Enniskillen Beckett Festival & back to Mountshannon

This was the theatre space for Stirrings Still, Beckett's last prose piece. Doesn't look like the usual for a thespian venue, does it? We were picked up by a bus just outside the castle in Enniskillen for a 45 minute journey to a secret location. Isn't it astonishing how anything secret, even when you're grown up, is more enticing than something you know about?

Off we went, following Lower Lough Erne towards Enniskillen, watching the clock to see were we close, trying to guess where we were going. At least that's what I was doing. Was it going to be Belleek? No. The bus passed the pottery factory and out the other side, passing through a bit of the Republic on the way. It's years since I was there on the boat. Looks pretty much the same.

The signposts were telling us we were on our way back to Enniskillen by the time we turned off, the bus squeezing through great stone gateposts into the grounds of Castle Caldwell. The building in the photo is right beside the jetty where we'd stopped a couple of times on the boat.

Up the stairs into the chill of the derelict building. Actor Ian McIlhinney was sitting in a room within the room, playing the part of a man watching himself rise and go. His pre-recorded voice read Beckett's words. It was extraordinarily moving and very cold. Thank goodness I'd gone in my usual state of over-preparedness for the Irish summer.

Our last day in Enniskillen. We'd spent the night on the jetties at the Ardhowen Theatre where there was a contemporary dance event (weird and wonderful). We trolled off to the Round O in the rain, needing to hook up to electricity to charge the phones (inverter caput). As we sat there in the now driving rain and many-miles-an-hour winds, we noticed the bandstand in the park beside the Round O. Here it is:

The cars form a protective barrier against the weather, the one facing us with the boot up. The people in blue are the brass band. You have to hand it to them. No audience, vile vile weather, and still they turn up for duty.

It finally stopped raining as we came into Carrybridge. We'd already decided the only thing to do in such weather would be go to the hotel for dinner. They do a mighty steak and chips, and a sublime panna cotta for desert.

Next day we paused in the tranquility of Trial Bay and played a few tunes. Warmth. No wind. Sunshine.

And back to Mountshannon. Weather wild again, but at least it had warmed up a bit. People were daring themselves as the waves jumped onto the pathways.

This week it's been trad. The Feakle Festival is on and we're off playing tunes in the pubs.

Back to the boat next week.

Dinghy full of water

Festival session in Shortt's Bar, Feakle

We went to Winter Solstice today for the first time in a week apart from a quick spin-by at the weekend. It was the Feakle Traditional Music Festival and we've been on festival time, playing tunes every night in sessions, going to bed at three (or four or five) and getting up very late. Today was wild with wind and rain, and we'd had mad torrential weather on Tuesday, so we were worried about the dinghy in Mountshannon Harbour. She was surely full of water. So we wanted to take her out and bring her home.

We needed life jackets, and a boat hook, all of which were on Winter Solstice, so we called at Scarriff to pick them up. And there was a letter! In the cockpit. People read my blog! Thank you Andrew and Helen, crew of Woodpecker. And yes, we'll definitely be back on lovely Lough Erne again.

The dinghy was indeed full of water, but still afloat. Joe set about baling

Baling out

while I had a look about. The lake was very high. Another boat here that needs baling:

The swimming area in Mountshannon

We pulled the dinghy round all the moored boats on the council jetty where we'd tied her temporarily, me with the painter and Joe with the boathook. Then I had to let go and Joe was on his own. I thought I'd lost him at one point. He was pushing straight into the roaring gale, had had to let go with the boathook and the wind caught him. He and the little blue boat were on their way to the Yacht Club's floating moorings. But no! He managed to haul out an oar and regain control. Here she is with her mast unstepped (destepped?):

Waiting for the trailer

And out she comes:

Ready for home

We had a mooch about the harbour before we left and spotted this:

Hein Goodewind

An old timber cruiser from the Norfolk Broads. The owners came back from the shop as we were leaving and we were able to have the typical timber boat owners' chat. Leaks (where, not if). Painting (also varnishing). Winter covers (importance of). The question everyone asks (with or without sharp intake of breath); 'needs a lot of work does she?'

This boat is a lot older than ours. It seems there were four of them imported into Ireland at the same time. This is probably the only one still in regular use - or, indeed, still in one piece, although there may be another being worked on in Shannon Harbour. Maybe we'll go and have a look. Hoping to go off for a jaunt this weekend. If this wretched (but also exhilarating) wind ever dies down so we can get up the lake.

Feakle at the festival

The road led to Feakle this last week for the annual Traditional Music Festival.

There was the usual mayhem outside the pubs. Gentle mayhem though. Mostly.















Outside Pepper's is always a favourite when the sun shines.
 

People sit beneath the road sign at the table across the road and strum guitars or try to look like famous musicians. (Actually some of these might be famous musicians - the two Japanese were fantastic players).

Here's Joe playing tunes in Shortt's Bar on ... Thursday? Friday? Not sure.





