Singing the Songs of Ireland
2
As I looked across the quiet green that swept down to the sea, I found it hard to reconcile such tranquil surroundings with Ireland's turbulent past. It was not only here at Murlough Bay that I felt such peace, but everywhere I walked. The Troubles that have sadly disturbed the sanctity of this culture seemed so far away, so remote. I wondered, was this serenity real or imagined? Could peace really coexist with pain?
Looking past the tranquillity of the landscape, I could see a people whose strength came from great depth of vision: a vision that has been born out of great persecution. Canadian critic Northrup Frye wrote in his Fables of Identity: "We find the most soaring imaginations as a rule, in defeated oppressed nations, like the Hebrews and Celts."
4
When the plane began its descent toward the Belfast Airport, my heart began to stir: an inner ripple gave way to waves of joy. As we cut through the clouds, I caught my first sight of Ireland--a beautiful blanket of green like a patchwork quilt stretched across the shimmering blue Atlantic.
As we came closer, I saw mountains shouldering the skyline. Something moved deep within me: some might call it ancestral memory. I was the emigrant's great-granddaughter coming home.
As the plane landed and taxied to the terminal, I thought about my friend, Joanne Hogg, waiting inside. I considered our friendship and its uniqueness: how I wrote to her after hearing the music of IONA, of which she is lead singer, songwriter and instrumentalist. And how now after years, many letters, poems, and expensive phone calls, we were finally going to meet.
I shall never forget Joanne's face as I came into view. She beamed through moist green eyes. Quickly she reached out to embrace me. The miles of physical distance melted between us. At last we were standing together on the same soil.
We arrived at Joanne's home, nestled in the heart of rich pastureland, to be greeted by a bouncing border collie named Malli. We took my suitcase inside and carried it up a bright stairway to a spacious bedroom decorated in soft shades. It was a poet's alcove with a poet's view. The wide window looked out over a tranquil, winding river that ran behind the property. On the other side of the reflecting water, clusters of sheep and cows surrounded an old vacant farmhouse. This intriguing scene and ruins would eventually inspire a poem as I looked out each morning and evening, and watched the many moods of colour change across this field of rippling green.
Soon after I arrived at Joanne's home, we listened to IONA's newest collection Journey Into The Morn. (I co-wrote two of these songs.) My collaboration with this band coincided with the discovery of my Irish Celtic roots; the experience of participating in a music steeped in the traditions of my ancestors seemed fitting and as captivating as a Celtic knot.
* * *
6
To see this wonder-- which was actually formed about 60 million years ago from a vast volcanic eruption-- we had to walk down a long spiralling road into the heart of the Giant's country. Standing at the bottom of these huge hills and cliffs of green towering behind us, I felt quite miniature. There was that 'other world' feeling. I could not help but think of BBC's video production of C.S. Lewis' Silver Chair from his Narnia Chronicles. As I looked around in fascination, I wondered if this wonderland inspired any of the Belfast native's profound, magical stories.
On another unpredictable Irish day, we journeyed southeast towards Carnmoney, the home of my ancestors, en route to Belfast. Along the way, we stopped at Antrim Castle Gardens, situated on a beautiful 37-acre site adjacent to the Sixmilewater River (yes, it's all one word!). This atmospheric three century old Anglo-Dutch water garden is one of the earliest of its kind in the British Isles. As we strolled beneath a vast umbrella of various tree branches (more kinds than I have ever seen in one place), I felt lost in the music of many songbirds. Wandering to the edge of the garden, we came upon a very serene setting of quiet beauty--an old stone bridge reflecting in the clear, still water.
8
As I looked out over the grey lough from one of the turrets and watched tall ships with white sails full of brisk spring winds heading into harbour, I could not help but think of all the wars that had been fought on these shores and all the blood that had been spilled upon these stones now washed by the rain and passage of time.
Leaving this nostalgic setting, and the drizzle that hovered over the area, we moved on to Belfast city and clearer skies. Northern Ireland's capital, ringed by high hills, sea lough and river valley, has been called by one writer, a "Hibernian Rio". An industrial centre with the world's largest dry docks, Belfast reminded me of Saint John's shipbuilding and seaport atmosphere.
As we wandered through downtown visiting various shops and admiring the Victorian and Edwardian architecture (some familiar to Saint John), I found it hard to believe that this was the dreaded city of bombs and bomb scares. Here in this small-city atmosphere that seemed less hectic than Saint John's was the same friendliness I found everywhere in Northern Ireland.
