Macalla Chill Áirne (The Killarney Echo) | Short Film, 2021

 

Macalla Chill Áirne, as well as being a recreation of the Victorian era tour of Killarney, culminating in a musical performance by the Eagle's Nest mountain, also echos conflict and delves into the chasms that appear when cultures clash. 

We launched our film on Youtube on April 16th after an eventful festival run. Macalla has played at the Chicago Irish Film Festival (where it was nominated for the Consulate of Ireland Award), the Kerry Film Festival, the Chicago Arthouse Film Festival, the Muestra Intergaláctica Film Festival (in Saltillo, Mexico), the Long Story Shorts Festival in Romania and the Calcutta Cult Film Festival (where it was awarded best short film).

Except for one ever generous and gracious American supporter, who contributed one thousand five hundred euro, the film had no backing or grants of any kind. We applied to the Kerry County Council Short Film Bursary, had no luck, but endeavored to make the film somehow, by hook or by crook. 

Heres some other blogposts regarding previous interactions with the wild echoes of the Eagle's Nest.

http://ildaite.blogspot.com/2016/10/the-killarney-echo.html http://ildaite.blogspot.com/2021/01/macalla-chill-airne.html

Macalla Chill Áirne, Soundtrack Release

 

"Macalla Chill Áirne" (The Killarney Echo) is the latest release of Trouble or Fortune films/records. A beast of a short film to make, it was tamed with the help of many hands. The soundtrack to "Macalla" was released into the wild a few weeks back, it is available to purchase at charlieobrien.net for five euro. I'm giving access to the film itself until Thursday the 26th of August, with every purchase of the soundtrack. 

On the surface, Macalla Chill Áirne is a recreation of the Victorian era tour of Killarney's lakes, focusing on the phenomenon of the Killarney Echo. In another way, it is a political allegory that delves into the chasms that appear when cultures collide. The soundtrack contains a new imagining of the classic Irish Gaelic song ¨Fáinne Geal an Lae.¨ ¨Ochón a Leanbh,¨ an ancient lament for a dead child, another track, is set here for trumpet and french horn. The other tracks serve as a bed on which to set the visuals flying.

¨Blow bugle blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow bugle answer echoes dying, dying, dying.¨

Fáinne Geal an Lae

This setting of "Fáinne Geal an Lae" is a collaboration between myself and performance poet Séamus Barra Ó Súilleabháin. Séamus is foregoing his slam poetry roots for a more traditional sound in this single. "Fáinne Geal an Lae" opens “Macalla Chill Áirne” - a short film we'll be releasing this summer. The film is a recreation of the Victorian era tour through Killarney's lakes, and Séamus is the main actor there-in. On film, Séamus sings while rowing on Lough Leane (the lake that inspired the song centuries ago). This version of the song was recorded at Trouble or Fortune Studios on High St. a couple of months ago. The post production of the film is being wrapped up as we speak. This single release is a teaser for the music and sound inspired film to come. "Fáinne Geal an Lae" was first published in a book of Irish folk song by Edward Walsh in the 1830's. A previous song with the same name appears in the repertoire of the brothers Connellan in the 17th century. I'm playing harmonium and synths on this track, Séamus is on vocals.

Macalla Chill Áirne

"Macalla Chill Áirne" is a recreation of the Victorian tour of Killarney's lakes using the phenomenon of "The Killarney Echo" as a spine to hang the rest of the meat of the film on. In March of last year I applied for a grant for this short film from the Kerry County Council. I had no luck with the grant but resolved to get the project off the ground by hook or by crook. The summer was spent preparing the crew of twenty two for two days filming in early autumn on the lakes of Killarney.

The premise of "Macalla Chill Áirne" goes like this-there are six people aboard a boat, two boatmen speak Irish, two women English, two more or less mute musicians are also aboard. One of the boatmen's brothers is on the run from the police, one of the ladies has lost her wedding ring. On the surface, the film is a recreation of the Victorian visitor's trip through Killarney's lakes. Digging deeper, the film concerns the clash of Irish and English cultures. In a way, its like two galaxies colliding, they swirl around each other, don't even communicate until they become one (its thought that star systems are largely unaffected by Galactic collisions!). The film echoes some of the colonial experience, how the colonised are forced to live in two worlds, many times forsaking their own culture for the supplanted one, how the coloniser is seldom wont to engage with the native culture.

Looking at Ireland in the present, Irish people are infinitely more aware of British culture and happenings that British people are of Irish culture. When it comes to anything Gaelic, for most English it may as well be (to take that galactic references a step further) Klingon or Martian culture-a dim fairyland of fantasy.  On film the two cultures don't interact-the two boat men have their language and preoccupations, the two ladies theirs, and never the twain should meet. The musicians are like a conduit between the cultures, they herald out the old and in the new, they ape the customs of the colonial cohorts while sounding an Irish lament. The lament doesn't last long 'til it is (as the poet Eoghan Rua said) "blasted by the bloom of England's Rose." The roar of a cannon signals the end of music. The cataclysm of the great famine is echoed at throughout the short film. Though it isn't immediately obviously, our foresight as the audience of this future calamity hangs heavy on the proceedings. The film is set in 1837, a few short years before Ireland will be changed utterly.

Seán Ó Garbhí played the part of the older boatman Diarmuid, Séamus Barra Ó Súilleabháin played the lead role of Partlán. Seán is a powerful sean nós singer, Séamus is rap-poet that is as much at home in the tradition of 18th century Gaelic poets like Eoghan Rua Ó Súilleabháin as modern slam and rap poetry. In the image above we see Partlán converses with Diarmuid as "The Eagle's Nest" mountain looms in the distance.

The music used for the echo was an arrangement I wrote (for French horn and trumpet) of this beautiful caoineadh (Irish lament).  I went into a-lot of the historical detail of the echo in this previous blogpost. These descriptions of the echo at the cliffs of the Eagle's Nest use large dollops of hyperbole.  A cannon was fired in times pasts, it was set off after the final echoes of music subsided to rupture the silence with heart pumping sound. The following extract detailing that cannon fire is from an 1834 "Guide to Killarney and Glengariff" by George Newenham Wright.

