So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Isaac Scott from Banagh, he lived just across the fields
A great man for the music, the dancing and the reels
McDonald came from South Armagh to court young Alice fair
And we often met on the Ryan Road and laughter filled the air
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
Now Isaac he was Protestant and Sean was Catholic born
But it never made a difference, for the friendship it was strong
And sometimes in the evening when we heard the sound of drums
We said it won't divide us, we always will be one
For the ground our fathers plowed in, the soil it is the same
And the places where we say our prayers have just got different names
We talked about the friends who'd died and hoped there'd be no more
It was little then we realized the tragedy in store
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
It was on a Sunday morning when the awful news came round
Another killing had been done just outside Newry Town
We knew that Isaac danced up there, we knew he liked the band
But when we heard that he was dead we just could not understand
We gathered round the graveside on a cold and rainy day
The minister he closed his eyes and for no revenge he prayed
And all of us who knew him from along the Ryan Road
We bowed our heads and said a prayer for the resting of his soul
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
Now fear it filled the countryside there was fear in every home
When late at night a car came prowling round the Ryan Road
A Catholic would be killed tonight to even up the score
Oh Christ it's young McDonald they've taken from the door
Isaac was my friend! he cried, he begged them with his tears
But centuries of hatred have ears that do not hear
An eye for an eye, it was all that filled their minds
And another eye for another eye till everyone is blind
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Now I don't know where the moral is or where this song should end
But I wonder just how many wars are fought between good friends
And those who give the orders are not the ones to die
It's Scott and McDonald and the likes of you and I
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
-Tommy Sands-
There were only about 40 people in the small bar in Scotland, but when Andy White sang this song, the whole bar echoed with people singing along. Not in shy "i'm at a gig singing along" voices. In loud, sad, solidarity voices that echoed.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
Belfast
I had heard a lot of things about Belfast before I got there. The old man at the Bed and Breakfast in that small town, the girls in Dublin, the students in Cork. They all had their own stories about Belfast, their own versions and rumors of the strange city that was “lost”.
I was criticized, a bit, for not really knowing what I was getting into by going to Belfast. I had been educated about the conflict, as much as any American, and I had an interest in talking to people about it. But all the answers I got were hearsay, because though everyone had an opinion about Belfast, no one had ever actually been there. Read these books, see these films before you go! They told me. You’ll be disgusted. But I didn’t want bias. I wanted to go and see it for myself.
Belfast is a hard and sensitive city. It wears its scars publically. Though at first glance it appears just like any other city: busses, taxis that don’t stop for pedestrians, shops, apartments, old buildings etc. But the past is evident in small details: “unite ireland” in spraypaint on the side of a building, protestant propaganda murals still painted and perfectly intact, British flags flying over the sidewalks- a constant reminder of conflict and conquest. A troubled, tragic city, you can almost still feel the ground pulsing with tension that was only just quelled. I always believed that art, worthwhile art, needs to come out of conflict. It’s all fine to talk about sunshine and happy love etc etc, but the art that moves, quakes and elevates the spirit, that art understands pain. Even something classic and beautiful, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night- I would venture to say that his famous painting wouldn’t have been so beautiful if Van Gogh himself wasn’t so troubled.
It was an interesting time to be in Northern Ireland. Peace talks were finally turning into action. Sudden realization that blowing eachother up was not an effective way of resolving the conflict.
“They’re blowing up the boarder!” Musician/Poet Andy White proclaimed, tuning his guitar “kind of ironic since they spent so much time checking cars at the boarder checkpoint for bombs. But it’s a new ireland- that is to say, they’re building a big massive highway.”
I was criticized, a bit, for not really knowing what I was getting into by going to Belfast. I had been educated about the conflict, as much as any American, and I had an interest in talking to people about it. But all the answers I got were hearsay, because though everyone had an opinion about Belfast, no one had ever actually been there. Read these books, see these films before you go! They told me. You’ll be disgusted. But I didn’t want bias. I wanted to go and see it for myself.
Belfast is a hard and sensitive city. It wears its scars publically. Though at first glance it appears just like any other city: busses, taxis that don’t stop for pedestrians, shops, apartments, old buildings etc. But the past is evident in small details: “unite ireland” in spraypaint on the side of a building, protestant propaganda murals still painted and perfectly intact, British flags flying over the sidewalks- a constant reminder of conflict and conquest. A troubled, tragic city, you can almost still feel the ground pulsing with tension that was only just quelled. I always believed that art, worthwhile art, needs to come out of conflict. It’s all fine to talk about sunshine and happy love etc etc, but the art that moves, quakes and elevates the spirit, that art understands pain. Even something classic and beautiful, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night- I would venture to say that his famous painting wouldn’t have been so beautiful if Van Gogh himself wasn’t so troubled.