Joanne explained that life appears normal in Belfast after six months of peace. At the height of the Troubles, the city was filled with checkpoints and a highly visible army, with soldiers in combat gear patrolling the streets.
10
For a while, we just walked up and down the main street taking a few photographs. One thing I noticed about this little village was how neatly it was cradled between two hills. And as I stood on the street looking in both directions at the deep green fields rolling into the horizon, I thought about my ancestors at one time wandering around this pastoral area. And I wondered, how much did this tiny village and its surroundings change? What did they see as they looked out upon the hills each day? What was in their hearts as they laboured long hours in their fields? I would have loved to have gone back in time and stood beside them and talked to them about their struggles, hopes and dreams. I would have looked into their eyes, upon their faces, observed their mannerisms, their personality traits and tried to see something of myself in them. Were they lovers of horses, nature, learning, books, music and poetry? I could only answer these questions by looking within myself. I could only believe that fragments of their lives are still inside of me. For surely, who I am was who they were.
And standing there, as an emigrant offspring on this warm Irish day, I wondered how my ancestors felt the last time they gazed upon Carnmoney, their birthplace. When they settled in Pennfield, New Brunswick (which is as close to the shore as their former home was from Belfast Lough), did they ever have moments when they missed their little Irish village, their friends and families, or wished they had never come? They left behind established farmland, a civilized world; set sail on a ship that crossed the turbulent Atlantic Sea, only to come to an even more difficult life, an even more primitive dwelling.
13
Although we enjoyed scouting the area, we wanted to see some records which would provide more information. This particular church had been built after my family left but there was an old foundation in the middle of the cemetery that looked like it must have been a former dwelling. I wondered if the present church had possession of the older records or would such early information be in a local archive system.
We were spotted by the sexton (caretaker) who lived on the side of the hill nearby. We told him why we were wandering around the premises. He was most kind and took us into the church, although it was "tea" time, chatting excitedly in a very thick Belfast accent. When he paused for a breath, we were able to learn that the foundation we spotted outside was, in fact, this denomination's earlier dwelling, but he did not have its records.
As we spoke, he began expressing the views of his generation: "People from Canada and Europe wonder why Irish Protestants consider themselves British. We were brought up British-- 110%. Then looking at Joanne, he said: "Your generation probably feels a wee bit differently, but we learned British History: Nelson, the Battle of Trafalgar, British victory over the French on the Plains of Abraham in Quebec...
"The only Irish cultural activity we learned was a few Irish songs in school-- Bobby Short Gone To Sea and what was that other one? We were brought up 110% British. People scold me for saying it, but it's in your very blood stream; if you know what I mean."
While listening to this man, we scanned the registry of names in the present church and found a few Speers among them. Then we took a quick view of the sanctuary and I thought there was much about this building that reminded me of our older Anglican churches at home. But one of the things that stood out as pure Irish was the wondrous display of banners and draperies of the famous Book of Kells.
15
On a leisurely Sunday afternoon, we made our way to Binevenagh plateau, in County Derry where there was a lofty view of Magiligan's Point and Donegal. The atmosphere was moody in the ever-changing light, wind, and cloud. As I looked out across the cliffs of Donegal, I thought of St.Columba.
IONA, the band, has written much about St. Columba and his accomplishments. He was born at Gartan, in County Donegal in 521 and set up his first monastery in Derry in 548, and another in 552 at Durrow, County Offaly, which became famous for the Celtic artistry of its illuminated manuscripts.
The story goes that his mother was assured by an angel that "she would bear a son of great beauty who would be remembered among the Lord's prophets." Indeed, he has been remembered for many things but particularly the monastery he set up on the Scottish Isle of Iona (from which the band derived its name). This spiritual haven in the north had a profound influence on the Celtic Church as a whole and on the spread of Christianity in Scotland and Northern England.
For IONA's newest album, Joanne has written a beautiful song called Irish Day that not only reflects the typical physical characteristics of Ireland (with its white sands and constantly changing skies) but also its spiritual history. In this song she makes reference to the brave Irish son, St. Columba:
Sand as white as snow
swirls like smoke around my feet
And a sky that turns in a moment
From blue to grey
All these things I see
On an Irish Day
It is here that time has granted
That the light should still burn on
It was here a seed was planted
In the brave heart of an Irish son
Here before my time
Walked men of faith and truth
In a land that was dark
They followed the Way
Bringing sweet light
On an Irish Day
Here I kneel upon this ground
Love can heal when Truth is found
(Lyrics printed by permission)
My final day, and 3:00 am, came all too soon. We sleepily loaded my baggage and ourselves into the car. I took one last look at this wonderful haven where I had spent one of the most enriching weeks of my life.
