Friday, 1st of June, 2018
We wake to thick fog that locks out views of the land across
Dunmanus Bay and along the coast out to the nearby Atlantic. My first thought
is that we’re here for the day, but there’s twenty feet or so of visibility,
which is more than enough to drive the roads across Goat’s Pass to the Fair scheduled
today in the nearby town, and I pray the limited visibility will dampen my
brother’s penchant for driving at Monte Carlo speeds, and so we go.
In town we convert dollars to euros and take in the fair
offerings – something midway between a flea market and an arts & crafts
festival mixed with produce from local farmers, bakers and butchers, along with
housewares, gadgets and more than a few used—book vendors. The tented sellers
cover the town square and range up several of the narrow streets. I buy some
fresh baked quiche and drop a euro or so into the plastic offering bin of an
organization that provides wheelchairs to those who haven’t managed to get them
and we move on.
We wander to one of my brother’s favorite shop alleyways and
he introduces me to the proprietor of a butcher store who shares our surname
(well, almost – the butcher’s has an extra “O”). The talk goes on for the
length of an Irish casual greeting which always feels to me like it may last
forever to me and my stomach growls and I feel the cranky possibility of all my
seventy-four years. My bro notices my wavering civility and pushes us on to a
café where we are told we’re sure to get
full Irish breakfast.
We’re served by a lovely woman from Spain, or Catalonia, and
she recognizes we are Americans; when we ask for milk with our coffees she
says, “Of course. Of Course” (and shrugs) and I wonder, how does she know? We
sit and talk, laugh, and tell each other big stories like brothers do when they
know the moments are special and times are never certain and so our talk goes
on like an Irish casual greeting – it’s infectious.
After a long while, we’re told there’s no Irish sausage to
be had at the café – My bro, as is his right, won’t have it and we prepare to
pay for the coffees, (excellent, by the way) and the waitress apologizes and
apologizes and the proprietor refuses our money and we leave the young woman a
tip because the proprietor can be generous with his apologies, but we’re from
working-class people and we know that a laborer offers precious time at a price
and usually are laborers because that’s all they have to offer and we are
loathe to leave her with nothing. My bro insists that we were listening when
our parents were working-teaching, and he’s correct, or right, or touching an
important truth. We press on.
The road to Gougane Barra is like all the others in West
Cork we’ve chosen to drive. The countryside is rich with late spring life and
animals (sheep, cattle, and property-protecting dogs) appear ready to wander
off the land onto the roads everywhere along the way – a sheep actually does,
frightening me and causing my bro to shout it back to the flock and he speeds
on.
At the chapel and shrine of St. Finbar I’m awed by the
ancient aspect of it all and the quiet that centuries of holy designation have
brought it to. The site is preserved in something close to its sixth (? Not sure
here) century condition. Eight caves cut into the land and framed with stone
still exist. Prayers in the original
Celtic are everywhere. I go into one of
the monk’s caves to touch the walls, smell the odors, experience the heavy wool
feel of the damp, and let my mind go back (which it simply cannot) to the time
and minds of its dwellers. What conceivably could have gone on in such a place?
How committed to either principle, or practices I can’t imagine might these
people have lived? We visit the chapel; chat with a couple from Poland and very
nearby who are dressed to the nines for a wedding about to occur at a close by venue.
The man (woman and man couple) is a local and is dressing for the affair from
the back seat of his car. His partner chats with us and tells us about their
three children and the many miles they travelled to get here; how excited they
were for time-away and how hopelessly she missed her children the moment they
left. It’s always the way, we three console each other. Her partner shouts from
the car – he’s locked in the back seat. “Child locks,” she laughs and runs off
in her high heels to rescue him.
We move on to an afternoon rest and later dinner at a
marvelous restaurant in Kilcrohane. Later we join good (and for me new) friends
in Bantry for another sit and discussion. The night comes on cool and comfortable
as we part and the road home seems less treacherous as my bro shoes to take a
way that he knew would rattle me less – good man!
More tomorrow. Night.
