This
week I was lucky enough to have a get-together with lots of cousins
from the Irish side of my family. If you're reading this guys, hello, and get in touch.
I had
not seen lots of these cousins for nearly twenty years: some, I hadn't
seen for even longer. The reason reason for the get-together was that
my cousin Marian's son, Mark, was marrying a girl from, of all places,
Barnsley! I promise not to do any Barnsley jokes... no!
We had
a wonderful night catching up, but the thing that amazed me the most
was that Mark and lots of his siblings and friends were the
entertainment for the night. They were fantastic musicians playing
music from lots of different genres. The talent upon the stage was so
good that the whole room clapped and sang and danced.
I
know that I might be a little biased about this, but I do think that
the Irish seem to be a nation that has a deep heritage of musical and
lyrical talent. I love music in all its glory but, have never been
much of a musician myself, although I might be able to put a feeble
argument forward about my lyrical abilities. A night in a good Irish
pub will be full of music and stories, as the Irish way of speaking is
both lyrical and musical. Now
I know that Ireland has more than its fair share of misery
throughout the ages. I know that there are Irish bars that make you
as welcome as a turd in a swimming pool! But good Irish bars are
places where the Craic and the alcohol flow freely. The Craic, by the
way, is pronounced 'Crack' but it means merriment, not an ultra-addictive drug!
Many
years ago a friend and I tried to walk the width of Britain, but those
damn pesky pubs kept on getting in our way. One night while walking
through, I think, North Yorkshire, we stumbled upon a group of people
all huddled around a camp fire. These people called us over to sit
with them and gave us warm drinks, though I'm still not quite sure
what it was that I was drinking. They were pleasant company; some may
have described them as hippies back in those days, but they would
probably be called new age travellers in a later decade. They
started to tell some really bullshit stories about enlightenment
which seemed to be herb-induced. Then one of the group, a tall skinny
woman, started to play an instrument that I was not familiar with, and
when she had finished, I was hoping never to be familiar with it again as
long as I lived! It turned out to be a Tibetan nose-flute. The group
swayed their heads from side to side as this boring monotoned
instrument gave me a full frontal lobotomy, causing me to hate the
musician playing it, though she had shown me nothing but kindness. The
night was so boring that both my friend and I made our excuses and
left their camp, even though we could have done with crashing there
for a while.
A few
nights later we had been halted on our trek by one of those pesky
pubs again. The pub was warm and lively and there were a group of
Irish students drinking in there. As with all Irish people they will
start up a conversation with you if you're in talking distance to
them. Because the group contained quite a few beautiful girls we were
more than happy to chat. It turned out that they were a band that
had been playing at a local folk festival. After more than a few
drinks had been consumed by all, one of the group asked the landlord
if they could play a few tunes, to which he happily agreed.
What
happened next was one of those moments that we all have in life, a
spontaneous moment in time that stays with you forever.
Four of
the group produced Bodhrain drums. I never get the name of these
drums correct, but you know the ones - ones that you hold in your hand and
play with a little stick? As the drums beat out a fast driving rhythm
the rest of the group stamped their feet in time with the drums. It
was like being caught in the cross fire of machine-guns, though these
guns didn't knock you off your feet, they made you rise to them. The
hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention like guards on parade
as the noise forced me to clap my hands like a mesmerised seal! Then
what could only be described as a demon, a beautiful demon, rose to
her feet. This bewitching enchantress played a fiddle, but the fiddle
played at the same force and speed as the drums. This auburn-haired
demon in a tee shirt and jeans had me reeling and clapping as if I
had lost all my sense of reasoning (the beer may also have helped).
Then, without warning, a young man with a shock of black hair and a
beard that any Viking warrior would have been proud of, joined in with
a tin whistle, quickly followed by another man with a recorder. This
instrument is usually an instrument of torture used by seven year old
children to play three blind mice over and over again until you have
lost the will to live, but in his hands it was like the pipes of pan!
The
evening turned to the night then turned to the early hours. This
night also finished our attempt at walking the width of Britain, owing to the mother of all hangovers, that neither my friend or I could get
over. But the contrast between the Irish idea of a night out and the
little English camp was as if they were from two different planets.
The night with lots of my cousins the other evening made me realise
just how lucky I am to have such a colourful wonderful heritage.