We motored through the dark, virtually alone on the highway, seeing only a policeman (the only one I ever saw) parked on the side of the road. Soon we were pulling up to the Belfast airport which, to my surprise, was bustling with many travellers at this early hour.
After I got my baggage checked in, Joanne and I went to a nearby lounge. Sitting there, we found it hard to believe that the week was really over. But although there was a sense of sadness, there was a feeling of fulfilment; a kind of rightness that is felt when something happens that you know is meant to be.
When the final flight call was given, it was an emotional moment between two sisters who did not want to say goodbye. I will never forget how I felt as I uttered those last words and headed for the terminal. As I left with Joanne's tears on my jacket and her song Irish Day in my heart, I knew I would never be the same again.
Poems by Cindy L Spear with feature “Singing the Songs of Ireland”
View From A Window
Across the river
that quickly changes
from a silver ripple
to mirrored glass,
an old farmhouse stands,
unattended-- in a poise of ruin.
Here, sheep and cows gather
to feast and shelter
within its fragmented walls--
while broken stone and glass
lie open to the tilting arc
of the sun.
These remnants speak
of a time long in the past—
when the copper kettle sang
over the deep hearth fire,
and freshly baked potato bread,
mingled with sweet whipped butter.
When ripe red strawberries--
covered in light sugar snow,
glistened in the honey sunlight
that poured through the tall
kitchen window.
Outside, children's laughter--
braids and caps
bobbing through the green:
the warmth and joy
of summer in their eyes
as they chased
their butterfly dreams...
Now, the sun is gone--
the evening passes--
voices only linger in the wind
and through the grasses;
the kitchen shelves are empty,
the hearth fire's flame has died
and all that's left are shadows--
silhouettes against a charcoal sky.
Famine Irish (Partridge Island, Saint John, N.B.)
There's crying on the shore
and across the waves
outside the port;
I can taste the salt of tears
in the ocean of our dead.
Horrid pits
beneath the sails:
close, suffocating air;
pain racked bodies stretched
across the ship's bare frame.
I swim out
against the tide
to save the drowning sick
but famine swallows quickly--
I wonder, is there time?
Sweat pours from my brow
as my small hands
try to heal:
the balm of light is fading--
the hour of darkness nears.
Vain efforts turn the sod--
grief litters
the cold damp earth:
this island of refuge
becomes an asylum of fear...
Above the many mounds
a white cross
clings to fog--
guarding the bitter loss,
the broken hope.
Feature article, photos, poems by Cindy L Spear, copyright 1996, (except Iona & Joanne Hogg). The New Brunswick Reader.
1
On my last day of sight-seeing in Ireland, my friend Joanne Hogg took me to her favourite spot on the Antrim coast. We drove over a narrow, winding, dirt road through loose running sheep and cows, and reached Murlough Bay only to be swept around by brisk winds that lured in masses of rain clouds. But as the disruptive weather drifted in and out (as it does so quickly in Ireland), I was able to see the beauty of this unspoiled refuge. Standing on the head, above the bay, I remembered a verse from a song Joanne had written on one of her many visits to this area.
“Here is a place you could write
or paint pictures
And dream that the troubles will end
Here is a place where we join our hands
In a love we defend”
3
In spite of (or because of) war, famine, mass emigration, religious and political upheaval, Ireland has been a source of creative expression and a wellspring for the Romantic spirit. This has not only been visible in its art, music, and literature, but also in its historical accounts which were often laced with legend. The weaving of these two elements seem natural to a culture whose tragic and triumphant past is never very far from sight. For everywhere you look, you see powerful reminders in the huge stone tables, ring forts, standing stones with primitive ogham script, high Celtic crosses and round towers, crumbling monasteries and castle ruins.
My return to Ireland was the beginning of the search for who I am; the fragments of my family' s history are inside me....
* * *
5
After a restful nine-hour sleep, we headed for the Giant's Causeway. The weather was not co-operating but we managed to dodge the showers and take a quick tour of this geological wonder-- an astonishing complex of 40,000 basalt columns (some 40 feet high) packed together whose tops form stepping stones that lead from the cliff foot and disappear under the sea.
