heard Ned whisper, you make up stories the very same as me. I know that because I know about your
mother. She didn't die in a church. She died of a brain haemorrhage brought on by your father's beatings. That's how she died,
you auld lying trickster!
—Shut up! Shut up, do you hear me? I'd snap - against my better judgement. But he knew how to get to me.
Then I'd see him laughing — his shoulders rocking as he teased his beard.
—The mountain and the pines will always be with you, Redmond. Always make sure you remember that. Always and everywhere you'll
bring them with you.
How right he'd been. Every single place I went.
As a matter of fact, back in 1981, long before the truth about Ned's nature had emerged, I had actually been giving serious
consideration to bringing Catherine home to Slievenageeha, around the time my first folklore articles had begun to appear
in the Leinster News. Articles which increased Ned's popularity quite considerably, I have to say.
—I don't know how to thank you, Redmond, he said. You're like a son to me now after all you've done.
Every Sunday the kiddies arrived at the schoolhouse for the ceilidh. They came from all over. Its growing popularity was truly
astounding. But I had taken pains to emphasise its down-home, neighbourly aspect.
—The Slievenageeha Children's Ceilidh is about nothing so much as good neighbourliness. A happy community kicking up its heels
and having itself a whale of a time.
For far too long, ceilidhs, I contended, had been seen as the preserve of a few worthy zealots intent on preserving 'authentic'
Irish culture. Restricted to a couple of earnest convent girls dancing a hornpipe in a draughty school hall, stiff as boards
with their arms by their sides.
—That day is gone, I wrote. A new day dawns for Irish ceilidh. Now it's all about exuberance, good humour and excitement.
And it is all happening at Slievenageeha schoolhouse every Sunday at 3 p.m.
The great thing about Ned - apart from, of course, being a wizard with the bow - was that he was a terrific music teacher.
And, it goes without saying, a wonderful communicator.
—And he's just so solid and dependable, everyone said. It's like he's your father or something. It's like you could trust
him with just about anything, really.
'Ned of the Hill', I called him in my articles. He thought it was the 'bee's knees', he told me. Slapping his thighs, chuffed
as he guffawed:
—Ned of the Hill! Well, I have to hand it to you, Redmond, you're a good one! As a result he started to sing it at the ceilidhs,
the famous old ballad of the same name. Sawing away as he stuck out his chest, the kids singing along (he'd taught them all
the words) as his strong, proud voice rang out across the valley:
Adeir Eamonn a' Chnoic: a lao ghil's a chuid Cad do dheanfainn-se dhuit? Mara gcuirfinn ort beinn dom ghuna?
Which meant, as he explained:
Says Ned of the Hill: my love fond and true What else could I do? But shield you from wind and weather?
One day, over a glass of clear, he looked up at me and grinned as he said:
—There's good words, ain't they, Redmond?
—Yes, I wholeheartedly agreed, really lovely lyrics, Ned. I like them.
—You do, do you? They're very like one I was singing that first day. The very first day you arrived in Slievenageeha. Do you
remember that one, Redmond? It was about hell, Redmond. Hell. Do you know how long it says you might expect to dwell in such
a place? Do you know how long, Redmond, as a matter of fact? You don't, well I'll tell you.
He pinched his nose and roared phlegm into the grate, before launching into his 'high lonesome' song:
Here we both lie in the shade of the trees
My partner for ever just him and me
How long will we lie here O Lord who can tell?
Till the winter snow whitens the high hills of hell.
He shivered ominously. Then he looked at me again and said:
—That's how long, Redmond. That's how long you and me can expect.
I must
mother. She didn't die in a church. She died of a brain haemorrhage brought on by your father's beatings. That's how she died,
you auld lying trickster!
—Shut up! Shut up, do you hear me? I'd snap - against my better judgement. But he knew how to get to me.
Then I'd see him laughing — his shoulders rocking as he teased his beard.
—The mountain and the pines will always be with you, Redmond. Always make sure you remember that. Always and everywhere you'll
bring them with you.
How right he'd been. Every single place I went.
As a matter of fact, back in 1981, long before the truth about Ned's nature had emerged, I had actually been giving serious
consideration to bringing Catherine home to Slievenageeha, around the time my first folklore articles had begun to appear
in the Leinster News. Articles which increased Ned's popularity quite considerably, I have to say.
—I don't know how to thank you, Redmond, he said. You're like a son to me now after all you've done.
Every Sunday the kiddies arrived at the schoolhouse for the ceilidh. They came from all over. Its growing popularity was truly
astounding. But I had taken pains to emphasise its down-home, neighbourly aspect.
—The Slievenageeha Children's Ceilidh is about nothing so much as good neighbourliness. A happy community kicking up its heels
and having itself a whale of a time.
For far too long, ceilidhs, I contended, had been seen as the preserve of a few worthy zealots intent on preserving 'authentic'
Irish culture. Restricted to a couple of earnest convent girls dancing a hornpipe in a draughty school hall, stiff as boards
with their arms by their sides.
—That day is gone, I wrote. A new day dawns for Irish ceilidh. Now it's all about exuberance, good humour and excitement.
And it is all happening at Slievenageeha schoolhouse every Sunday at 3 p.m.
The great thing about Ned - apart from, of course, being a wizard with the bow - was that he was a terrific music teacher.
And, it goes without saying, a wonderful communicator.
—And he's just so solid and dependable, everyone said. It's like he's your father or something. It's like you could trust
him with just about anything, really.
'Ned of the Hill', I called him in my articles. He thought it was the 'bee's knees', he told me. Slapping his thighs, chuffed
as he guffawed:
—Ned of the Hill! Well, I have to hand it to you, Redmond, you're a good one! As a result he started to sing it at the ceilidhs,
the famous old ballad of the same name. Sawing away as he stuck out his chest, the kids singing along (he'd taught them all
the words) as his strong, proud voice rang out across the valley:
Adeir Eamonn a' Chnoic: a lao ghil's a chuid Cad do dheanfainn-se dhuit? Mara gcuirfinn ort beinn dom ghuna?
Which meant, as he explained:
Says Ned of the Hill: my love fond and true What else could I do? But shield you from wind and weather?
One day, over a glass of clear, he looked up at me and grinned as he said:
—There's good words, ain't they, Redmond?
—Yes, I wholeheartedly agreed, really lovely lyrics, Ned. I like them.
—You do, do you? They're very like one I was singing that first day. The very first day you arrived in Slievenageeha. Do you
remember that one, Redmond? It was about hell, Redmond. Hell. Do you know how long it says you might expect to dwell in such
a place? Do you know how long, Redmond, as a matter of fact? You don't, well I'll tell you.
He pinched his nose and roared phlegm into the grate, before launching into his 'high lonesome' song:
Here we both lie in the shade of the trees
My partner for ever just him and me
How long will we lie here O Lord who can tell?
Till the winter snow whitens the high hills of hell.
He shivered ominously. Then he looked at me again and said:
—That's how long, Redmond. That's how long you and me can expect.
I must
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