"It is from this sublime and stupendous rock the sound is returned in so miraculous a manner, that it is considered one of the most singular phenomena in existence. A small hillock on the opposite side of the river, usually called the "Station for Audience," is used as the resting place of a paterara, which is carried in the boat from Killarney: the gunner is placed on one side of the hillock and the auditor on the other, and upon the discharge of the piece, a roaring is heard in the bosom of the opposite mountain, like a peal of thunder, or the discharge of a train of artillery, and this echo is multiplied a number of times, after which it gradually fades away like the rolling of distant thunder. The exact residence of the eagle may be distinguished by a black mark near the vertex of the rock, and the noble inhabitant is frequently seen soaring above the heads of passengers on the river, and directing their admiring gaze towards his inaccessible retreat. The sound of a musical instrument produces reverberations of quite a different character from that of the musket or small cannon. The only instrument that can be procured at Killarney is a bugle, which is peculiarly appropriate for the production of echoes."

The image above is of Sean Looney (co-producer) on one of our many expeditions to the Eagle's Nest in search of its echos. Macalla Chill Áirne will be released in the summer of 2021.

Wine Dark Sea, In Wild Profusion, Creamh na Coille

Wild garlic season is just finishing up in Ireland, and as a farewell to Erin's green shore it blossoms profusely in white flowerings throughout the land. Thanks to this wonderful plant I've eaten a-lot of beautiful wild garlic pesto and wild garlic soup the last couple of months, as well as going on some lovely walks in the woods! On one of said walks, I made this music video for "The Wine Dark Sea," an extra track from "Hy Brasil, Songs of the Irish in Latin America." I've released the song as a pay as you please single on Bandcamp.

Wild garlic (creamh in Irish) has been known for its curative properties for millennia. In Ireland it was known particularly for treatment of fevers. Creamh has illustrious and wildly expansive Indo-European roots. In Russian it is called ceremsa, krémuon in Greek, In old Irish it was crem and in middle Irish crim. It was used as a flavouring for butter in Gaelic times and every year there was a garlic festival. This part of the year was called Crimmess (Crim feis) meaning, literally, garlic festival. The word is found in place-names across the country, for example, Achadh Creamhchoille (Aghacramphill) in Fermanagh, Gleann Creamha (Glencrew) in Tyrone, and Inis Creamha on Loch Coirb in Galway. Wild garlic is associated with bitterness too, and the 17th century harper, Tadgh Rua Ó Conchuair, described a fellow musician's bad playing as like seirbhe an creamha "the bitterness of wild garlic."

Faghairt caorthainn ar a chrobh,
'na ladhraibh do leagh an creamh,
sás marbh do mhosgladh a huaigh
cosgradh cruiadh na n-arm n-amh.

A fiery tempered blade in his talons
As claws fumbling with wild garlic
A terror ensnared on his tomb
awful mangling, butchering raw his weapon

Another interesting aside regarding garlic comes in what was called "Garlic Sunday." Garland's are associated with festivals in general in the English tradition, and according to the book "The Festival of Lughnasa" the English settlers in Ireland brought this term to Ireland and the Irish in turn translated it to "Garlic Sunday." The Irish language festival on this day (the last Sunday of July) was Domhnach Crom Dubh. Cruach Dubh (Crom Dubh) was the pre-Christian fertility God of Ireland who continued to be celebrated (often unbeknownst to the worshippers/merrymakers) until the modern era. In Lahinch in County Clare it was a religious festival and general mad melee until at least the 1920's. Loch Uachtar in Cavan also had a similar festival that died out too in the early 20th century. The book the "The Festival of Lughnasa" says "the gathering there was very large and people came to it from long distances if the day was fine."

Garlic was found in Egyptian tombs dating from the 18th century B.C. and wild garlic adorns the lifestyle supplements of our daily papers in our own era each season, here is a recipe I made my own from one such publication. I read that wild garlic can be substituted or supplemented with nettle, another fine local ingredient to try out.

Wild Garlic Pesto

100 g fresh wild garlic leaves
30 g pine nuts
200 ml rapeseed oil
30 g grated, parmigiano-reggiano

20g Gubeen Cheese (or Coolea Cheese or mature Desmond)
black pepper and sea salt

Bibliography

Díolaim Luibheanna
Nicholas Williams

Encyclopedia of Indo-European Culture

edited by J. P. Mallory, Douglas Q. Adams

Early Medieval Ireland 400-1200
By Daibhí O Croinín

Acta Orientalia, A Eurasian Etymology Sarmysak (Vol 55, 2002)

María Magdolna Tartár 

The Festival of Lughnasa
Máire MacNeill

Killarney, 1929

When I came across this video it was entitled "Cork Street Scenes, 1929." While watching the film I noticed the corner of College St. and Lewis Rd. in Killarney, then I saw J O' Leary's-a building which is still there on Main St. today. I soon realised the majority of the video was shot in Killarney. "The Killarney Bar" on film is now Casey's off-licence (which still has a small sign on the side of it advertising "The Killarney Bar"). The original video is housed in the archives of the University of South Carolina. I cut out the segments that were from Cork and Connemara.

I'm sure people's relations in town appear here on film. My own great-grandparents were living on Fair Hill (the street that appears at 4.20) by the Friary Church in 1929, no sign of them unfortunately, as far as I can see! The kids outside the Courthouse with the donkey should surely be identifiable by someone. As far as I'm aware this is the oldest video taken of Killarney town, certainly the oldest with sound. The girl singing in Irish is from another location, its a pity the whole thing wasn't recorded. I'm guessing the girl is from Connemara she is singing the song Sail Óg Rua. This is the only piece of the film I left in shot outside of Killarney. I just couldn´t cut her wonderful singing! Below are the lines she sings.

.... bróin, ag oiliúint mo leanbh ar bhacán mo láimhe, 's gan fiú braon bainne agam a bhéarfainn dhó. "Grieving, rearing my child under my bended arm, without even a bit of milk to give him."

On Song and Story at the Global Village

Thanks to JJ O' Shea in Radio Kerry for having me on his show "The Global Village" on Tuesday. Click on this link to listen to the show. We had a good chat with much interspersed music, we covered Cuba, Mexico, the Irish in Latin America, poetry, song and the upcoming Irish Premiere of A Captain Unafraid in Killarney this Sunday.

