The Tour (6 page)

‘At this temperature in Corpus Christi they’d be wearing their coats,’ Bert joked.

Ellen and Bert found a seat under a tree and licked the mysteriously named ‘99’ ice cream cones they had bought from a nearby van.

‘It sure is a lovely country,’ he continued, ‘nice people, beautiful scenery, and great food. It’s hard to believe it’s the same place we heard about in the news for so long, with the bombings and the killings and what not. I never took too much notice of it to be honest, never imagined for a second I would ever get to come here, but now listening to Conor telling us all those stories, it seems so hard to reconcile the two images of Ireland. How long did the fighting go on did he say? Since the 1960s?’

‘Eight hundred years,’ Ellen replied slowly ‘the English occupied and subjugated Ireland for eight hundred years and the peace that is being enjoyed now is the work of so many thousands of Irish men and women who made it their life’s work – and of course many also sacrificed their lives – to free this beautiful island.’

Bert glanced at Ellen. Hmm, he thought. I’m, certainly not dealing with some harmless little old lady enjoying a bus trip. Clearly, there was a lot more to Ellen O’Donovan than met the eye.

‘What brought you here Miss Ellen?’ ‘It’s a long story.’

‘I’ve got a week,’ Bert replied with a smile.

Dylan walked around the village of Blarney despondently. Three hours to kill. All the stores sold lame crap with shamrocks and sheep plastered all over them. Stuff he wouldn’t be seen dead with. Even the one music shop only sold stupid CDs of old-timers playing violins and accordions. No one listened to proper music in this dump he thought, wondering bleakly how he was going to survive a whole week here. His mom still hadn’t given up on that guy from Texas who looked like about a hundred years old. Seriously, she is so embarrassing.

All his life Dylan had wished he could have a normal mother who baked cakes and went to PTA meetings, but no such luck. Corlene should never have had kids; she had even admitted to him that he had been a mistake and that if she didn’t have him hanging out of her, costing her money, she would be living the high life by now. Mind you, she only said stuff like that when she was drunk. Most of the time she just ignored him, and at least his new look meant that she had stopped using him as bait to lure guys. It was a giant pain to get made up and everything every day, the temporary tattoos looked real but took ages to get right, but it did scare people off which was exactly what he wanted.

As he passed an old church just outside the village, he heard music. It wasn’t like the church music at home; in fact, it wasn’t like anything he had ever heard anywhere. Intrigued, he moved closer. The doors were open and, inside, a wedding was in progress. Dylan wasn’t sure what kind of church it was but he assumed it was Christian. Neither he nor Corlene was religious and although his grandmother had been an Episcopalian and had often brought him to church when he was little, for some reason he always felt a bit intimidated in a church environment.

The sounds that were emanating from near the altar were not being created by strings or by a wind instrument, he thought, as he stood in the porch listening and trying to get a glimpse of the musician. The music stopped, and the preacher continued. Dylan edged in from the porch to get a better view. At the top of the church, he could make out three musicians holding a guitar, a violin and some instrument that Dylan had never seen before. As he gazed at the trio, the ceremony came to an end and, after signing the register, the bride and groom proceeded down the aisle, followed eventually by the assembled wedding guests.

The three musicians struck up again. To Dylan’s ears, the unique sound of the strange instrument, whatever it was, soared high above the other two. The music was loud, like a battle march or something, and it made him smile, the first smile he had managed since his arrival in Ireland, or indeed in several months. As he listened entranced, he suddenly realised that, unawares, he had been making his way up the side aisle of church as the wedding guests filtered out. He caught the eye of the man playing the strange instrument. The man smiled at him and Dylan smiled back.

The crowd were now almost out of the church, chatting and taking photos of the happy couple. When the music stopped, the band members began talking and joking.

Impulsively, Dylan approached them.

‘Howareya?’ the man with the strange instrument said.

Dylan didn’t know what that meant, maybe the guy was speaking Gaelic, so he replied, ‘Hi, em, what is that thing you were playing?’

‘Pipes,’ the man replied, seemingly unfazed by Dylan’s appearance, ‘the uilleann pipes. They’re an old Irish instrument, a bit like the Scottish bagpipes, but you don’t blow into them with your mouth. Would you like to have a look?’

