Days of Doolin, Day One

Some Guy — Sun, 25 Apr 2010 21:12:22 +0000

After seeing the doc in Limerick, we finally caught the bus to Doolin. All the other riders got off in Ennis, Ennistymon, Lahinch, and Lisdoonvarna, leaving us alone on the bus. At our stop, our B & B host was waiting for us at the stop to drive us the one remaining block to the house just as it was getting dusk.

The Dalys’ is a cozy, yet very well-appointed B & B. After sitting in the sun room conservatory, our host led us into the garden area, where he served us coffee liberally laced with Bailey’s, as the sun went down. We learned that the B & B was closing for the weekend and that we’d have to find a new place for Saturday.

O’Connor’s is the pub everyone around here points to when you ask about food and music. There’s also McGann’s and Fitzgeralds, and McDermott’s, all of which have local traditional music, although Fitzgeralds seemed to have more of the young, club-oriented crowd and no sessions.

The problem with tourist spots are all the tourists with nary a brain cell to share amongst them

Cliffs of Moher fade into the distance

Yesterday, we caught the bus to the Cliffs of Moher, which is a spectacular line of vertical cliffs extending several miles just south of Doolin. They are home to several massive colonies of seabirds and infested with ignorant morons who call themselves “human.”

Now, as we’re in the rescue profession, we know that cliff edges are extremely dangerous and prone to crumbling, especially when they are routinely battered by Atlantic waves. When we got off the bus and headed to the cliffs, we wandered along the official walkway. We were astounded by the numbers of witless tourists that jumped the wall and milled about on the very bleeding edge of the cliff. One bookend set of Darwinian examples even climbed over the edge of the cliff and stood on an unstable, loose stone shelf so their tarted-up girlfriends could get photographic evidence to show their soon-to-be-fatherless, bastard children of how monstrously stupid their daddies were. Miss Fish and I stopped to see if they would entertain the crowd by plummeting 702 feet to their ignominious deaths followed by their little lemming girfriends, but we were denied when one of the wardens showed up with a lifeguard whistle and in no uncertain terms told the teeming horde of future charcoal briquets to get the hell off the cliff. As soon as the warden disappeared, the roahes went scuttling back over the barrier wall and resumed their milling about inches from the cliff edge. We thought that Ireland could get some seriously-needed revenue by sending the gardaí around every 20 minutes and issuing some citations. It would be a steady income, as fresh meatsticks tootle off every new tourbus. The whole spectacle was an egregious example of the whole “We’re on holiday so we don’t have to obey any rules or use common sense because nothing bad ever happens while on holiday” behavior.

Is this where the teletubbies work when they grow up? Would Tinky Winky wear a tie or cravat?

We then went into the visitor’s center for lunch. As the visitor’s center is built into the living rock of the rolling landscape, it looks strangely like an office building for the Teletubbies if they were grown up and worked for Enron.

In all, do try to visit the Cliffs of Moher in spite of my rant, as the are truly magnificent and one of 28 finalists worldwide for the new Natural Wonders of the World.

We walked the nine kilometers along the road back to Doolin with each step ringing in my infected ear like Tito Puente playing timbales inside a beach ball. We then moved into our new accomodations at the Twin Peaks Doolin B & B not even 30 meters away from Daly’s. Easy move. Once in, our host, Sinéad O’Connor, told us to visit McGann’s for dinner and to order the crab claws. And no, not *that* Sinéad O’Connor.

Pub-hopping and sessions

Fiddler busking at the Cliffs of Moher. No one but us stopped and listened...they were all busy trying to inadvertently kill themselves.

After washing up from the walk, we lounged around for a bit, and to our surprise, it began raining for the first time in sixteen days. We dug out the raincoats, and headed out the door.

The handy thing about McGann’s Pub is that it also features a trad session hosted by a friend of fellow musicians back home. We walked ten minutes down the road to the pub and were duly impressed with the crab claws. What the claws may have lacked in size, they made up for with excellent flavor. We also had the delicious lamb shank with potatoes and carrots…but avoid the ham and vegetable. We still haven’t figured out what the veggie was…something military, I think.

Unfortunately, the banjo-playing fellow whom we were to seek wasn’t there–indeed, the entire session was non-existent–so we trudged back up the road in the misty drizzle and wound up back at O’Connors. There was a small but tight session going, with a flute, a fiddle, and a button accordion, surrounded by an appreciative pub crowd of locals and tourists. We pulled up some stools at a small table already occupied by an elderly gentleman of Clare and a young woman in a red sweater–we think daughter.

At a break, the flute player, Christie, pointed over at the elderly man sitting next to us and asked, “So how’s about a little song there?”

“Oh dear Lord no,” replied the old man. He leaned over to Miss Fish and said, “How about you? You must have some songs to say. You do sing, don’t you?”

“No!” she quickly replied and then pointed at me. “But he does.”

And that’s how, in spite of a raging ear infection, loss of hearing and pitch, and a raw throat, I had my debut performance in Ireland. It actually came off sounding better than I feared.

After apologizing beforehand to the session leader for any imminent suckage, I sang May Morning Dew, a slow, pensive number. The fiddler requested another song (“A bird doesn’t fly on only one wing”). So I finished with Aughrim’s Great Disaster…another epic, not-so-happy song…but with fighting and gore. I returned to the table where the old fellow shook my hand repeatedly throughout the night. He wound up being a very nice table companion. I bought his next pint.

We were then treated to more tunes–none of which I knew–and then to local singers showing how it’s really done. All in all, a very pleasant evening.

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Not Therapy – Music

missfish — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 02:50:05 +0000

Bev and Bentley, leaders of the Auld Dubliner Irish Session, Squaw Valley, CA

Why go to Ireland for sessions when you can get perfectly good psychotherapy here in the States? This question was asked by an acquaintance when informed we were going to Ireland for some “sessions.”

While asked in good fun, it made me acutely aware that we have some very good Irish music sessions here in the States. Last Sunday we played at the Irish session in Squaw Valley led by Bev and Bentley. A fine time was had by all of the players as well as a couple from Cork and Dublin! New to San Francisco and up at Squaw to ski, they were amazed and “blown away” that authentic sounds from home were here in California “by a bunch of Americans no less!” (add the Irish accent of your choice)

While excited to experience traditional Irish music during our upcoming trip to Ireland, I recognize a greater appreciation for the wonderful chances we have here at home – good music and fellowship with friends.

Cheers to you all and we look forward to playing next month upon our return!

The post Not Therapy – Music first appeared on Some Guy In Nevada.

Irish Session | Some Guy In Nevada

Days of Doolin, Day One

The problem with tourist spots are all the tourists with nary a brain cell to share amongst them

Pub-hopping and sessions

Not Therapy – Music