Glory O Glory O to the Bold Fenian Men!

The Illustrated London News

Supplement, March 2, 1867

There is no longer the slightest apprehension of any renewal of the late silly attempt of the Fenian conspirators to raise an insurrection in the county of Kerry. The presence of a whole division of British Troops, under Sir Alfred Horsford, seems not only to have checked the advance of the Irish American marauders, who are now reckoned at no more than 50 or 100 men, but to even to have scared them out of existence; for none can be found by the most assiduous beating of Toomies Wood and all the neighbouring coverts on the shores of the lakes of Killarney. We are reminded of the legend of The O' Donoghue, not the hon, M.P. for Tralee, but his reputed ancestor the romantic chieftain of those lakes, who exchanged his ancient castle of Ross Island for kind of fresh water merman's palace at the bottom of Lough Leane, where nobody can approach him to dispute his sovereignty of the primeval rocks and boulders. It is conjectured that the Fenian heroes who marched from Cahirciveen to Killarney on Tuesday, the 12th, stealing five rifles, and sword bayonets, with some ammunition from the coastguard in Kells and shooting a single mounted policeman who was passing with a message, have disappeared into the lakes or the stony bowels of the mountains, where the soldiers cannot follow them.

On friday week, after daily fruitless explorations of the place where they were last visible and of the whole mountain district between the lower lake and the Gap of Dunloe, a party of troops and constabulary went in search of arms and rebels to Glenflesk, on the opposite shores of the lake. In this glen is a spot known as Filedown or Robber's Cliff, and a cave known as Leabey Owen, or Owen's bed, which will hold 60 men with ease. The place is extremely of access, and the situation most romantic. But neither Fenian men nor Fenian arms were found, and no trace of any. It is stated that, as the troops were returning, signal fires were seen lighted on the mountains, perhaps intended by the fugitives to assure their friends below of their safety; but the official reports declare that these fires have been satisfactorily accounted for. Another rumour speaks of the finding of the dead body of a Fenian who had perished of fatigue, hunger, and exposure on the Glencar mountain; but this also wants confirmation.

The resident (stipendiary) magistrates at Killarney, Mr Cruice and Major Perry, assisted by another, Mr. Green, have been engaged, with the local justices of the peace in trying to find out the guilty persons. Ten were arrested at Cahirciveen; but at the petty sessions last Saturday, the evidence was so defective against them that the Bench, consisting of Dr. Barry, the Knight of Kerry, Captain Segrave, Mr Cruice, and others, had to release them all upon their own recognisances to keep the peace. Searches for arms are now made almost daily, but hitherto the search has been invariable unsuccessful, both in town and country. The arms given up at Killarney since the county was proclaimed include some sixty or seventy rifles or fowling pieces. But these are generally surrendered by people whose loyalty is known, while the disaffected persons bury their firearms in the bog, where, with a little grease rag in the muzzle and around the nipple, a gun will keep from suffering any injury. Last Monday the detachment of the 48th Regiment was sent back to the Curragh from Killarney. Its place will be taken by the 14th Regiment. General Horsford returned on Saturday from his visit to Kenmare, Sneem, Cahirsiveen, Killorglin, and other outlying places at which detachments are stationed. It will probably be necessary to continue a small detachment for some time to come at these places, and especially at Cahirsiveen, where the conspiracy broke out on the 12th.

It may be remembered that, on the 13th, as soon as the attack on the Kells station was known, troops were sent from Cork and Fermoy; and on the same day a force of marines and sailors was landed at Cahirciveen from the H.M.S. Gladiator, which had been stationed at Dingle Bay, signals for aid having been made by the coastguard at Cahirsiveen to the ship. This force was at once dispatched on the track of the insurgents, the Rifles moving out to meet them from Killarney. This probably caused them to make themselves so remarkably scarce.

We are indebted to Dr.W.J. Eames surgeon to H.M.S. Gladiator, for the view of Cahirsiveen which we have engraved. It is a town of about 2000 inhabitants, half the size of Killarney, situated at the head of the harbour of Valencia, and a market for some of the most delicious butter in the world. The aspect of the place, backed by the majestic range of the Iveragh mountains, is rather imposing till one gets into it, while the squalid meanness of the streets, with bogs and bleak hills beyond the town, produce a contrary impression. We also present a view of Killorglin, from a sketch by a lady correspondent. Killorglin is at the mouth of the river Larne, which runs through the lakes of Killarney into Dingle Bay. The deep inlets of the Atlantic in this part of the coast of Ireland afford great facilities for a hostile landing. The mouth of the Larne was a favourite base of operations with the Danes, the nearest representative perhaps of the Fenians. They built a fort (the rampart of which is shown in our view, on the left of the bridge), and constructed vaults under it to hold stores, so that their countrymen, on landing, might not be destitute of provisions till able to furnish themselves at the expense of the natives. The Conway family held Killorglin in the sixteenth century.

This article comes direct from the smug belly of the beast, that being London. You get a great sense of how difficult it was for the Fenians to try to take on the structures of power that were around them (not to mind what it might have taken to dismantle them completely). When many would have said and known "might was right" and kept their head pointed to the floor (rather than risk it being taken from their shoulders), to tear down the propaganda they were faced with with arms, to try and silence the overarching edicts and voices from across the water with guns was then a bold and brave decision. 

The debasement of the insurrectionists, their aims and means, so much so to make them seem irrelevant, is what shines through most in this article. The "squalid meanness of the streets" from which the "conspirators" came from were indeed tough. The Illustrated London News views the Fenians as almost pointless, a type of joke, foreign ("Irish-American Marauders" or like "the Danes"), or from the past (like "the romantic chieftain O' Donohue"). Yet still the troops are rolled out from H.M.S. Gladiator. But something was stirring and the blanket of fog would finally be emerged from in the coming century, an independent Republic for the south of Ireland would eventually be declared, in no small thanks to the likes of those "marauders" who took on British imperialism this week 150 years ago! Incidentally, the Kerry rising of which I relate here was a premature one in February of that year, "a Kerryman joke" could be employed but I'll leave that to someone who isn't a Kerryman! 

 from "Rio Grande" directed by John Ford

Where Splendour Falls (experimentation in film)

I had it in my mind to put together a few music videos to go along with songs from the album "Where Splendour Falls." "Ochón A Mhuire Bhúidh" is the second instalment in that notion.

