At the Edge of Ireland (46 page)

There was a chuckle at the other end. I knew that chuckle well. It always preceded Danny Quinn's latest jokes, which he scattered randomly throughout all his conversations. In fact, most of our chats seemed to be mere interludes between his jokes, which he invariably laughs at long before he gets to the punch lines. “Did y'hear the one about…”

“What?”

“The one about…What the heck's wrong with your line…?”

“Oh, nothing much, except it's pouring outside and I can hardly hear a word from your end…”

“Okay—I'll save it…It's too good to lose in the middle of a Beara cloudburst…”

“What?”

A frustrated pause at the other end and then, “When are you gonna get a decent world cell phone or something so we can kvetch like normal people…”

“What?” The last was lost in the thundery roar directly over the phone box.

“Forget it. See you Friday. And tell Anne…”

The rain was now deafening as it crashed in columns on the leaky cast-iron shell of the phone box.

“Yes, okay, I will. Have a great flight…” I had no idea what I was supposed to tell Anne, but I knew that one more “What?” would eradicate the limits of our mutual patience.

“What?” That was him, not me. Followed by more of his gurgling chuckles.

“Get lost, Danny…”

 

S
O THERE
I
WAS
, rudely dismissing my friend, the mighty Danny Quinn, one of America's finest Irish folksingers, creator of a dozen or more popular albums, composer of countless fine songs, compatriot of Tommy Makem and the Clancy Brothers and, when he was into one of his joke-laden, giggle-laced monologues, one of the funniest of all our friends. And—finally—after much pestering, we had lured him from his rigorous schedule of concert, club, and pub dates in the USA to spend a few days with us at our Beara cottage along with Robby and Celia, longtime buddies from our lakeside neighborhood in the Hudson Valley.

“Anything you need me to do…or bring?” Danny had asked in a previous phone chat on a bright sunny day when conversation from the phone box had been a little more coherent.

Back in the USA Danny would occasionally stay with us at our home when on one of his laboriously long East Coast folksinging tours. And it had now become a most enticing ritual for him to bring a bagful of British goodies—Stilton and (real) cheddar cheese, chocolate biscuits, treacle, British bangers and bacon, and his latest finds in fine red wines.

“Well—you might as well bring a few of your CDs, because as soon as they hear your voice, you'll be a local star…Oh—and one more request—actually it's a condition of our hosting you at the cottage and catering to your every gastronomic and other whims…”

“This is sounding good…especially that thing you said about ‘other whims.' I've always got a few of those floating about, y'know.”

“Yeah—and it's just a simple request…”

“Okay—I'm waiting…But I'm getting just a wee bit nervous.”

“Well, I've told you what a fabulous place this Beara is—the scenery, the people, the history, the traditions, and a sense of touching something authentically Gaelic-Celtic…very Irish.”

“Yeah, yeah—I know all that. Why do you think I'm coming?”

“Well—to spend time with us primarily, I assume.”

“All right—that too…I suppose, if you say so. And what is it you want from me?”

“A song.”

“A song?”

“Actually not ‘a' song, but ‘The Song'…the ‘Song of Beara'. No one's written one as far as I know. There are plenty of Celtic long poems and all that, but not a really good folk song that captures the unique character of this place.”

A long pause at the other end.

“Danny…?”

“Yeah. I'm thinking…You kinda hit a bit of a soft spot there, matey. I hate to remind you, but I haven't written a decent song…come to think of it, I haven't even written a lousy song…in over two years. Plus…”

“Listen—you remember that Baudelaire quote, something about poets and artists being riders on the storm, exiles here on earth, trying to fly, dragging their giant's wings?”

“Oh how very literary of you. Is that meant to make me feel better?”

“No—but this place will. Believe me. Beara will set all your muses in motion.”

“Are they the female kind—all sort of wrapped up in slinky, diaphanous, silky things?”

“Absolutely!”

“And young, and nubile, and pretty and…very…inspiring?”

“Oh, boy—you'll be inspired like you've never been inspired before.”

“In that case, like good old Oscar Wilde, I'd admit that ‘I can resist everything except temptation' and…I'd like one to be named…Daphne.”

“No problem. I'll have a Daphne ready and waiting.”

“…and maybe another…called Felicity.”

“Okay—Felicity and Daphne it will be, Oh Honored Guest and Great Composer.”

“Ah! Now I know you're lyin'…”

“No, no, not really. Merely a wee fleck of ‘expedient exaggeration'!”

“Well in that case, I may have a few other conditions of my own, David…like seeing you pick up your own guitar again for once.”

“Not a chance on that one, Danny. Sorry. My fingers are as twisted as a turf carrier's back.'”

“Oh, how very…colorfully ethnic…”

“So, we're set then? You get your seductive mélange of muses and we get ‘The Song of Beara.'”

“I'm only coming for a week or so, y'know…and I haven't even seen the place yet.”

“How do you think I felt when I arrived to write this book?”

“Yeah—but you've been there months now!”

“So I'll distill all my impressions for you, give you a fabulous drive around, pour pints of the strong black stuff down your throat at all the locals, introduce you to some of the nicest people you'll ever meet this side of heaven…and then give you a pen and a notepad and wait for the splendid result that I know will flow quickly and mellifluously!”

“I've always loved that word—
mellifluous
.”

“So—deal?”

“Okay. Deal. But I should tell you. I've got my fingers crossed at this end, so it doesn't really count.”

“No problem. If we don't get our song, you'll have no fingers left anyway—and no nubile muses either!”