This photo pretty much sums up the week really. Some days we played tunes in the afternoon too. We stayed in the van down by the mortuary which is what we've done for the last couple of years, going home at two or three via the chip van. One night they'd all but finished. It's amazing what you'll eat at that time in the morning. Joe had some class of chicken burger and I ate the chips the woman beside me said she couldn't finish because she felt sick.

Each year there are more camper vans/motorhomes. The last two years there has also been a caravan almost entirely held together with duct tape. There are similarities beween boating people and camper van people, one of which is that some of them run their engines for an hour to charge up their batteries. I sit there grumbling when this happens, trying not to breath as the fumes come straight in. I'm generally a wimp when it comes to confronting people with their inconsiderate habits, but I have a good line in 'are you having problems with your batteries?' Oh so grumpy and intolerant.

I was an attractant for drunken banjo players at this festival (husband not included). Both sat far too close. One kept going on about being a Scottish chieftain or some such. He was certainly Scottish.

Some people were having none of this diddly eye nonsense taking up their viewing space inside the pub.









It's a fabulous location for festival, and there's an opportunity to walk off the Guinness along the kilometer between Pepper's and the rest of the village. Great views as you go...

...and the chance for a spot of contemplation.











Recovery has taken longer than usual. On Monday I thought I might get to bed at the usual after-session time of around two. We were down in Shortt's with our friend Pete over from England. Eileen O'Brien was playing with Seamus Bugler that night - she's Paddy O'Brien the Tipp box player's daughter for those with an interest in musician dynasties. A great fiddle player. And then there was talk at the bar. Whiskies were had. It ended up the latest night of the week. Then we had a house session on Tuesday night with festival refugees. Wednesday was boating refugees. Lashing rain, high winds, friends in Scarriff on boat with three children. Another late and great night. Thursday I was playing with Seamus in Shortt's. Dear god and goddess let me have an early night tonight.

All change

This is going to be a quick one, mostly photos I think, because the Feakle Traditional Music Festival has started and I'm now well into diddly eye mode. It began last night, and we had plenty of tunes in a pub session as well as being on stage at the opening, celebrating the playing of box-player Seamus Bugler - but that's another story.

We went to Grange on Winter Solstice this year. We had planned on Kilglass (see photo above) but the Shannon Rally was in there. The journey to either Grange or Kilglass is simply beautiful. You turn in through a gap in tall reeds that only becomes apparent when facing it straight on. For a while you wind between reeds, fortunately well marked - without the markers you would need a guide or plenty of time in which to get lost and find yourself again. The waters open into small lakes and large pools which provide excellent anchorage. Eventually you find yourself at a point where you can pass through the Carrigeen Cut to Kilglass, or turn right to Grange.

The last time we were in Grange for the peace and quiet a family of water skiiers turned up. We started off a bit annoyed - this river is ours after all! - but they turned out to be charming. And of course they considered this section of the river to be theirs. They'd been coming there for years, had grown up there, but they were very tolerant towards us interlopers.

This time we were looking once again for peace and quiet after a chatty and boaty couple of days. We knew the rally was coming into Grange the following day, but that was tomorrow. However preparations were in hand. There was a digger, a mower, a strimmer. It went on all evening. Eventually we upped and crossed to the other side of the lake and dropped anchor. Joe and Frankie certainly thought it was worth it:




And later we were treated to a fabulous sunset:

We left Winter Solstice back in Richmond Harbour for a few days - until after the festival - then we'll be bringing her south again, back into the home territory of Lough Derg.

Now I have to go and bake an orange and ginger cake and a make a chilli con carne. The van is down in Feakle already so we don't have to worry about drinking and driving. We'll be on festival time - to bed at quarter to or quarter past three (for some reason) and up around eleven. Our musician friend Pete is arriving this afternoon on the ferry from deepest Shropshire. He'll be staying in the house while we come back and forth.

Diddly eye diddly eye.

More tunes in Feakle

Session at Pepper's Bar - NOT the one so scurrilously described.

Sessions have a very particular etiquette which can get you in trouble if you don't know what it is. It's one of those things, though, that nobody tells you. If you do something wrong you just feel an atmosphere. You won't be asked to leave unless you're really out of order (dancing on the table, shouting, vomiting) but you might be frozen out. Told you're out of tune. Or sometimes everyone stops playing until you go. I was once listening to a session where every time the victim started playing, three other musicians set off a cacophony of notes. Thankfully that has never happened to me, but I know people who have come a cropper because some bollix thinks he's the king of world, or some queen bitch has an inflated view of herself and no manners.

Nice spot for a tune.

This all makes for interesting people watching at a festival where drink is taken and some people don't give a toss anyway. Change Of Session is a good one. Two or three musicians are booked by the publican and get paid to run the session. €50 is the present going rate, though I suspect if you're A Somebody as opposed to an Ordinary Local you get more. So we're in one of the pubs (this is going to be annonymous) with a couple of musicians from the 2.30 slot still going strong when the 5 o'clock boys arrive. There's shuffling. The 2.30s pretend they don't know they have to be out of the way for the newbies. The newbies go outside for a bit. It's 5.30 and 2.30s are not giving up. The bar is full of musicians waiting to play some tunes with the newbies, instruments still in their cases, and there's an air of waiting.

