Yeat's Grave

On the bus:
There’s a castle off in the distance, on a hill. According to Dave the tour guide says it’s probably an 18th or 19th century English castle, not fortified and Irish—Cromwell would have torn it down.

Countess Markovitz lived there—late Georgian, 1830s—first woman elected to Irish House of Commons. Yeats was a regular visitor, and we’re visiting his grave today.

This morning, from my bay window, I saw a beautiful short-haired white cat patrolling the BB grounds.

At dinner last night, Matthew the bus driver talked about his family. He’s the fifth of 8 children and his father is reluctant to pass the farm on—people from his generation want to hold onto the land for themselves, and Matthew was the only one interested in the farm. But even after getting married and having kids, he still didn’t have the farm, so he left and got jobs elsewhere (including bus driving). Ever since 1999, all his siblings have been giving him the silent treatment. One of his daughters (he has three kids) goes to high school and is in the same class as one of her cousins, and if she speaks to the cousin, she turns away. It’s not like they wanted the farm in the first place.

Drumcliffe

This is the site of Yeats’s grave, in an old churchyard, and the site of 9th century monastery.
A ninth century high cross stands at the same cemetery as Yeats’s grave, though it’s up on a wall. There's also the ruins of another round tower.

I stood over W. B. Yeats’s grave with the Cranberries song “Yeats’s Grave” appropriately running through my head, even though I don’t have many of the lyrics memorized. The atmosphere, the setting and all, got me feeling rather melancholy. Soon everyone gathered around Yeats’s grave, and Jim, the Yeats expert, recited one of his poems, “The Hosts of the Air.”

O’Driscoll drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.

And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.

He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.

And he saw young men and girls
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.

The dancers crowded about him
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.

But Bridget drew him by the sleeve
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.

The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.

He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.

He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.

O’Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;

But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.

Even without knowing a huge amount about Yeats, I found it moving, and he did it entirely from memory. He afterwards said he was inspired by one of the Clancy brothers, who recited it at a concert. At the grave, a lump formed in my throat and tears in my eyes, but I didn’t want anyone to notice—I didn’t think anyone else was about to cry, and it struck me as silly. I’m not usually so sentimental. I got really in the mood to read some Yeats so I bought The Collected Poems of Yeats in the gift shop (and a metal cat sculpture based on a cat picture in the Book of Kells).

La Sola—has performed in Chicago and KC, and is from this area, Sligo.

Crough Patrick—pyramid-shaped mountain where Catholic pilgrims take off their shoes and climb or crawl (yesterday would have had a crowd—blood on the rocks from bare feet). As it was, a lot of people were climbing.

Killary Harbor

Killary Harbor is the only fjord in Ireland. So basically it's this big curving piece of bright blue water, and there are very green hills surrounding it. Lynn asked me if I wanted my picture taken standing in front of the fjord, and I said yes. Dave the kidder offered to stand next to me in the picture so that I could tell my mother this is a guy I met in Ireland.
1921—England wanted it, Ireland kept it.

At the Museum for Wool and Sheep, a guide demonstrated spinning, antoher stopped by and weaved and we went out and I petted sheep. Two cute lambs, one Welsh black sheep, large range of sheep. Three-horned sheep was supposed to have four horns, but one was broken; vaguely reminiscent of a unicorn.

Delphi Lodge is a country estate that got its name because a friend of Lord Byron’s saw it and was reminded of Delphi (having been on the Grand Tour of Europe). The bus just passed it in the woods—long path with signs and gateposts flanking it, and it’s a big big house, painted grey with white trim.

During the famine, forty poor starving people walked a great distance to the Delphi Lodge to beg for food, but the English landlord refused, and they all died of starvation. On the landscape nearby, with a lake and mountains and grassland but not trees, a cross was put up by an African group, during the tail end of Apartheid (photo). 12 miles down the road from Delphi, but at that time there was no road—it was like trying to do a marathon when you’re starving to death in harsh weather.

Louisburgh

A grant from the EU is promoting forestation—conifers from Scandinavian countries. Could plant evergreen, or deciduous trees but they don’t grow as fast. 25 years after planting, you own the plantation.

A disadvantage of these deciduous plants is that they have an acidic coating that’s getting into the lakes and rivers, polluting them. Like, duh, so what if they’re faster?! Plant the trees that are compatible with the island’s ecology! Why do people have to be so stupid about ecology?

The European Union (EU) is really helping the Irish economy. Evidence includes all the house building we see.

Mirrisk Millennium Park (I’m not sure I spelled that right—messy handwriting)—photos:
Famine Memorial (ship with skeletons)
Ducks in pond
Lake and islands in distance
The park is across the road from the path leading to the pilgrimage mountain.

I’ve decided that I like sheep. They’re cute, they’re friendly, and they make funny noises. Baa-baa—it really is loud and comical close up.

So far I’ve seen four black sheep, and I think they’re the prettiest, probably in part because they stand out amid all the paler sheep. They’re actually a very dark brown, maybe a little black, but more brown. Being a black sheep is cool.

At the Wool and Sheep Museum, when we went outside to see the sheep, the guide called the old dog, Shep, and eventually he came jogging up. But after she let him in through the gate, he ignored the sheep and headed for a wooden fence near some people from the tour group, and he squeezed between two wooden planks in the fence, escaping to the sidewalk.

At one point early in the trip, we saw about four sheep running downward on a mountain—that was a sight. They can actually run pretty fast, when they want to. Today I saw a pair running side by side, as if racing the bus. And around the lake, some of them are down low on the bank, even on sort of cliffs.

Grada—Irish band (Bob said they’re really good—there was a poster advertising a concert in the window of a pub, but unfortunately we won’t be here to see them)