“Oh, very nice. Thank you so much for that.”

“Looking forward to seeing you, Danny.”

“Likewise.”

 

A
ND LO
!—I
T CAME
to pass as it was written, or at least verbally agreed. “The Song of Beara” emerged from our friend's previously composition-blocked brain and spirit. And it came in a remarkable tsunami of inspired creativity on his fourth day on Beara, no less, after we'd all returned from a roiling ride around the peninsula that had impressed our guests with its raw power and bold immensity.

“Fantastic!” gushed Rob, who for the whole of our six-hour odyssey had never once mentioned his Corvettes and antique Cadillacs and Chevys back home and had sat apparently mesmerized by the power and beauty of the cliffs, coves, and soaring Caha peaks serenely bathed in sunlight from a sky dimpled with soft lilac clouds.

“It's even better than I expected—far, far better.” Celia, Rob's wife of thirty-five years and always a trustworthy enthusiast of any place we lure her to, grinned. (She had joined us on both of our prior book projects for
Seasons in Basilicata
and
Seasons on Harris
in Scotland.)

Danny Quinn
by Celia Teichman

Danny, now curled up like a little cuddly leprechaun on the back-seat, had not tried to tell us a single one of his endless repertoire of jokes but rather had sat silent, smiling and stroking his beard for much of the journey, seemingly moved to muteness by the majesty of this place.

And then when we returned to our cottage overlooking the ocean and the distant Skellig islands, Danny vanished. Which was particularly odd, as cocktails were being served on the patio and cocktail time was one of his favorite interludes of the day.

“Where's he gone?” asked Anne as she poured the drinks.

“No idea,” Celia half whispered. “But let's leave him. You never know…”

“Never know what?” asked Rob, impatient with mysteries and the like.

“Well—you know…the song,” said Celia softly.

“Ah, yes,” was the unanimous response. “The Song.”

So, wherever he was, we didn't disturb him and were well into the cheeses and crackers and wines and even beginning to salivate at the aromas of dinner drifting out from the kitchen window when who should suddenly appear strolling across the gorse-flecked field in front of us but the man himself, grinning and waving a large notepad above his tousle-haired head.

“Could this be the great Moses bringing us his life-transforming commandments?” shouted Rob.

“No—this is the mighty Quinn bearing the very modest first draft of his Beara song…”

A hearty round of applause and cracker and cheese sprays as we shouted out our congratulations.

“You've done it…already?” asked Anne, eyes bright.

“Ah well—when the muses move one…”

“So that's where you've been—dallying with the little darlings deep down in the dell.” That was me, bemused by the delightful image of Danny being seduced by the sirens of song into writing his first composition in over two years.

“Oh yes—those delicious damsels dangled words before me like fairy charms, they did.” Danny laughed. “Just let me get the guitar and we'll see how this thing really sounds.”

It sounded great! Simple four-chord verse lines with a couple of seductive grace notes in the chorus to give it a uniquely evocative—almost plaintive—melody. We were all silent and entranced. After the first rendition, Danny made a few alterations, changed a couple of chord sequences, and then sang it once again—clearer and far more resolutely this time. And we just sat, with collective tingles scampering up and down our spines and, at one point, even traces of tears on a couple of faces as we realized just how effectively this master musician had encapsulated all the amazing characteristics of this magical corner of southwest Ireland. There were smiles galore in the humming stillness. The final shards of amber sunlight spotlighted Danny's face as he smiled back—a very happy songwriter and singer.

Over the ensuing days, the stanzas were expanded and adjusted as Danny met more of our friends and gained even greater insights into Beara itself. But the basic energy and vision of the original composition, with all its “work in progress” flavor, remained intact. The final version, which has now been sung and celebrated in countless venues across Ireland and the USA, goes as follows:

“Song of Beara”

The fishing boats of Beara glide back to Castletown

The folks down at MacCarthy's have just bought another round

Some old ways that are changing, some things remain the same

In this place of ancient wonder, touched by sun and wind and rain

Chorus

You can hear the cattle lowing, you can feel the breezes blow

And the wild ocean crashes on the rocky beach below

Where the green and lovely Beara reaches out into the foam

It's a place you may have never been, but it always feels like home

The mystic Hag of long ago kept watch o'er land and sea

She knew all ancient languages, of wind, of bird, of tree

When strangers came with different thoughts they tried to change her own

And then her Celtic heart and soul found refuge in a stone

Chorus

In the desperate days of famine, when hunger ruled the land

Life hung in the balance, starvation was at hand

Some were cleared or emigrated, some died along the way

If you stand upon that Hungry Hill you can feel their pain today

Chorus

Slieve Miskish and the Caha Mountains, so craggy and so high

The magpie and the seagull share that ever-changing sky

Ring forts and stone circles can still be plainly seen

It's a terrible beauty—so wild, so lush, so green

Chorus

The word must have spread about Danny's song. How that happened, I have no idea, except that numerous times during our stay here, we sensed a kind of Beara bush telegraph in operation, whereby information mystically spreads around the peninsula. Actual fresh news seemed to be rare. Whatever snippets and crumbs were picked up on the grapevine and shared with friends already seemed to have been assimilated into the collective psyche of the populace. Of course, we knew there was magic here. The whole place seemed to float on a cushion of curious coincidences, telepathic exchanges, clairvoyant perceptions, and healing-restorative processes that no one fully understood but most accepted as part of the benign bonus of being a Beara resident.