Legend has it that an Irish giant Finn MacCool, the Ulster Warrior and commander of the king of Ireland's armies, had a hand in creating these six-sided (some 4, 5, 7 and 8) stone columns. When he fell in love with a lady giant on Staffa, an island in the Hebrides, (where these strange columns reappear) he built this wide commodious highway to bring her across to Ulster.
7
After our mid-morning stroll, we began our search for Carnmoney. Unfortunately, it was not an easy place to find. We came upon a sign which read, Welcome to Carnmoney Village, and drove in the arrow's direction only to find ourselves in the middle of a modern subdivision. This was a little disappointing, to say the least, but Joanne felt that an older part of the village must be in the vicinity. On our way through, we had noticed another sign marked Carnmoney Road. But rather than turn around just then, we decided to continue towards Belfast and return later.
Since we didn't know how well the weather would hold out, we decided to take a tour of Carrickfergus, castle on the sea, just northeast of Belfast. The contrast of seeing this 12th century castle against a backdrop of modern buildings created quite an interesting effect. This beautifully preserved keep guarding the entrance to Belfast Lough is considered to be the best Norman castle of Ireland (some say the first Irish castle) built by John de Courcy in 1180 after his invasion of Ulster.
9
Since it was getting late in the afternoon, we decided to leave Belfast and head north east for Carnmoney again, to see if we could find an older part of the village. To our delight, as we drove down Carnmoney Road, we found what we were looking for: a narrow street lined with quaint stone row houses and village shops. We pulled into a fairly old Presbyterian Church parking lot surrounded by a stone wall and wandered around the premises. We thought we might find the vicar and check some church records but unfortunately he was out and the doors were locked.
11
Meanwhile, I was looking for another church, besides the Presbyterian one we saw upon arrival, that might house some information. We found a very old run-down building that looked like a one-room schoolhouse. On the outside was a sign that read Carnmoney Youth Centre. The door was ajar. We peaked inside and found a gentleman whistling while filling a refrigerator with juices and soft drinks. We timidly interrupted his business and asked if he knew of any other Protestant churches in the village. He directed us to one, we thanked him, and set off to find it.
12
We found Carnmoney Parish Church, (Church of Ireland-- which is an Irish branch of the Anglican faith) a very stately stone church built in 1840, tucked in a haven of boughs on three sides. We walked through some very overgrown paths in the four- level cemetery, looking for the name Spear. There was one but it was spelled "Speer." While in the Information Centre at the Giant's Causeway, I had found a text called The Book of Ulster Names published by the heritage group and found Spear listed as a very old Ulster name. There was a note stating it was also spelled Speer, Speers and even Speir. Out of curiosity, I also looked in the phone book to see if our name was still present and there were still numerous listings in all its various spellings.
14
We thanked the sexton for his help and let him return to his evening meal. I was able to leave with a picture of Carnmoney in my mind (and in my camera) and a sense of the old village along side of the new. This quiet place was not just a name on the map, anymore: it had a face and it had a piece of my heart.
***
“Here—
where the beauty of Spirit
still touches the heart
and bends the knee.”
“Some invisible thread
pulls me into your tapestry
where smears of red on green
and wandering lines depart, yet meet again…”
“When New Brunswick poet Cindy Spear travelled to the home of her ancestors, she discovered fragments of herself.”
“I knew I would never be
the same again.”
Longing
Somewhere
between rainbows
and empty stretches of water--
this longing lingers
for those brief days
on the island...
Looking out across
the Bay of Fundy,
I do not see this land's
bristled profile in the twilight,
or hear the surging waves
that shape this younger shore.
Rather,
I see the brilliant fanfare
of emerald glens
and chalk-white cliffs
rising to castle heights;
and hear choirs of birds
above the clatter
of hooves on stone.
And as night comes--
I try hard to listen
for the sounds,
close, in the dark
but only hear the whisper
of the distant lough--
calling me back
to the place of my heart.
Irish Moments
Now, on another shore--
I watch dawn break
in a gentle rapture.
I press my face
into a sweater
that still houses
the scent
of Irish fields
and Portna House.
A warm treasury
of memory -- loosens:
I see tall waving grasses
blazoned with yellow,
mist-covered mountains
enhancing horizons--
And on the brow
of a lonely hill,
a chestnut steed
lifting his regal head
to the soft call
of his mistress.
“Sleeping walking
into your dream,
I see the many wounds
upon your land—
this land where once
my forefathers and others
carried a candle
in the dark for you...”