his somewhat unusual appearance and choice of words, was in danger of turning the whole proceedings into a one-man comic act. However, he proved no problem to his resourceful friends, because while Dan Keane engaged him in conversation, the powerful figure of Sean McCarthy stood in front of him and obliterated the little man from our view. There was no hassle; he was one of their own and belonged there, so they did nothing to upset him. A Kerry solution to a Kerry problem.
Over the door was a giant key depicting
The Key Above the Door
, a book which must have found its way into almost every home in Ireland. The key was crafted by local man Michael Barry who every Christmas helps to bring out the Ballydonoghue parish magazine. Writing flows through the veins of Kerry, and maybe Brendan Kennelly wrote the truth when he had Maloney say that it was in the Listowel water supply. From the area around Maurice Walsh’s home came the ancestors of John B. Keane, Brendan Kennelly and Sean McCarthy. There must have been something special in that stretch of countryside.
There, in a little roadside thatched pub with an open turf fire and black crane, we had drinks and sandwiches. On a small, deep-set side window, a soundless television had its American soap opera obliterated when set dancers took to the floor and live music filled the pub. One woman who had previously played the bodhrán with gusto nowhopped off the floor, the rhythm of the music controlling every movement of her body. When asked if it was a hard floor to dance on, she answered with flushed face and sparkling eyes, “It fights against you, but that’s good, and the music intoxicates me.”
Sean McCarthy shook the rafters with his rendering of “Rattle up the pots and the old tin cans” and his hilarious stories
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