Attentive audience.

Eventually the three newbies come in the door all smiles.
'Am I moving you out of your seats lads?'
'Oh. You want to sit here.'
'We usually do.' Smile smile. An age putting away instruments. Change of the guard.

More Feakle Festivalling

The drawing room at Caher House

There are stuffed animals all over the place in Caher House. This fellow looked at us throughout the concert. I wouldn't have liked to be the one sitting beneath those antlers. The concert was lovely. It was a gas too. The support act was Dave Flynn on guitar who we'd heard about through Erin. He's boyfriend to her housemate, but we'd never met, or so we thought. He came on stage and I took a couple of photos of him tuning his guitar with his back to us. When he turned round to begin his set Joe and I both said 'Oh! It's him.' He was someone we'd met in loads of sessions, usually at the Feakle Festival. We called him the man with the deer stalker hat, because he used to wear one (sadly lost, he said). I think he used to call us Feakle.

Dave Flynn tuning up

His guitar playing was beautiful.

The quartet were excellent too, although I'm not always mad on a mix of traditional and classical. I like my jigs and reels as diddly eye jigs and reels. They did do two pieces I really liked though. The first was a song cycle sung by Maighread Ni Dhomhnaill. The music was composed by the quartet cellist Neil Martin. The words were by Cahal O'Searcaigh and I wish I undersood Irish. Especially Donegal Irish.

The song cycle was about that brutal old church law which stated that children who had not been baptised could not be buried in hallowed ground. The songs are from the point of view of a mother whose child was not allowed a burial in a place where she could visit the grave, but was on an inaccessible island among the other unbaptised dead babies. The inspiration for the songs came from a small island off the Donegal coast - Oileán na Marbh - where such babies were buried.

The view over the lake from Caher House

The other piece I liked was inspired by WB Yeats and his unrequited love for Maud Gonne. That one made me think about the house as it must have been when children were living there, and the place was full of servants. It also made me think about how it must have been difficult for Maud Gonne being the object of the unrequited stuff. If you just don't fancy a guy, you just don't fancy him, and having him all doe-eyed at you could really piss you off after a lifetime of it.

We were at the concert last night. Or at least I was at the first part. This was Eddi Reader and she was wonderful. A great performer. I didn't think I'd like her but she has an amazing voice and presence. She does this fabulous thing with her hands and arms. Joe was busy taking arty photos and got her shadow on the wall.

Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill

Then there's the hair. I'm still talking hair. Martin Hayes, the fiddle player, has amazing hair. Martin lives in the States but he comes from across the lake from us and is a celebrity in these parts. He's a really lovely fellow as well as being an astonishing musician.

Martin and his music partner Dennis Cahill were the second part of the concert. The church was completely packed. The concert was sold out. People idolise Martin Hayes. Joe was being artistic again. I thought I was having a bad hair day. Look at this.

Feakle Festivalling

Looking down the main street in Feakle

It seems like weeks since we were last on the boat but it's only eight days. Or is it nine. This is because we've disappeared into the parallel world of traditional music. It's the Feakle Festival and we're on the late shift. This means going to bed at quarter to or quarter past three (for some unaccountable reason) and getting up around eleven. We have the camper van parked next to the mortuary in Feakle. There's a choice of the mortuary or the graveyard, but the road by the mortuary is flatter.

Looking at the view from the hall while waiting for paparazzi subjects

We went to the festival opening last night. Well, we went to the bit where you get wine and cheese and chat to people, and I took some photos for the website (I'm the Feakle Festival webmaster. See what's on here!). Then we snuck out. It was a film about a lovely singer, but I have to confess I really don't much like a lot of traditional singing. I'm a tunes person through and through. We went back to the van and heated up the moussaka Joe had made in the afternoon while I was crisis weeding, had a glasseen or two of Pinot Grigio and walked the dogs. Then off to Shortt's to the session.

We didn't intend to stay out so late. After all, it's only Wednesday and the beginning of the festival, but it was a great session with Ged Foley and Paul Smyth (Mr Specsavers Limerick as it happens) and so it was quarter to three. Or was it quarter past? Maybe. Anyways, I had to make up the beds in the van (tedious job involving lifting the backs of the seats into the front) because Joe was a little tired and emotional. Truth be told, I'd drink taken myself, but not as much as himself.

Caher House in last year's sunshine. It's raining this year. Yuk.

Concert tonight in Caher House. Caher House is a gorgeous old mansion on Lough Graney just down the road from us that was done up a few years ago when the old man, who'd allegedly lived in one room, died and the place was sold. We're going to see the West Ocean String Quartet, and it'll be in the drawing room so we'll be all cultured instead of diddly eyed.

PS. The haircut was a success. It looked pretty good when I came out of the hairdresser. Unfortunately I had to wash it today and, although not quite Bad Hair it's not great.

Perhaps I'll have to buy the 'product' Melissa used
on it. It only cost €28.

PPS This was the sign in the car park at Ballyshannon. Do they take you away in shackles I wonder.