‘Sure, I mean yes please. I’ve never seen anything like them before.’

It seemed to Dylan that this thing wasn’t just a single instrument as such; it had various different parts. The man had a leather strap around his waist and another around his arm. A third piece went under his arm. He was intrigued: it looked like one of those things people used to blow air into fires in old movies, to get them going. The fourth piece consisted of a bag covered in green velvet with yellow trim, which the man placed under his left other arm; it expanded when he squeezed the bag-like thing under his right arm. Across one leg lay a series of wooden pipes with keys attached somehow to the rest of this instrument, which the man seemed to be constantly adjusting. In his hands, he held another pipe, a bit like a flute. It was the most complicated instrument Dylan had ever seen.

‘This is a love song,’ the man said, ‘it’s about three hundred years old, written by a very famous Irish composer called Turlough O’Carolan. It’s called ‘Bridget Cruise’.’

The sound that emerged completely transfixed Dylan. It was slow and plaintive, and transported him to another place, where only he and this mesmeric sound existed. A surfeit of images crowded his imagination – glens, mist and an ethereal woman – a girl with long dark hair, sitting alone on a rock. When the music ended, Dylan couldn’t speak.

‘So where are you from?’ the man asked.

‘Em… America, I’m here on vacation. I…em... thanks for playing that for me. It’s really awesome. Did it take you long to learn to play like that? I mean how do you learn that? It seems really complicated.’

‘Well …What’s your name?’ ‘Dylan Holbrook.’

‘Well Dylan, my name’s Diarmuid. I’ve been playing now for about thirty-four or thirty-five years. I learned from my brother to start with I suppose, and when I got a bit better, I went to a pipe master who taught me. I suppose though you never stop learning. Do you play an instrument yourself?’

‘Kind of,’ Dylan felt so intimidated by the skill of this musician that he felt stupid talking about his own efforts at electric guitar.

‘I play a bit of guitar with some friends back home, but I’m just a beginner, so I’m not that good yet.’

‘Would you like to have a go at these?’ Diarmuid asked. ‘But I must warn you most people can’t even get a sound of them at the start’ he added with a smile.

‘Can I?’ Dylan asked in amazement, unable to believe that this stranger would be so trusting.

‘So now,’ Diarmuid began by giving Dylan the leather strap to tie around his waist, attached to which was the bellows he was told. He then strapped a buckle onto his upper arm. He then attached the bag to the bellows, placed the body of the pipes across Dylan’s knees and placed the chanter into his hands.

‘Now Dylan, pump the bellows with your right arm and that provides air for the bag. When you’ve got the bag full apply pressure under your left elbow and we’ll try to get some air to the chanter, that’s the part you’re holding in your hands. First, we have to cover the holes on the chanter. Now put your fingers like this and keep the chanter on your knee. Now start filling the bag with air from the bellows and see what sounds come out.’

Dylan did as he was instructed and to his great delight and surprise, a raw but clear bright sound came forth.

‘That’s good,’ Diarmuid said, ‘Now try lifting this finger.’

After a few minutes making various sounds, Dylan was able to play several different notes.

‘Well, I’ve often had students take weeks to get to that stage Dylan. So you have a knack for them alright’ Diarmuid smiled.

‘Wow! That’s so awesome!’ he exclaimed. ‘I never did anything like that before. They are awesome’, Dylan said. ‘Thanks so much for letting me try them’

‘No bother.’ Diarmuid replied with a smile.

Dylan had no idea how to pronounce the man’s name. Sounded like deer and mud stuck together, but that probably wasn’t right, so he decided against trying to say it.

‘Where are you off to next?’ Diarmuid asked. ‘Em…we’re on a bus tour, so I think we’re staying in

Kinsale tonight.’

‘Well Dylan, we’re playing a session tonight at The Armada in Kinsale if you want to hear more. We start about half nine so maybe I’ll see you then. If not, enjoy the rest of your holiday in Ireland and keep on playing that guitar.’

Dylan walked back to the coach feeling happier than he had felt in as long as he could remember. He was definitely going to that session, which must be an Irish word for gig. Yes, he thought, things are definitely looking up.

