As it goes, there's something to the luck of the Irish, and it extends to long-term visitors as well apparently. I debarked at Shannon and took a deep breath as I approached passport control. I handed over my passport and landing card and the fellow asked how long I was staying. When I replied "just under 90 days", he got just the slightest trace of a scowl--slight enough that I may very well have imagined it, even--and asked why. I replied tourism and explained that I was on a sabbatical from work. He wasn't smiling, but he asked no further questions as he stamped my passport and signed off on a 90 day permission to remain in the country. No need to show a return ticket, no need to show financial viability or proof of medical insurance. With that, I was in the country with full permission to stay for the duration of my trip (now granted, returning from any side treks I may undertake will be a different case each time, but one step at a time).
After passing through passport control, I took up station at the baggage carousel next to Dobbs and lamented how pointless it probably was for me to be standing there waiting. While our delay at the gate in Detroit probably improved the chances that my bags made it onto that flight to Chicago, I really doubted they'd made the jump in Chicago to the Dublin/Shannon flight. And yet, low and behold, after about 7 minutes, off rolls an Eagle Creek backpack with neon green luggage tags. A moment later, my roller bag was right behind it!
There was no line at customs either, and I passed through there with no problems whatsoever and was out in the terminal, right where two years ago I met a very frazzled Sarah, after her day-long delay in London en route to Shannon.
It took me a few minutes of wandering about and finally asking someone where the bus pickup was, but made my way out to the bus stop with plenty of time to catch my bus to Ennis. I managed to get in touch with Bill's wife, Tania to let her know I was in and on schedule to be arriving in Ennis at around 12:25 and she assured me Bill would be there to meet me.
I boarded the bus, which was over half-empty, giving me plenty of room to stretch out, and proceeded to try and post an update to the blog. However, it looks like at the moment, I'm not set up to send email from my phone, a bit to my dismay. I've looked through the set up stuff, but I may need to call o2 to see what I need to do to get that up and running.
The bus ride from Shannon to Ennis was a bit surreal, as has been the rest of the day, really. Its so strange to be in someplace so foreign, and yet still so familiar. The giddy excitement of seeing someplace new really is only good for a first time viewing. I found myself somewhat amused at how unimpressed I was by the fact that I was now riding along in a foreign country, 3000 miles from home. However, the first time I looked up and out my window on the right side of the bus and saw a car zip by in that lane to our right, it still was enough of a jolt to force a wry smile across my face.
At the Ennis bus station, Bill was there to meet me as promised. He drove me over first to the classical music school in town where Tania is teaching so that I could meet her briefly, though I would be seeing her back at the school/their home (which are one in the same) later.
He took me back to the school via the scenic route, passing through the hills of west Clare en route to Miltown Malbay, Quilty, and eventually the school, which is situated in the middle of rural farmlands, right along the coast. The view out the window of my room looks across fields with the sea just beyond it. It is quiet, serene, and smells alternately of peat fires and cow manure. I love it.
I am the only "student" here this week, so it is just to be Bill, Tania and myself. He has arranged for lessons from a piper in Ennis, so we'll be driving back out to Ennis tomorrow for said lessons. If you're reading this now, I've made it that far and am at the internet cafe in Ennis (edit: Actually, I only checked in briefly from the library in Ennis and wasn't able to get this updated until now, in Galway), as it turns out they don't even have dial-up here at the moment. Broadband is on its way, but they have apparently cancelled their dial-up in anticipation of that, and it has taken longer than expected.
Bill gave me the grand tour of the place, which, as I mentioned is his and Tania's rather modest home. There are a few extra rooms for student/guests, and there is a "music room" that is attached, but has its own exterior entrance only. He then made me a "light snack" of a couple of the freshest eggs I've had in many years, soft-boiled, with a bowl of Mueslix, then left me to take a nap as he ran back into town to run some errands.
He woke me out of a solid slumber a couple hours later to inform me that dinner was going to be ready in 10 minutes time. I had lamb with vegetables that had been slow cooking all day, along with boiled potatoes and what I first thought was spinach, but which was apparently a type of local sea grass. A very traditional meal, all told, but what it may have lacked in flavor, it made up for in freshness and authenticity. I'm not always a big lamb fan, but the meat was very tender and rather tasty.
After dinner I spent some time reading "The Lost Continent" by Bill Bryson, which Bill handed to me. Very enjoyable and entertaining read of an American brought up in Des Moines, Iowa, who fled Iowa to live a life abroad when he reached adulthood, and later in life, embarked on a journey of nostalgia and observation through small-town America. His observations and recollections of life in Iowa struck a very familiar and humorous chord to my experiences growing up in Michigan's 'thumb' region. Enough so that while it was a hilarious read, it was also giving traces of home sickness already in just my first hours away.
Just before turning in for the night, I asked Bill if he'd be so kind as to play a few tunes for me on the flute and he happily obliged. As Tania went up to bed, Bill and I had a nightcap of warm scotch as he shared with me many thoughts on traditional music and its place in the world and the local (as well as his personal) history that it is rooted in. To sum up the conversation in a few words or paragraphs put out via electrons and spread across the globe would be to do a disservice to the very nature of the conversation. But I feel like I learned more about what it really means and takes to play traditional music in that 30 minutes or so without having picked up an instrument than in many classes and practice sessions on my own.
One key thing that I got out of the talk though, was about where so many of the student's Bill has hosted at the school have come from. Germany, the US, and even Japan. All around the world, Bill explained, there are pockets of people who find themselves deeply rooted to the soul of the tradition. He even offered some anthropological theories on this, but the main point I took away from it is that the love and passion of folk music and the tradition runs much deeper than even a few generations of ancestry (and in many cases, older than the tunes currently in the tradition themselves). It immediately helped to put my mind at ease about the self-consciousness I've always had about my interest in Irish music and culture, despite no known Irish roots in my family tree. Whether its in fact due to some fairly ancient ties to the bardic tribes that scattered across Europe many centuries ago or not, it is clear that under Bill's roof, all who feel the love of the music and who respect it are welcome to be a part of it.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment