Slept until 12.30pm. Probably everyone else went to Church, but this was the jet-lag recovery. Time then to check out Mayo Abbey. Found the 7th century ruins of the monastery established by the saint. Columban? In the cemetery, a 21st century funeral was in full swing. The whole district was there, having a high old time. I wondered if they have funerals on a Sunday so that everyone can come; as everyone certainly was there. Picnic in the cemetery, surrounded by brand new graves and headstones centuries old. (Something I had noticed yesterday – a wedding. One car with white ribbons on the bonnet passed going in the opposite direction – a bride! But then, over the next 15 minutes or so, about twenty more cars with white ribbons. Obviously all the guests deck out their cars for the wedding. How nice! How celebratory! How participatory!
Moved on in the little Micra towards Castlebar, (emphasis on the bar), the county seat for Mayo (emphasis on the o). Travelling in the Micra is reasonably OK, except for road noise, as it is quite a small car really. This is balanced out by the infusion of the sound of RTE Lyric - RTE being the Irish National Broadcaster, and Lyric being the rather undemanding equivalent to ABC Classic FM. Undemanding because you never get to hear the full symphony, only the well-known and loved Adagio movement, or the whole concerto, just the energetic Presto at the end etc. Still it is very good driving music, and better that the alternative, which offers the traffic report for the whole nation in about five sentences. I think Ireland is actually not much bigger than Tasmania – must check that out. Certainly it takes about as long to drive across it.
(Diversion – Stephen Fry’s 50 favourite gadgets is on the BBC. Worth watching)
Castlebar pretty, with what I now recognise as the typical downtown for Irish towns, charming facades and family businesses. It was the hometown of Mary Robinson, the first female PM of Ireland.
Next, Ballina. (There are not many towns in Ireland which do not have a namesake in Australia, I am realising). Here I spent many more hours than intended at the Museum of Country Life. It is part of the National Museum, which is spread over several locations across Ireland – good idea that. A new multi-level building has been constructed in the grounds of Turlough House, a former residence of some English gentry, and it is really compelling it the rawness of its depiction of what it was to be Irish and struggling to get by in the harshness of the conditions caused by climate and British rule,focussing on the 18th and 19th centuries. A feature was the use of contemporaneous, romanticised depictions of idyllic bucolic living in glorious countryside, set against warts-and-all descriptions of what it was really like.
Most interesting for the fly was the story of one John Feeney and his skill in rope making. Ropes were woven into all sorts of items for everyday use – chairs, saddles, bridles, horse collars, whatever. A series of old photos showed a John Feeney in the process of making a rope horse-collar. Fly remembered that Feeney ancestor (Patrick) who came to Oz in the 1860s was the son of a John. And that on the 1861 marriage certificate of Patrick his occupation is recorded as ‘rope-maker’. Flight of fancy really, but a thought.
There were life-size figures of people dressed in the clothing worn by the people of the Aran Isles right up until the 1930s-1940s. The Aran sweater being a feature of course. But also garments made from handwoven wool. There were duplicates of these garments on a rack, with an invitation to try them on. Rough woollen petticoats and vests and shawls (hug-me-tights), and shoes (pampooties) made from a single piece of cowhide with lacing to hold them on. Tried them on, of course, and wondered how ever did they cope with the itch. Needs must, no doubt.
Spent much longer there than planned and only had time for a quick look at Turlough House. But saw a musical instrument never before spotted – a clavierlyre. A cross between a clavier and a harp really. There is a pic in the folder on picasa. My fingers itched to try it, but a red rope, and more importantly a portly guard, kept me in my place.
Time for home. But how to get there. Gaelic signs are not helpful to the fly. The Voice and the fly are establishing a stronger bond by the hour. The fly was irritated by The Voice’s insistence on a specific address for a town. Not good enough to put in ‘Balla’, no, The Voice wants a Street and a Street Number. But The Voice and the fly have come to a mutual recognition that every town in Ireland has a Street called either Church or Churchview. So No 1, Church…, TownName, The Voice is happy, and off we go.
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