The lyrics are a specific style of medieval Irish verse that takes the form of a prayer or plea to the Virgin Mary. The melody is a caoineadh or lament. The lyrics of this song were written some time in the late 1500's by Domhnall MacCarthaigh Mór-last chieftain of the McCarthy Clan. The poem is a description of the beauty and traits of his wife and how she has him destroyed. Domhnall entreaties the Virgin Mary to intercede and save him. Here is a link to an earlier blogpost about Domhnall. The lyrics are in this post here.

The locations on film include: Kanturk Castle* (built by the MacDonogh Maccarthy Clan), Castle Lough (where Domhnall resided), An Dhá Chíoch/The Paps Mountain (the breasts of the Goddess Danú), and lastly, the Spéirbhean monument in Killarney town. The Spéirbhean is a poetic figure and device, an imagining of Ireland in the form of a woman. Used in a time when patriotic verse was outlawed, poets described a vision of a troubled woman instead. It translates as sky woman.

*Thanks to the bould Tim Browne for the link!

Bugle Calls at Dawn

"The Dawn" (1938) was Ireland's first feature length film with sound, what were known then as "talkies." After recently being digitised, it finished a four week run in the Killarney Cineplex last tuesday week. I was there the last night of the screenings with a couple of local comrades. The film tells the story of the war of Independence and focuses on one family, the Malones, who had a name of being turncoats (blameless or otherwise) from the time of the 19th century Fenian rising.

Thomas Cooper

The Dawn was set in Killarney and staffed mostly by Killarney people. It took 3 years to complete. The film was brought into existence by Thomas Cooper. Mr Cooper, besides owning the local cinema, had no background in film, yet he determined to make this movie called "The Dawn." He bought a camera for 500 pounds in London and sauntered back to Killarney to being filming. Given my own endeavor in film took 3 years to make and enlisted the help of many local and far flung aides, I was especially heartened to see a film like the Dawn being rolled out for the public almost 100 years on. Granted, the Dawn holds a special place in the history of Irish film, but with a bit of luck "A Captain Unafraid" will be also be remembered, maybe by just one or two kind souls in the far flung future! The point I'm slowly making my way around to is, we make our own luck, and that is indeed the crux of it. Both Tommy and myself endeavored and determined steadfastly to make our films and because of that made they came to be.

Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine, film being collaborative, the enlistment and of the local community is what really made the Dawn shine. 80 years on the theatre was full each week, many enjoying the merits of the film, many other trying to spot their long lost relation's cameo appearances.
My father tells me my grandfather worked on the set of the Dawn. So, myself, I was on the look out for unusual furniturings and bits of timber gone astray! My granddad "militarized" some of trucks of the british army convoys, adding various bit and bobs to them to make them suitably intimidating. I saw bits of one of the trucks fall off at one stage. Hopefully this was planned!

One of the scenes from the Dawn was filmed around the corner from where I grew up on Rookery Rd. The railway bridge on Countess Rd, Killarney, was the scene from "up the country" on film. Incidentally, the bridge itself is where an ambush between Free State forces and the I.R.A. occurred. That Civil War battle is commemorated with a celtic stone cross, as four I.R.A. members were killed there a short time after the events of the war of Independence portrayed on film.

Once I had a fever in my room down wind from this cross, I was drifting in and out of consciousness, sweating profusely. At one point when I closed my eyes I heard a bugler play the last stand. I was sure my time was up, that my tune had been played. Thankfully, I recovered from my fever within a few days. A couple of weeks later I was told there had been a commemoration to the fallen I.R.A. men, replete with bugler, on that feverish day in question!

The images in this blogpost were taken by Michelle Cooper Galvin, they appear in a leaflet given out at Killarney Cineplex called "The Dawn Film Trail." 

Óglaigh Chill Airne

There was a book launch this evening in Gaelscoil Faithleann-an Irish speaking primary school in Killarney. The book "Óglaigh Chill Airne" by Tomás B O' Luanaigh concerns the setup of the Kerry branch of the Irish Volunteers, their involvement in the 1916 rising, and the subsequent interment of some of their members in the prison camp of Frongoch in Wales. Cheannaigh mé cóip, táimse ag tnú go mór leis an leabhair a léamh! 

the author himself an tAthair Tomás B O' Luanaigh

Just glancing through the book many gems appear, such as this short poem written by one of the internees at Frongoch, he recalls his participation in the rising in Dublin-

A thought immediately after surrender in Moore St.

Doomed to strive for all things 

to achieve none,

All attacking, nothing gaining,

Battles without fruit,

Laurels without triumph,

Fame without success.

signed, 

Denis Daly,

Main St. 

Cahersiveen

Frongoch Internment Camp, 

1st Nov. 1916

An Gal Gréine at Gaelscoil Faithleann

The book also tells how An Seabhac (the hawk) Pádraig Ó Siochfhradha on friday the 28th of November 1913 gave an Irish class as he usually did for Conradh na Gaeilge in Killarney. What made this class different was the enlistment of fifty members into the Irish Volunteers during the lessons. An Dún, where the meeting occurred, was an old disused Methodist Church that, incidentally, was situated right next to the apartment where I live here on High Street! This new branch of the volunteers was only the second in the country and many members went on to fight in the 1916 rising in Dublin.

New Street, Killarney, Irish Volunteers, 1914

In July 1914, the Oireachtas occurred in Killarney. It was on this November in Killarney too! 

During the 1914 festivities, 2500 members of the Irish Volunteers marched through the town with rifles and in full military regalia. The Royal Irish Constabulary who looked on were, needless to say, worried. 

