Inis Oírr: the Renting of a Bike

We arrived yesterday on Inisheer, or, as the Irish would spell it, Inis Oírr, the "eastern island." Inisheer is the smallest of the three Aran Islands, and as soon as you step off the boat, you know you're not in Kansas anymore. The sign announces this to you right away: "An Gaeltacht," – the land where Irish is the first language.


And this is not just some kind of tourist come-on; walking through the little pathways of the town, you would rarely hear English spoken. The conversational tongue is Irish, all the signs are in Irish, notices and posters are all in Irish. English is the second language here.

I have, in the past, been gently corrected on my own usage as well. In my early years of visiting Ireland, I inquired as to their language, and used the term "Gaelic." Then came the correction: Gaelic is a family of languages, and Irish is one of them. So here we are, at the mouth of Galway Bay, and on the edge of the Atlantic, surrounded by the Irish tongue.



When we arrived on Inisheer, we did a little exploring about the place as we made our way to the B&B. It didn't take long for all six of the men who drove their pony trams to know that the two Americans were going to walk to their residence. Only two hundred and fifty people live on this island – news travels fast.

And so it was that on the second day, we rented bikes for an island excursion. At the siopá, the bike shop, the lady said, "And aren't ye the folks from America?"
"Yes," says I, "We're staying up with Brídh Poil at Radharc an Chláir."
"Ach," says she, "I knew that."

I'm sure she did.

"We'd like to rent bikes for the day," says I.

"Well," says she, "you'll be needing to watch out for the brambles along the side of the roads... They're starting to grow out into the pathways. So mind yourselves."

"And do I need to pay now? Leave my license? Or my credit card?"

She looked at me with that half quizzical, half amused smile that the Irish sometimes bestow on tourists. "Oh, you can just pay at the end of the day," she said. "And no, there's nothing to sign. No locks needed, either."

If I rented a bike in America, I'd have signed things in triplicate, promised my first-born to lawyers if I scratched a fender, and left a hundred dollar deposit.

But this is the Aran Islands. Population 250. Irish is spoken here. And we are most certainly not in America.




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Location:Baile Na Gleanna, Inisheer, Ireland

Considine's Craic

Anyone who knows me also knows that I absolutely love a session of music, where people can simply break out their instruments and play long into the night, harmonizing, laughing, working off the creative energy of each other. And if there's anywhere in the world where this kind of environment flourishes, it's in the West of Ireland.



And to have such a thing happen in a pub – well, that's pretty close to a suburb of heaven!

Our friends Joan and Pat hauled us out one night to the center of County Clare, the city of Ennis. And being the expert guides that they are (not only in leading people around the Burren), they knew exactly where to go for a phenomenal night of Irish traditional music.

The place was Considine's Pub, smack in the heart of the town. And as the night progressed, the instruments came out: fiddle, Irish Bouzouki, six-string guitar, a set of Uilleann pipes, a bodhrán, and a superb wooden flute. Even up at the bar, someone pulled out a set of bones and kept time with the set.

It was fast and furious stuff – if you've ever listened to the high-energy work of Solas you'd be very pleased with what you heard that evening. And after every piece, a shout would go up from all in attendance.

In the meantime, the Guinness flowed, as did the conversation.

Prayer is not too far away from these hijinks, I think. And tradition has it that the good St. Brigid herself weighed in on such gatherings. Her words:
“I should like a great lake of ale,
for the King of the Kings.
I should like the family of Heaven
to be drinking it through time eternal."

The Irish have a word for this mystical fusion of ale and song and merriment and just plain infectious camaraderie. They call it "craic."

Click here to enjoy a few moments of music from this little slice of heaven!


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Location:Ennis, County Clare, Ireland

The Mass Rock

During the era of the Penal Laws in Ireland, which would have been around the late seventeenth century, if you were caught by the English going to Mass, you were shot. The same would be true if any kind of sign of Catholicism was found on you – a rosary, or especially a crucifix. The "penal crosses" were the result of such terrorism: it was a crucifix with very small arms, one that could be tucked up inside a jacket or shirt and instantly hidden.



So when Catholics wanted to go to Mass during this period of persecution, they explored the countryside for safe, secure, isolated places that would still have the dignity appropriate for the mystery they knew as the Sacrifice of the Mass. And they found what they were looking for with mass rocks.
Here in East Clare, close to the McNamara family, we had the great privilege of being led deep into the mountains yesterday and shown an immense mass rock. They dot the countryside of Ireland: random sentries of granite that have a solitary existence, found in some forest or on a hilltop.



