The Ireland Dispatches

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I'm sitting on causeway that divides Galway Bay from Auginish Bay. There's a cuckoo calling in the distance, doing an excellent imitation of a clock. It's a soft day, a subtle changing gray lid on the land, the edges of the stratus barely discernable into lighter and darker amorphous shapes. The hills of the Burren resemble a more dense state of the same matter that forms the sky now. The tide is out, there is a Grey Heron and a few Oystercatchers hunting on the rocks.

I have accordians in my head. Charlie Piggott playing in a smooth, slow manner, you can hear all the inbetween places in the tunes. Martin Quinn in a contrasting athletic, bouncy, energetic mode. He and Harry Bradley and two other flute players gave a violent, windy feel to the tunes. It's the first time I'd heard flutes actually overpower an accordian. I'm in the land of accordians and melodians and concertinas, their differing qualities are all rolling about in my brain. Robin doesn't know this yet, but I've been making inquiries about how steep the learning curve is on a concertina. "Oh, about 5 months," says my friend Patricia from Mullaugh. " I can play hornpipes and jigs and reels now, though not to speed. If you have the music in you, you can do it."

"Want a cigarette?" "No thanks, but I'm thinking of taking it up as a defensive measure," I answer. The occupational hazard of this line of work is that I might be taking a year off my life with every visit here. Harry plays with a cig pressed between his lips and the flute. He yells to me, "You can take my picture if you put me in the show next year!" It's been great being a known figure for the fleadh, I'm able to insert myself into the heart of the sessions, squirming into a corner to shoot beneath the flute player towards the accordianist and fiddler. People I shot last year stop me on the street, amazed that I sent them photos and thanking me for them. I feel included in this world.

March 2000

Kinvara, Co. Galway