Ochón A Mhuire Bhúidh

lyrics of the song-from the poetry book that accompanies the vinyl of "Where Splendour Falls"*

Óchón a Mhuire Bhúidh was written by the last chieftain of the McCarthy Clan-Domhnall MacCarthaigh Mór. The piece is a lament that pleads to the Virgin Mary to save him from his wife who has him tormented and destroyed by, among other things, her beauty. I put the melody to the words. That air appears in a book about Killarney that I’ve forgotten the name of. The melody/lament was overheard by an English tourist in the 1850’s as he followed a funeral up Bóthairín na Marbh in Aghadoe. I scribbled it down when reading the book, I think it fits hand in glove with Domhnall's words. Here is a link to a past post concerning Domhnall and Óchón a Mhuire Bhúidh.

I once had a dream, years before I knew of the poem or the King. In the dream I was walking down by the Deenagh River.  I saw a man dressed as an Earl sitting on a riverside seat. The Earl was lamenting the fact that he was dressed like an English Prince. He said he was once a gaelic poet called féileacán oíche. Now, féileacán oíche, is the Irish for a moth. The moment he spoke the words-féilecán oíche-the dream turned into a vision of a moth right in front of my eyes. Music lifted, a lament rose up, and the moth shot down-skirting along the surface of the water. Domhnall was known as “An Chéad Iarla” (the first Earl)-though you would rue the day if you were unfortunate enough to call him by that title. He took the unfortunate moniker under the English policy of surrender and regrant. Maybe what is to be taken form all this is...

ní h-uasal na íseal ach thuas seal agus thíos seal

If you were to translate that it would be something like-“Life isn’t a matter of lower class or higher class, but up for a while and down for a while.”

Heres a rough translation of the poem. If anyone else feels like doing a proper job on it, please do.

Oh mother Mary hear my lament,
Hand maiden of God –
I gave the love of my soul to a woman
Who killed me.

So be it, powerful mary,
Like the will of the tide
I died directly,
Mother of God.

I gave the love of my soul to a woman,
But God,
I never told her
she destroyed me.

The love of her white breasts and beautiful way,
Like a pale lily.
Her braided ribbons of hair falling like a vision,
She is a heavy weight.

The love of her beautiful crystalline way,
Like a rose that never sinned,
And her two hands,
that beckoned me on,

Her smooth white healthy body,
Took my mind from me,

Seven thousand sweetnesses
in the sound of her and her voice,
I’m an ill man from her,

I follow in lamentation,
A sad, sorrowful, poor man,
It’s a pity a crowd isn’t
piling rocks on my grave.

Its sad I have no Brothers praying over me-
Saying psalms,
As I came, sweet Mary,
To be a dead person.

The song of her mouth, sweet like a rose
Perfumed like incense,
That has me at the edge of death,
And for what reason?

Beautiful girl that has my very essence,
Even my body,
By right and by law,
I should pay the death ‘eric.’

Save me, it is you can,
Her limbs are without fault,
Save me with the 'conversation of our bodies,'
Hear my lament.

To reserve a copy of the vinyl of "Where Splendour Falls" (the record is being printed as we speak) send an e-mail to info@charlieobrien.net

Paul Dooley is the harpist on this track. I'm very lucky to have him collaborating with me on this and Do Threascair An Saol. Thanks a million to YoYo Park too, who is the piano player on Ochón A Mhuire Bhúidh. I'm singing, playing the bass and tinkering on the other various electronic sounds.

*The engraving of the lady in corner is of an Irish noble woman from the 16th century. It appears in the book "An Dunaire, Poems of The Dispossessed."

The Killarney Echo

The Killarney Echo is the sound that resounds off the mountains and lakes of Killarney when you fling music or noise at them. Whatever auditory projections are thrown-bounce off the lakes and jump back tenfold into the ears of those who seek "the echo." It was an obligatory part of the tour of Killarney throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries. The echo is most famously described in Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem "The Splendour Falls." Given that "Where Splendour Falls" is the name of my newest musical endeavor, I was delighted to accompany my good friend Séan Looney to the Eagle's Nest-in search of strange reverberations. So it was that, myself and select bunch of rovers determined to search for that elusive sound. Billy Kemp was to record this audio, but clattered his leg and recording gear on rocky outcrops and was put out of action. Still, David Lynch, our resident trumpeter, marched on and "set the wild echos flying" (with trumpet and french horn) across The Long Range- that narrow band of water that runs by The Eagle's nest, Killarney. But we first went through tomes, before we roamed in glens!

David Lynch, Séan Looney and Billy O' Kemp

Séan Looney, gentlemen, scholar and Killarney native, has two books in his possession that mention the echo. The first extract below, is from "Illustrations of the Scenery of Killarney and the Surrounding Country" (1807) by Isaac Weld Esq. M.R.I.A.

The Eagle's and their Nest 

The Eagle's Nest is represented in the engraving, as it appears from the opposite bank, about one hundred yards higher up the stream: being seen as it were in profile, the range of mountains of which it forms a part are concealed. The river flows from the left, winds round the cliff, and loses itself behind the dark rocks on the right; and in the distance appears a gloomy vale one of those ill-fated spots,

Which, circled round with a gigantic heap 

Of mountains, never felt, nor ever hopes 

To feel, the genial influence of the sun.

It is scarcely in the power of language to convey an adequate idea of the extraordinary effect of the echoes under this cliff, whether they repeat the dulcet notes of music, or the loud discordant report of a cannon. Enchantment here appears to have resumed her reign, and those who listen are lost in amazement and delight.

To enjoy the echoes to the utmost advantage, it is necessary that a number of musicians should be placed on the banks of the river, about fifty yards below the base of the cliff: while the auditors, excluded from their view, seat themselves on the opposite bank, at some distance above the cliff, behind a small rocky projection. Were a stranger conducted hither ignorant of this arrangement, and unprepared by any previous description for the illusory effect of the echo, I am persuaded he would be unable to form a tolerable conjecture, as to the source of the sounds, or the number of the instruments. The primary notes are quite lost; whilst those which are reverberated meet the ear increased in strength, in brilliancy, and in sweetness. Sometimes it might be supposed that multitudes of musicians, playing upon instruments formed for more than mortal use, were concealed in the caverns of the rock; or behind the trees on different parts of the cliff; at others, when a light breeze favours the delusion, it seems as if they were hovering in the air. At intervals treble sounds of flutes and clarionets, 

In sweet vibrations thrilling o'er the skies,

are alone heard; and then again, after a short suspension,

The clanging horns swell their sweet winding notes, 

. . . . . and load the trembling air 

With various melody.

