the Netherlands, and Germany. Many have acclimated nicely and are tipping away now at producing superb cheeses and organic vegetables, along with the usual baskets, clay pots, and water-divining trades. But some of the newest Rastafarian-styled recruits sit on Cork corners banging bongo drums with an irritating monotony. An aging troupe called Skibbamba will dance in place for hours in tie-dyed pajamas, with some of the mothers sporting babies in papooseswho jolt their heads backward and forward in perfect, if helpless, time to the beat. Anyone so inclined can rent the entire bunch for a party, which just last week I’d promised Laura I would do for her wedding celebration in, oh, another decade or two.
“That’s not funny, Dad,” she stammered in disgust. Natives in West Cork, however, retain a tolerant balance in dealing with such exotics. Clonakilty recently suffered an interminable visit by a Californian who screeched rock anthems at otherwise harmonious street corners that the Lord expressly created for Irish people to complain about the weather and their aches and pains. Worse still, he began posting announcements of his forthcoming lecture on The True Meaning of the Age of Aquarius. When the hour of illumination arrived, not a single person showed up. Such is Cork cuteness, and the man vanished.
But modern Ireland is actually hugely enriched by the presence of myriad foreigners – from the actor Jeremy Irons, who recently painted his Cork castle pink, to Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones playing Buddha in the Wicklow Mountains, and the Swiss wheelers and dealers who in the 1980s bought an estate outside Skibberreen as a refuge for their government to weather nuclear war. In fact, a four-room schoolhouse not far from Clonakilty now educates nine different nationalities among its seventy pupils, including kids from a family who had just fled their ranch in troubled Zimbabwe. Through a mutual connection, we stopped at their rented farmhouse on our way back to Cork City and found a party in full tear. Inside, young Dutchmen with shaved heads were making horrible noises on their electric guitars, but on the lawn we were charmed by an aristocratic English writer, whose debut book had to do with the bank robbery he committed when fresh out of Oxford.
Next, a dark-tressed, dimple-cheeked young woman slunk our way, her bare midriff sporting a gold naval ring. She was Una, and it transpired that she had been raised on a crusty houseboat captained by a tin-whistle playing American mother.
“How interesting,” I said. “Where does she live now?”
“Well, she’s a divinity student these days and lives in a tiny little town called Cornwall, Connecticut.”
“Una,” I guffawed. “Your mother’s eaten dinner at our house there several times.”
Ah serendipity – Ireland is thy name.
Return to beginning of chapter
Chapter 8
September dawned. “Hey, you with the heads, it’s show time!” I called to the sleeping boys in their bunks, it being the first day of school.
This fateful morning is of course uneasy anywhere, but now our beloved boys, God save them, were about to be served up as not only the new kids in their classes, every child’s worst fear to begin with, but – and here comes another initiation rite, kiddoes – also shoved forward for public inspection in strange uniforms amidst a gabble of accents, backgrounds, and expectations entirely foreign to their own. Even in the intimacy of his tiny American school, Harris the Procrastinator had always dreaded this turning point, so resolutely in fact that he had utterly refused to relinquish his grip on my leg when I tried to usher him into the first grade in the U.S. On that traumatic day, I had to bring him back twice. So there was no mystery regarding his motivation in fussing “for just another minute” over a Lego creation beside his pillow.
Owen is different: he adores any challenge that appeals to his particularly opinionated, and
“That’s not funny, Dad,” she stammered in disgust. Natives in West Cork, however, retain a tolerant balance in dealing with such exotics. Clonakilty recently suffered an interminable visit by a Californian who screeched rock anthems at otherwise harmonious street corners that the Lord expressly created for Irish people to complain about the weather and their aches and pains. Worse still, he began posting announcements of his forthcoming lecture on The True Meaning of the Age of Aquarius. When the hour of illumination arrived, not a single person showed up. Such is Cork cuteness, and the man vanished.
But modern Ireland is actually hugely enriched by the presence of myriad foreigners – from the actor Jeremy Irons, who recently painted his Cork castle pink, to Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones playing Buddha in the Wicklow Mountains, and the Swiss wheelers and dealers who in the 1980s bought an estate outside Skibberreen as a refuge for their government to weather nuclear war. In fact, a four-room schoolhouse not far from Clonakilty now educates nine different nationalities among its seventy pupils, including kids from a family who had just fled their ranch in troubled Zimbabwe. Through a mutual connection, we stopped at their rented farmhouse on our way back to Cork City and found a party in full tear. Inside, young Dutchmen with shaved heads were making horrible noises on their electric guitars, but on the lawn we were charmed by an aristocratic English writer, whose debut book had to do with the bank robbery he committed when fresh out of Oxford.
Next, a dark-tressed, dimple-cheeked young woman slunk our way, her bare midriff sporting a gold naval ring. She was Una, and it transpired that she had been raised on a crusty houseboat captained by a tin-whistle playing American mother.
“How interesting,” I said. “Where does she live now?”
“Well, she’s a divinity student these days and lives in a tiny little town called Cornwall, Connecticut.”
“Una,” I guffawed. “Your mother’s eaten dinner at our house there several times.”
Ah serendipity – Ireland is thy name.
Return to beginning of chapter
Chapter 8
September dawned. “Hey, you with the heads, it’s show time!” I called to the sleeping boys in their bunks, it being the first day of school.
This fateful morning is of course uneasy anywhere, but now our beloved boys, God save them, were about to be served up as not only the new kids in their classes, every child’s worst fear to begin with, but – and here comes another initiation rite, kiddoes – also shoved forward for public inspection in strange uniforms amidst a gabble of accents, backgrounds, and expectations entirely foreign to their own. Even in the intimacy of his tiny American school, Harris the Procrastinator had always dreaded this turning point, so resolutely in fact that he had utterly refused to relinquish his grip on my leg when I tried to usher him into the first grade in the U.S. On that traumatic day, I had to bring him back twice. So there was no mystery regarding his motivation in fussing “for just another minute” over a Lego creation beside his pillow.
Owen is different: he adores any challenge that appeals to his particularly opinionated, and
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