It was an interesting time to be in Northern Ireland. Peace talks were finally turning into action. Sudden realization that blowing eachother up was not an effective way of resolving the conflict.
“They’re blowing up the boarder!” Musician/Poet Andy White proclaimed, tuning his guitar “kind of ironic since they spent so much time checking cars at the boarder checkpoint for bombs. But it’s a new ireland- that is to say, they’re building a big massive highway.”
Sunday, May 11, 2008
English?
"Farkin hell that's a rightauolrant!"
"What?"
"A rightauol rant!"
"a rhino rant?"
"No a right auol rant!"
"What's that middle word?"
"auol"
"how do you spell it?"
"A-U-O-L"
"what does that mean?"
" Auol! Do you not understand plain English?!"
Ugh.
"What?"
"A rightauol rant!"
"a rhino rant?"
"No a right auol rant!"
"What's that middle word?"
"auol"
"how do you spell it?"
"A-U-O-L"
"what does that mean?"
" Auol! Do you not understand plain English?!"
Ugh.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Cross-Ireland adventure part 3
When we drove through the mountain crossing, I had a flashback to lord of the rings. You know, the part where they climb that steep mountan ridge and go into the cave where they find gollum. Yeah, that’s where we were.
But soon the road opened up and we pulled in to get some ice cream. I almost dropped the cone, though when I saw the view.
Unbelieveable. Pictures cannot capture it. The mountain,s the grey haziness of the bay, the flat smooth rocks.
After a bit of staring and when we caught our breath, we contineud the drive. There was a big momma sheep and her baby sheep on the road, and we drove slowly around them, I snapping photos the whole way.
We pulled into dingle around early evening and grabbed some delicious fresh fish at a pub. We found a small bed and breakfast by the bay and collapsed into a warm sleep.
The next morning we woke early to the smell of freshly baked bread. Slightly still bleary eyed with sleep, I walked into the breakfast room to find a whole array of delicious hand baked goods and a table of cheery australian women. I poured myself a coffee and sniffed. The smell of good freshly brewed coffee reminded me a bit of home, a bit of icy cold college mornings where I would stumble into Café Opus, flip on my tunes, put muffins in the oven and sip on coffee.
After stuffing myself with the best yummy baked goods I’ve ahd in a long time, I dropped off the keyes and we headed out. Next destination: Sligo.
But the road to Sligo was long, and we decided to stop for dinner just outside of Galway in a smaller town. We were blessed with another gorgeous dday, very not typical of Ireland, as all the shopkeepers would remark. Beautiful beautiful blue sky, the water sparkled a mirrored reflection and boats sailed in the distance.
It was getting late though, and Sligo was far. At about half past 7, we stopped in a small town called Knock. Now, for such an incredibly small town, there certainly was a massive amount of religious paraphanalia in Knock. Apparently, this sleepy town was famous for a beautiful bassilica. We stopped at another bed and breakfast and fell fast asleep.
But soon the road opened up and we pulled in to get some ice cream. I almost dropped the cone, though when I saw the view.
Unbelieveable. Pictures cannot capture it. The mountain,s the grey haziness of the bay, the flat smooth rocks.
After a bit of staring and when we caught our breath, we contineud the drive. There was a big momma sheep and her baby sheep on the road, and we drove slowly around them, I snapping photos the whole way.
We pulled into dingle around early evening and grabbed some delicious fresh fish at a pub. We found a small bed and breakfast by the bay and collapsed into a warm sleep.
The next morning we woke early to the smell of freshly baked bread. Slightly still bleary eyed with sleep, I walked into the breakfast room to find a whole array of delicious hand baked goods and a table of cheery australian women. I poured myself a coffee and sniffed. The smell of good freshly brewed coffee reminded me a bit of home, a bit of icy cold college mornings where I would stumble into Café Opus, flip on my tunes, put muffins in the oven and sip on coffee.
After stuffing myself with the best yummy baked goods I’ve ahd in a long time, I dropped off the keyes and we headed out. Next destination: Sligo.
But the road to Sligo was long, and we decided to stop for dinner just outside of Galway in a smaller town. We were blessed with another gorgeous dday, very not typical of Ireland, as all the shopkeepers would remark. Beautiful beautiful blue sky, the water sparkled a mirrored reflection and boats sailed in the distance.
It was getting late though, and Sligo was far. At about half past 7, we stopped in a small town called Knock. Now, for such an incredibly small town, there certainly was a massive amount of religious paraphanalia in Knock. Apparently, this sleepy town was famous for a beautiful bassilica. We stopped at another bed and breakfast and fell fast asleep.