But notwithstanding the occasional swell and predominance of certain instruments, the measure of the melody is not impaired, nor do the notes come confusedly to the ear: the air which is played should, however, be very slow, and the harmony simple, affording a frequent repetition of perfect chords.

When the music has subsided, whilst every auditor still remains in a state of breathless admiration, it is usual to discharge a cannon from the promontory opposite to the cliff, which never fails to startle, and to stun the ear, ill prepared as it must be for the shock, after dwelling upon the sweet melody which has preceded it. The report of the gun produces a discordant crash, as if the whole pile of rocks were rent asunder; and the succeeding echoes resemble a tremendous peal of thunder. During a favourable state of the atmosphere, upon which much depends, twelve reverberations, and sometimes more, may be distinctly counted; and what appears extraordinary, after the sound has been totally lost, it occasionally revives, becomes louder and louder for a few seconds, and then again dies away. 

Now seems it far and now anear,

Now meets, and now eludes the ear;

Now seems some mountain's side to sweep, 

Now dies away in valley deep.

This second extract appears in Beautiful Ireland, Killarney, by Mary Gorges (pub. 1912). So it seems the echo is reverberating through at least its third century in print....and perhaps with these digital ramblings a fourth!

David's French Horn, Eagle's Nest, Killarney

Here the eagles still have their nest, for nature has secured them from the hand of man. It is a very majestic rock, thickly clothed with evergreens nearly to the summit, where, however, heath and a few scattered shrubs hide the nest, and show the great outline, the rugged mass, in stern sublimity. Here the Killarney Echo is best heard.

Perhaps among the many writers who have tried to describe the effect produced by this echo, Mrs. Hall gives the most vivid impression. She says: "The bugler first played a single note; it was caught up and repeated loudly; softly again loudly; again softly, and then as if by a hundred instruments rolling around and above the mountains, and dying softly away. Then a few notes were blown, a multitude of voices replied, sometimes pausing, then mingling in a strain of sublime grandeur and delicate sweetness. Then came the firing of a cannon, when every mountain around seemed instinct with angry life, and replied n voices of thunder, the sound being multiplied a thousandfold, first a terrific growl, then a fearful crash, both caught up and returned by the surrounding hills, while those nearest became silent, awaiting the oncoming of those that were distant, then dropping to a gentle lull, as if the winds only created them, then breaking forth again into a combined and terrific roar."

This won't be our first venture with the Killarney Echo, rather it was a reconnaissance to get us acquainted with its territory-preparing us for further sallys into that "deadly breach" between the Eagle's Nest and Torc Mountain!

An Bóithrín Caol

An Bóthirín Caol is the "narrow little road" that was once the spine of Killarney town. In my mind, it is a conduit between cultures-the road you travel to get there. The tune is also maybe a bit like my own version of the Beach Boys "Let's go away for a while." A musical stroll in my head-wandering like Patrick Kavanagh who was once "lost in the oriental streets of thought" at a Monaghan fair.

The lanes of Killarney were once teeming with life, that's where the population lived. The people of the lanes were moved to more commodious, comfortable and modern housing in the 1950's. The people being poor and it being the first social housing, they were relocated to a hill just outside of town, derogatorily they named it "hungry hill." My mother grew up there, and the house is still owned by the family.

An Bóthirín Caol was the last lane in the town where Irish was spoken as a native language. In the 1840's, on an evening stroll, William Thackary (the English novelist) remarked that the lanes of Killarney were as exotic as any of the "casbahs of the orient." He found them warrenous and wonderful, teeming with trade, trades, all manner of people-women replete with colourful shawls, children galore. Irish would have been the lingua franca, which surely added to his otherworldly ramble too.

It is impossible to grasp or even describe the changes that the town has undergone, instead, I painted a musical wave that might wash over the listener and take them away for a while on some "breeze of the orient."

The guitar was recorded in a room in Atlanta, Georgia. The guitar itself was made in the 1950's in Granada, Spain. I got a loan of it from Chicago native, Steve Seaberg. It once accompanied blues legend J.B. Lenoir! Heres a video of that from the 1960's (Steve is the guy on the left, the guitar makes its appearance starting at 1:40).

As a first time visitor to Ireland, an English lady said to me at a gig last week "It has been strange travelling in Ireland, I wonder, am I in a foreign country?" Then asking me directly and inquisitively she said "am I abroad?" The lady had just apologised for speaking simple English to me, for a little while she instinctively thought my English might be rough! Granted now, I was playing "foreign" Irish music and was sporting a fanciful fedora. So, she can be forgiven, it seems people are still getting carried away on those breezes of the orient!

The Casbahs of Cork!

Neil O' Loghlen is playing double bass on this track, his part was recorded in Killarney. He plays with Ensemble Eriú. The violin is played by Larissa O' Grady. The cello is played by Grace McCarthy. I'm playing the guitar and making the other various sounds. You can purchase the album on digital download here. 

To reserve a copy of the vinyl send an e-mail to info@charlieobrien.net

When Cherry Trees Bloom

This song is very much set in Killarney. The Deenagh is a river that runs near that town. I was told that it once ran up New Street, but no more. Cherry Tree Road is by Killarney House, its trees have been cut down, but they will rise again, we are told! Ross Island wood is accessible from the mainland, in fact, you wouldn't know you were on an island traversing it. The song (to me) is about the loss of two separate people, it weaves in and out of those sorrows as it goes along. Lost on an ox-bow lake, stranded on that strange shore.

I went down where cherry trees bloom

and Killarney house it stands,

I dwelt on days that have gone away 

though contented I oft' times am,

those halcyon days, swept away,

as the Deenagh's waters ran.

Come we'll go as blossoms bloom 

to the past's fair distant lands,

in the month of may, in sport and play, 

soon down our soft tears ran,

splendour fall down, echoes resound

as the lark in the clear air sang.

Follow me down rolling silver streams

memory's last flowing strand,

rods, dies, nets cast, set adrift alas,

no fish, nor sailor's sight of land,

Our bright birds flown I'm left to roam 

the Deenagh's murky banks.

