The other day I spent the morning in front of O’Donovan’s Hotel in Clonakilty begging change to support Amnesty International. I was surprised by the randomness of generosity. A young woman who looked in need herself gave 5 Euros, a seedy looking old man stopped and rummaged in his wallet to make a contribution. Smiling, he shuffled off into the Pearce Street crowd. People were sweet, stopping and talking about human rights, world hunger, and prisoners of conscience. They were more sad than indignant or judgmental. I felt spiritually nourished; some of their goodness infused me.
One of the volunteers, Beth, is an American teaching in Prague, Czechoslovakia. She was on vacation with two friends. That night I met the same three friends on the village square where I was listening to an Irish band perform Irish and American folk music; Janis Joplin finding her way into the Traditional Irish lexicon. They invited me to join them in O’Brien’s for a jar. Rather than decline with a speech about Buddhist abstinence, I went along. The pub scene was humorous because there was a crowd and live band in there too. At least three of us have hearing problems, so we shouted and laughed about the perils of what is euphemistically called “maturity.” I had a very good time, enjoyed my pint, but woke the next day feeling vaguely diminished. Even in good company intoxicants aren’t worth the bother.
Beth’s professional website, www.beth-lazroe, hits a harmonic chord with me. She presents a photo study and accompanying essay about hyper-sexualized street advertizing in Prague. Her complaint was mine in Paris. Innocent pedestrians are indiscriminately assaulted daily; constantly presented with glossy, overblown imagery of essentially nude models accessorized to suggest bondage or other degradation. We’re sleaze attacked whenever we venture outside our doors. Commercial “speech” is a race into the abyss and Beth’s website takes serious issue with this. So do I. The Irish don’t take free speech that far and I’m glad.
In Clonakilty I stopped at The Children’s Project, a thrift store, to shop for a book. When I came out, two men were admiring Ms. Raleigh. They asked knowledgeable questions and complimented her beauty and spare functionality. That made Ms. Raleigh’s day. She rolled home very full or herself and frisky. Sometimes I think Shinto has a point; there is sprit within all things.
On the way home I noticed an alcoholic sitting on a forlorn bench at a viewpoint on Clonakilty Bay. He drinks in solitude, a lonely drunk surrounded by every earthly beauty. I wondered if there is a way to reach out to him. I thought of two old friends’ drunken deaths. West Cork feels like paradise to me, yet for him it’s hell.
If tears could build a stairway
And memories make a lane,
I’d walk right down to Hades
And bring you back again.
It’s doggerel, I know, but the verse comes to me when I think of friends' lives lost to substance abuse.
The Rosscarbery Festival’s adult feature that night was a walking tour of the village. We visited the Anglican Cathedral, the Catholic Church, both “Saint Fachtna’s”, the ruin of the ancient abbey, and the tombs of Irish patriots O’Donovan Rossa and Michael Collins. Rossa’s is overgrown and hidden beneath ivy and bracken. Also on the tour were Rossa’s birthplace, a house where Tom Barry once lived, and the R.I.C. Barracks, site of a famous IRA assault in the War of Independence. Rosscarbery is rich in revolutionary history; the stories still fresh enough that our guide, an older man, embellished them with local recollections and genealogy. His references to the R.I.C. were without rancor, but the atrocities of the Black & Tans still roused anger. He knew the names and families of the victims of the Black & Tan reprisal for the barracks attack - a Black & Tan tossed a bomb into the Festival Day crowd, indiscriminately killing and maiming civilian non-combatants. Our tour ended with an IRA daring escape story which had taken place in the alley just behind the village square.
On the square a live band was playing kids’ music to an enthusiastic crowd of dancers and wannadancers. The young people looked fresh and more wholesome than they’d probably like to know. I watched for awhile, and then went home to sleep. Obla di, obla dah.
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