| It sounded like fun, so I agreed, and eight months later I found myself cruising through the Irish countryside with 40 delightful people in a comfortable new bus, driven by an incredibly entertaining and knowledgeable guide, who managed to squeeze us through tiny winding lanes exactly one bus width and 3 inches wide, while all the while nonchalantly telling us about things like the true nature of Leprechauns, and more somber topics, like the history of the oppression of the Irish people. The 40 people included many of my immediate and extended family members, some friends and fans of my music, and lots of neighbors from my peninsula here in Maine. We never really advertised the tour. The group of travelers seemed to somehow form itself, and off we went. |
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We saw some of the classic sights, of course--the Cliffs of Moher, the Guinness Factory, the legendary green hills dotted with sheep and wreathed in mist. But we also had the great pleasure of being able to visit the two tiny towns where my parents’ families lived. It was quite a moving experience to stroll down the little streets with my family, knowing that my ancestors, of whom I know almost nothing, had lived out their lives, often unimaginably difficult lives, surrounded by the same buildings and sights that I was now looking on. And when I played my concerts, I felt many feelings I had never experienced before.  They were unique, not only because of this new and intense connection to my heritage, but also because I could express these feelings to my clan members, who were all in the concert hall, and sharing the feelings too. I remember, during some improvised sections of the concert, playing snippets and quotes from songs that had become part of our family lore over the years--my father’s favorite waltz, or little phrases that my mother liked to hum. My siblings and cousins recognized them immediately, of course, and we all felt the deep stirrings of the past as the music rolled along. |
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| We stayed in hotels in Dublin and a castle in County Cavan. We ate stew and Colcannon and black sausages and white sausages and drank mead and Guinness and Paddy’s. We listened to fiddlers in pubs and met long-lost cousins and laughed for hours as we looked out on the rolling countryside and listened to the outrageously entertaining narratives of our driver. At one point in the proceedings, one of us (my old college roommate, in fact—an old Irishman named Quinn) dubbed the tour “The Rolling Blarney Revue”, and I don’t think it could be described any better. We spent a week and a half under the very palpable spell of the Enchanted Isle, and I have a feeling we will all be going back. Would you like to join us? |
Grave in Sullivan ancestral church yard |
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