Wild rivers run to ox-bow lakes, 

where not a skimmed stone does sound,

then the call of a lark, clear and stark 

as a bugle o'er mountains resounds,

a syphoned dam's bone dry land

memories may gorse fires run.

I went down to Ross Island wood 

when the sky was full of stars,

thoughts set ablaze as they surely stray

to memories distant one,

sanguine summers, fashioned silken covers

now ripped and torn in shards.

Where Splendour Falls

The splendour falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on field hill or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Myself and an old friend were often found drinking, and inevitably, singing around Killarney town. One night, after many drinks were imbibed, I sang out some forgotten tune. My compadre was taken by the melody, the next day he proceeded to put it to the words of Tennyson's poem "Where Splendour Falls." On our next meeting, and many since, he sang this song "The Splendour Falls." He told me he got the melody from me, but it is unlike any melody I ever sang... I've been singing it myself ever since!

The poem was written while Tennyson was on a visit to Killarney, Ireland. I think it forms part of an opera called "The Princess." I heard an absolutely beautiful choral version of the song one time, it was, needless to say, a very different beast to my own version.

You can buy a digital download of my album "Where Splendour Falls" here.

In Pursuit Of The Fenians

The various images in this blogpost accompany articles from 1867 that appear in "The London Illustrated News." The subject of the drawings and articles is the Fenian Rising of the same year. The drawings are from a collection of newspapers I have from the time. One particular article there in, concerns the rising in Kerry. That piece, from March 2nd 1867, is a great example of the propaganda the Fenians had to contend with. Here is an excerpt-

"The presence of a whole division of British Troops, under Sir Alfred Horsford, seems not only to have checked the advance of the Irish American marauders, who are now reckoned at no more than 50 or 100 men, but to even to have scared them out of existence; for none can be found by the most assiduous beating of Toomies Wood and all the neighbouring coverts on the shores of the lakes of Killarney. We are reminded of the legend of The O' Donoghue, not the hon, M.P. for Tralee, but his reputed ancestor the romantic chieftain of those lakes, who exchanged his ancient castle of Ross Island for a kind of fresh water merman's palace at the bottom of Lough Leane, where nobody can approach him to dispute his sovereignty of the primeval rocks and boulders." "It is conjectured that the Fenian heroes who marched from Cahirciveen to Killarney on Tuesday, the 12th, stealing five rifles, and sword bayonets, with some ammunition from the coastguard in Kells and shooting a single mounted policeman who was passing with a message, have disappeared into the lakes or the stony bowels of the mountains, where the soldiers cannot follow them."

Notice the absence of Fenians in all the drawings. Except for the blackened, brooding mob in the Tallaght image, they are nowhere to be seen!

This is one of the images accompanying the Kerry article-

Killorglin, Near Killarney

Below is the proclamation from the failed insurrection.

The Irish People of the World.

We have suffered centuries of outrage, enforced poverty, and bitter misery. Our rights and liberties have been trampled on by an alien aristocracy, who treating us as foes, usurped our lands, and drew away from our unfortunate country all material riches. The real owners of the soil were removed to make room for cattle, and driven across the ocean to seek the means of living, and the political rights denied to them at home, while our men of thought and action were condemned to loss of life and liberty. But we never lost the memory and hope of a national existence. We appealed in vain to the reason and sense of justice of the dominant powers.

Our mildest remonstrance’s were met with sneers and contempt. Our appeals to arms were always unsuccessful.

Today, having no honourable alternative left, we again appeal to force as our last resource. We accept the conditions of appeal, manfully deeming it better to die in the struggle for freedom than to continue an existence of utter serfdom.

detail from "In Pursuit Of The Fenians"

All men are born with equal rights, and in associating to protect one another and share public burdens, justice demands that such associations should rest upon a basis which maintains equality instead of destroying it.

We therefore declare that, unable longer to endure the curse of Monarchical Government, we aim at founding a Republic based on universal suffrage, which shall secure to all the intrinsic value of their labour.

The soil of Ireland, at present in the possession of an oligarchy, belongs to us, the Irish people, and to us it must be restored.

We declare, also, in favour of absolute liberty of conscience, and complete separation of Church and State.

We appeal to the Highest Tribunal for evidence of the justness of our cause. History bears testimony to the integrity of our sufferings, and we declare, in the face of our brethren, that we intend no war against the people of England — our war is against the aristocratic locusts, whether English or Irish, who have eaten the verdure of our fields — against the aristocratic leeches who drain alike our fields and theirs.

Republicans of the entire world, our cause is your cause. Our enemy is your enemy. Let your hearts be with us. As for you, workmen of England, it is not only your hearts we wish, but your arms. Remember the starvation and degradation brought to your firesides by the oppression of labour. Remember the past, look well to the future, and avenge yourselves by giving liberty to your children in the coming struggle for human liberty.

Herewith we proclaim the Irish Republic.

The Provisional Government.

"Ireland's Welcome to the Stranger"

What follows is an extract from the Killarney entries of the diary of Asenath Nicolson. In 1844/1845 Asenath travelled throughout Ireland. She came with a bible in one hand, and a pair of shoes in the other! Her diary has been published many times since it was written. The book really captured my imagination, it opens a small window onto an Ireland that would forever disappear into the black hole of famine. When I wander those same local places she mentions in her book (that I have wandered countless times before), I now can't help but thinking about her and her own wanderings. It brings me into a strange reverie, hopefully she won't blight my memories eternally! In all seriousness though, I really enjoy imagining her climbing up the back of Torc or wandering Killarney's streets (where she was plagued by curious street urchins and assorted wide eyed locals!). I'll post another extract from her Killarney travels soon. I've been reading the book on the computer but really must buy the physical copy and stop the inevitable perusals to which I have resorted to-I'll read the book through if I can put it in my hand, otherwise I jump from digital page to far flung digital page and never follow the book's flowing river!