The Mass Rock in Clare is an immense formation, a huge hunk of stone that actually serves as a backdrop to a smaller rock – this smaller one ideal as the altar.
During the times of the Penal Laws, sentries would be placed at high points at the periphery of the place where the mass was to be celebrated. It was a covenant of trust for an entire community, for if one person turned coat and became an informant, the whole village could be facing a firing squad. Our friends, Joan and Pat, showed us these points where the sentries would've been able to see the entire landscape.

It was a bright morning, and we quietly walked around this compass point of history and faith. Throughout the journey, I kept being reminded of how dangerous it was to be a Catholic under English rule, of how deep go the roots of this thing we call the Catholic faith. And I kept wondering how all of us in America still might have a hand in assisting the faith of these, our ancestors and kin.



I say this because the Irish, on their spiritual road, now face something far more threatening than a firing squad. They face money, pop culture, betrayal by some of their shepherds, and a wholly apathetic generation.

And yet, this is a country that died for its faith, died for its language, died for its song, died for its own freedom and expression. They built those convictions hundreds of years ago, built them on rocks, secretly hidden from their persecutors. Surely... surely there is something here to build upon.


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Location:Newgrove, County Clare,Ireland

Bleak, and Beautiful

One of the most isolated topographies of Ireland is just around the corner from where we're staying. It is called "The Burren," or boirinn in Irish, meaning "the great rock." And that it is.



It is almost two hundred and fifty square kilometers of rock, bordered on two sides by the Atlantic to the West and Galway Bay to the North. And though, to most people, it might seem utterly desolate and grey, when you actually walk this area and look closely, you find it teeming with flowers of every variety, from Mediterranean to Alpine. From afar, it seems like nothing but a vast, ominous, oppressive boulder. But walk into this area, and the number of species of plants and beautiful flowers is just staggering.



Here are two words that were not part of my vocabulary until yesterday: grikes and clints. Grikes are the long, almost perfectly formed fissures that appear in the rocks – almost as if Mother Nature decided to take a plough and till these stubborn stones. Over the years, the fissures have opened up, and yielded area for some of the most diverse plant life in Ireland. You can see from this picture just how incredible is this landscape (take this snapshot and multiply it by miles and miles.)

But the other thing I learned, and it surprised me greatly, is that this supposedly barren outpost has the longest growing season in Ireland? And again, it is related to the rocks: the rocks store the heat of the day, creating a huge area of warmer climes. Grass can grow here year round, which makes the place ideal for cattle grazing as well.



Over the years, we would drive by here with the choir, always on the go, and only once had a chance to stop briefly. But we spent an entire morning here (before lashing rains drove us, soaking wet, back to our cars and into Ballyvaughan). And with this extraordinary amount of time, we could admire the thousands of flowers that were insistently poking their heads from between the rock fissures.


There was one more thing to admire, too. Mile upon mile of old stone walls, walls leading nowhere. They are a testament to the brutality of English domination and their shocking response to the famine years. The Irish were forced to construct these meaningless barricades, a comfort to their lords and masters who wanted to make sure this starving race wasn't getting a handout.

The English are gone now. But the walls remain. Walls, and millions of flowers.



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Location:The Burren, West Clare, Ireland

Back to the Green Fields: the Final Leg

When Michele and I put our itinerary together, we really wanted to get to places in Ireland that, despite touring there for years, we'd never had the chance to visit. How do you miss these spots when you've been touring for more than twenty years? Because when you're traveling with more than fifty college students, there are places you just can't go.

So some of the last days of our trip are devoted to places we've never had the chance to visit, deep in the West of Ireland.


There may be some of you reading this (especially members and alums of the Folk Choir) who may disagree with this, and pretty much think that we could go everywhere. But let me tell you, it would be difficult to bring the entire choir on a hiking trip of Croagh Patrick, out in the middle of nowhere. Or to visit the special little towns of Doolin or Milltown Malbay, where Irish traditional music still thrives: a bus would be hard pressed to make it into those areas, to say nothing of the fact that host families would be pretty difficult to find.

So these destinations, among others – including the Aran Islands – are on our itinerary for the next week. They all fall into the category of "can't do this with a bus and the whole crazy lot of our beloved choir."



We've flown, then, from Nantes, taking us out of France, and directly to Shannon Airport in the west of Ireland, and we've been met by two longtime friends, Joan and Pat McNamara, who live in the town of Tulla, County Clare. From here, we'll explore the Burren, and if Mother Nature cooperates, climb Croagh Patrick as well.

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Location:Tulla, County Clare, Ireland