Cross-Ireland adventure part 2
When we arrived in Blarney, the crowds were absurd. After driving around in circles, PJ pulled out of the parkinglot and began driving to the next town. In response to my protests he replied cooly “Do you really want to spend 3 hours waiting in line to see a rock?”
Good point.
But where were we headed next? We were headed west, the sky cleared and the grass was so green so green. We were lost, of course, and I scrambled frantically for the map.
“Wait wait what town is this? We should see N 22 somewhere. Whoever designed the roads in Ireland must’ve been drunk.”
I quieted down when we pulled over a narrow stone bridge which lead us over the River Lee.
After a bit of aimless wandering on country back roads, we eventually pulled on the 22 and found a sweet town called Killarney. The town was brightly colored and for some reason was reminiscent of Lisboa for me.
“Let’s drive up the coast tomorrow.” Said PJ.
And so we did.
Good point.
But where were we headed next? We were headed west, the sky cleared and the grass was so green so green. We were lost, of course, and I scrambled frantically for the map.
“Wait wait what town is this? We should see N 22 somewhere. Whoever designed the roads in Ireland must’ve been drunk.”
I quieted down when we pulled over a narrow stone bridge which lead us over the River Lee.
After a bit of aimless wandering on country back roads, we eventually pulled on the 22 and found a sweet town called Killarney. The town was brightly colored and for some reason was reminiscent of Lisboa for me.
“Let’s drive up the coast tomorrow.” Said PJ.
And so we did.
Cross-Ireland Adventure Part 1
I didn’t think he’d agree to it. But for some reason, he did. And I was happy. So we piled into the car with all our things: 2 small backpacks, and my orange rolly suitcase and hit the road to Cork.
The way was long and scenic, the usual sights you would expect from Ireland: sheep, cattle, churches, small towns with brightly colored facades. It was beautiful in Dublin, but the farther south we went, the more grey the skies grew.
I had heard mixed reviews of Cork, but considering I had only spent my time in other main cities (namely Dublin and Galway) I wrote off the reviews as intra-city rivalry.
We pulled into a grey, rainy Cork and found our hosts waiting for us in a lovely little yellow town house. We presented them with wine, guitar music and poetry, chowed down on indian food and- bellies full and minds at ease, fell into a warm and cozy sleep.
The next morning I woke up famished. The rare ireland morning sunlight poured through the windows and roused the grumbling in my stomach. It must’ve had the same effect on everyone else because within the hour we were up and dressed and headed in search of a “real” irish breakfast. Now, I know the jokes we all make about irish food (namely: drink the beer) but man they know breakfast.
After a sheepish departure from our hosts, we went in search of our hotel. Something else that is good and glorious about Ireland: Bank Holidays. Meaning that the first Monday of every month is a holiday because the banks are closed.
I vote that we instate this in the US.
The downside to the Bank holiday of course is if you happen to be traveling during one of them. Traffic is awful, and all the hotels, bed and breakfasts, hostels and even (sniffle) couch surfing hosts are booked. But lucky for us, we scored a reservation ina cute little hotel that reminded me strangely of boarding school.
I curled up with my laptop, Die Hard playing on the television in the background and we planned our trip to Blarney.
The way was long and scenic, the usual sights you would expect from Ireland: sheep, cattle, churches, small towns with brightly colored facades. It was beautiful in Dublin, but the farther south we went, the more grey the skies grew.
I had heard mixed reviews of Cork, but considering I had only spent my time in other main cities (namely Dublin and Galway) I wrote off the reviews as intra-city rivalry.
We pulled into a grey, rainy Cork and found our hosts waiting for us in a lovely little yellow town house. We presented them with wine, guitar music and poetry, chowed down on indian food and- bellies full and minds at ease, fell into a warm and cozy sleep.
The next morning I woke up famished. The rare ireland morning sunlight poured through the windows and roused the grumbling in my stomach. It must’ve had the same effect on everyone else because within the hour we were up and dressed and headed in search of a “real” irish breakfast. Now, I know the jokes we all make about irish food (namely: drink the beer) but man they know breakfast.
After a sheepish departure from our hosts, we went in search of our hotel. Something else that is good and glorious about Ireland: Bank Holidays. Meaning that the first Monday of every month is a holiday because the banks are closed.
I vote that we instate this in the US.
The downside to the Bank holiday of course is if you happen to be traveling during one of them. Traffic is awful, and all the hotels, bed and breakfasts, hostels and even (sniffle) couch surfing hosts are booked. But lucky for us, we scored a reservation ina cute little hotel that reminded me strangely of boarding school.
I curled up with my laptop, Die Hard playing on the television in the background and we planned our trip to Blarney.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Another reason to love Ireland
Today I found out that all artists, musicians and writers living in Ireland are exempt from taxes.
This is a wonderful land.
:)
This is a wonderful land.
:)
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