John Frederick Kensett, Killarney, 1857

Ross Island was the first place in the morning to which I resorted; and, reaching the gate of a beautiful thatched cottage, saw the proprietor in the garden, who invited me through the gate, and accompanied me about the several walks. Though in the month of March; it was blooming with greens and flowers. The different openings upon the lakes were made with a most happy skill, and the parts which were left wild were selected with judgment. The gardeners of Ireland display much taste in adjusting their rough stones, their rustic seats and summer-house; and in fitting up a pleasure-ground, they seem to possess a correct judgment in knowing what to cultivate, and what to leave wild. This spot possesses beauties which to an admirer of nature cannot fail to please. At ten I returned, the hour that the laborers breakfast; and the family at eleven. 

So late are the Irish about rising in the morning, that the best part of the day is often lost. I sauntered through the town, and a mob of boys, women, and girls, with cloaks over head, some in pursuit, and others running before stopping to have a full gaze at me. So much had I heard of the beauties of Killarney that I was quite disappointed with the refinement of the people. A boy accompanied me to the Victoria Hotel on the banks of the middle lake.

March 13th  - I took a walk of four miles to the celebrated Turk mountain to see the cascade, and when I had reached the foot of it I sat down upon a seat to meditate undisturbed on this beautiful sight. Four white sheets of water have for ages been coursing down a rock of eighty feet in height, wearing channels of  considerable depth, and on their way have received some small rivulets issuing from the sides of the mountain pouring together into one basin, at the bottom.

The mountains on either side are lofty, high, and precipitous. I attempted to make my way over the slippery stones to reach the basin, but found it too hazardous being out of hearing to any human being, and should I tumble into the stream and break a bone my fate would be irrecoverable. An hour was gone, and admiration, if possible, was increasing; but looking to my left I saw a path leading up the mountain and followed it. 

In a few yards it opened a small view of the lakes, and as you ascend the view widens and widens, till you see spread out before you lawns, the middle and lower lakes, with their beautiful Islands, and the grand Kerry mountains stretching out beyond. Seats at proper distance are arranged, where the traveller may rest and feast his eyes on the beauties beneath his feet. But when the top is reached the awful precipice overhanging the cascade would endanger the life of any one to overlook, were there not a railing erected for the safety of the visitor. Here I sat, and thanked God that he had given me eyes to see, and a mind to enjoy, a scene like this. More than three thousand miles from my native country, on the top of this awfully wild mountain, where many a stranger’s foot had trod, I was enjoying a good reward for my labor. The sun was shining upon the unruffled lakes,  the birds were hopping from bough to bough, mingling their song with the untiring cascade, the partridge fluttered in the brake at a distance, but I knew no venomous serpent was there. I was unwilling to leave the spot, and had not the promise of returning to witness a funeral at two o’ clock urged me away,  my stay might have been protracted till sunset. I lingered and looked, and like Eve when leaving paradise said – “And must I leave thee!” 

I returned not till I had explored the end of the woodman’s path, over a bridge that passed the chasm beyond, and then took a last look of this coy maiden, standing once more at her feet. Though she cannot boast the awful grandeur of the bold Niagara of my native country, yet she had beauties which can never cease to please. She has an unassuming modesty which compels you to admire, because she seems not to covet your admiration. She is so concealed that the eye never meets her till close upon the white folds of her drapery, and when but a few paces from her feet, I turned to take another look I could not see even “the  hem of her garment.”

On returning to the gate, it was locked, the woman who had kept it had given me the key; I had carelessly left it in the door, without locking it, and she had fastened the gate and taken the key. I could neither make myself heard, nor climb the wall, a sad dilemma! A return to the cascade seemed to be the only alternative; but following the wall, an end was happily found, and the road soon gained.  Stopping at a neat little lodge, bread and honey were brought to me in such a simple patriarchal manner, that the days of Rebecca and Ruth were before me.
The Loud “wail” for the dead soon sounded from the mountain. “She’s a proper woman,” said one, “and her six children are all very sorry for her, the cratur.” I went on to the gate till the multitudinous procession arrived,  bearing the coffin on a couple of sheets, twisted so that four men could take hold one at each end, and carry it along. Women were not only howling, but tears were fast streaming from many an eye. When they reached the abbey, the grave was not dug, and here was a new and louder wail struck up. While the grave was digging, eight women knelt down by the coffin, and putting their hands upon it, and beating with force, set up a most terrific lamentation. The pounding upon the coffin, the howling, and the shoveling of earth from the grave, made together sounds and sights strange, if not unseemly. The body was to be deposited where a brother and a sister had been buried,  and when they reached the first coffin, took it out, and found the second rotten, they took up the mouldered pieces and flung them away. The bones of the legs and arms, with the skull, were put together, and laid by the side of the coffins; the new coffin was put down, and the old one, which was the last of the two former, was placed upon it. When all was finished, they knelt down to offer up a prayer for the dead, which was done in silence, and they walked away with much decency.

Asenath Nicolson, Killarney, 1845.

St Mary's well in Killarney is (as far as I can decipher) the oldest man made structure in Killarney town. The obligatory sign which accompanies the landmark states-

The well itself, has seen better days. Today it is entombed in a dark nest of concrete-ensconced on all sides by that hardy old substance.  On one side of the well is the Plaza hotel-a giant travesty of a thing, on the other, the Town Hall-a much more benign edifice. When I walk by the well, I like to imagine what it was like in the early days of human settlement here in Killarney. The whole country was once covered in oak forest, and Killarney National Park still boasts the last old growth forest of same. When I imagine the well in those days, I imagine forest on all sides, and  a little sylvan path leading up to the church which gave our town its name, that being-Cill Áirne.
Cill Áirne - The church of the sloes, or perhaps, the Church of Áirne-Áirne being a saint of antiquity. The church itself, is about 30 metres uphill from the well, it is also called St. Mary's. St. Mary's has been a protestant church for centuries; on the church's site was the original town church from before English settlement. I also like to imagine all the baptisms that took place over the centuries at that well.  I often wonder when the last one occurred. Maybe if I have a child myself, I'll resurrect that old venerable tradition, presuming, the lady in question will be in concurrence with my notions!

One of the more bizarre stories associated with St Mary's Church's is the tragic suicide of the church's architect. The story goes that he hung himself from the top of the church because of a mistake he made in his measurements. The three arches in the middle of the church are more like 2 and three quarter arches. If the architects during the celtic tiger years had the same morals, we'd be having funerals galore- mourning them en masse.