Dingle Peninsula or be serendipitous and take the narrow road west down into Beara.
A man after my own wanderlusting Anglo-Irish heart, Pete decided to go west into
an altogether wilder placeâ¦with stark mountains of biblical ruggednessâ¦Radiant shafts of sunlight pierce the dark bruise of cloud cover and hit the water with a metallic flash, as if to prove there is a Creator and his taste is for random and terrifying beauty. By heading for Beara instead of following my intended route I suppose Iâm hoping to leave the world of plans and arrangements behind, lay claim to my share of Irelandâs spontaneous and disorganized ebullience and see if I really fit in. Iâll simply turn up at MacCarthyâs bar and see what happens. If nothing does, I can go away again.
So God bless you, Pete, for following the finest of travel instincts and spontaneously pursuing the hidden and the authenticâand in doing so, encouraging us to follow you in your serendipitous adventures into Irelandâs âhidden corners.â
And this is what Iâll be describing in this bookâhow a nation, currently booming with newfound prosperity as part of the European Union, and known proudly now as the Celtic Tigerâstill manages to hide away such little gems of authenticity and awe as the Beara Peninsula. But from time to time, Anne and I will also âdisappearâ and just like Yeats dreamed:
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made,
(at least weâll build it in our imaginationâ¦).
And weâll be celebrating the unique spirit and humor of Pete McCarthy too. May you rest in peace and also continue to share your laughter wherever you areâ¦
SPRING
The Season of Imbolc
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A CTIVE LIFE IN THE I RISH COUNTRYSIDE explodes (something of an oxymoron in a nation renowned for its laid-back approach to life and living) after St. Patrickâs Day, on March 17, and that old Gaelic greeting once again celebrates the arrival of spring âCéad MÃle FaÃlteâ âa hundred thousand welcomes.â
When the wild and pagan-tinged Imbolc and Brigidâs Feast festivities are over (much to the relief of the local Catholic clergy), and the shamrocks drooping from buttonholes have finally wiltedâthe year unveils itself again, and the rush of new life truly begins.
The three incarnations of St. Brigid are revitalizedâthe inspired poet and keeper of ancient traditions; her creative strength of the blacksmith; and her nurturing hands of a healer and midwife. The spirit of Taispeachâthe great fertility and fresh-life rompâsurges across the land. The fields and the ribboned roadside hedgerows St. Brigid see their first flush of color, the daffodil. The winter winds have abated, the land is warming up, giving way to budding foliage and swathes of primroses that carpet the ditches with creamy yellows and the softest of greens. Even the bare boglands and the humpbacked mountains behind them and the cozy white cottages and the dark fortifications of old peat turf-mounds that seem like the flame-blackened ruins of once mighty fortsâall these are now sprinkled with glittering Seurat-like pointillisms of sun-flecked color and the bouncing white dots of newborn lambs.
St. Brigid
Curlews and cuckoos call, and ravens replenish their nests. The blackthorn blossoms powder the field edges, followed in mid-May by high flurried walls of white thorn and hawthorn and all their explosions of berries, devoured in their billions by the field birds. Gorse blooms fresh-golden on the moors and bluebells carpet the small woodlands. At this time of the year the air is heavy with heady aromasânot the turfy smoke of winter but rather the life-stirring fragrance of fresh growth following sudden short April showers. And the ocean too. That aroma too is differentâparticularly the first earth-breath of morning rolling in