Chapter 6

Anna had spent a delightful afternoon in the shops in Blarney buying presents for her friends and family. It would have been nice if Elliot had been able to come with her, but he had discovered that the hotel next door to Blarney Woollen Mills had a business centre, so he spent the three hours in there, checking his emails and talking on the phone.

He had promised, however, that tonight he would leave his phone in the room and take her out to dinner in one of the lovely little restaurants on the waterfront that she had found on the Internet while she was researching their trip. Now, as she lay back in the bath in her room in Kinsale’s luxury boutique hotel, The Blue Haven, deciding what she would wear that night, she smiled to herself. Their vacation could really begin now. Everything was OK in the office, Elliot had said earlier so, hopefully, that meant he would now concentrate on her and on their relationship. As she emerged from the bath, Elliot called through the bathroom door.

‘I’m just going down to the bar for a pre-dinner cocktail, come and join me when you’re ready.’

Anna smiled. She was always happier when left to dress alone, a perfectionist who never wanted Elliot to see her until she had completed her look.

‘You’re so considerate,’ she replied, ‘I won’t be long.’

While initially Elliot had been dead against the trip, in the week before they left New York, he had warmed to the idea. He knew a lot about the Irish economy, it seemed, and she had even overheard him talking to Conor about Irish planning regulations and land prices. It touched Anna that he took such an interest in a country that she had chosen for their vacation. As she heard the bedroom door shut behind him, she emerged from the bath and looked critically at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Julie might be right; she was getting too thin. On the other hand, Elliot hated fat women, and he always commented when she put on a pound or two. Maybe tonight she could treat herself to an entrée
and
a main course, but not a dessert – she hadn’t eaten one of those for four years.

As she made her way across the foyer wearing a sleeveless black Donna Karan mini dress, fuchsia pink Manolo Blahnik mules and a matching silk wrap, heads turned. Sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with someone, was Elliot.

‘Hello Darling,’ she said as she approached him.

‘Oh hi,’ Elliot replied and continued talking to his companion.

‘Well, this must be the lovely Mrs Heller. You’re a lucky man Elliot. What can I get you to drink Mrs Heller?’

‘Anna, please’ she replied, ‘I’d like a sparkling water.’

Elliot never chatted to people. He must be really relaxing at last, she thought.

‘Ah now Anna, if that’s what you really want then thy will be done, but since we’re celebrating, maybe I could tempt you to something a bit more cheerful?’

‘What are we celebrating?’ Anna asked, raising an eyebrow at Elliot. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name Mr...’

‘Tony, Tony Walsh. I’m sorry Anna, I thought Elliot had mentioned me. Obviously, he was so preoccupied with your beauty and your charm that a big eejit like myself didn’t come up in conversation. Frankly, I don’t blame him. If I was lucky enough to be married to you, I wouldn’t be talking business either,’ Tony said smoothly.

‘Business?’ Anna said, sounding surprised, ‘I didn't know you knew anyone in Ireland Elliot? What sort of business?’

‘It’s nothing,’ Elliot replied briskly ‘Tony and I have been talking for the past few weeks, just bouncing a few ideas around about a bit of potential real estate development over here, nothing for you to worry about Anna,’ he added dismissively.

Elliot turned his attention back to his companion, ‘So where are we going for dinner? I’m starving.’

‘Well, I told the architect and the planning rep to meet us in Jean-Claude’s at eight if that suits you both? It’s French, but the portions are Irish. So you won’t be going for chips afterwards! Righty-ho will we go so?’

Tony stood up and drained his pint, Elliot finished his whiskey and, as Anna never actually had her drink, they walked out of the bar.

Patrick was enjoying himself as he walked into the town with a pronounced spring in his step. The late afternoon sun was reflecting off the water in the harbour and the clinking of masts on the dozens of boats moored in the harbour provided a pleasant soundtrack to this colourful and cheery little place. He felt truly at home.

He had done some family research before his departure. He had visited an aunt-in-law in New York, who told him that she thought his great-great grandfather had come from County Cork, but as he emigrated in the 1870s, there was nobody still alive who could provide any more detail. Patrick would have loved to hear all about a long Irish lineage, and maybe even meet up with some cousins here, but based on the little information he had acquired to date, that seemed impossible. Strolling along a side street, he caught a waft of garlic coming from a nearby pub. He’d only had a light lunch, so maybe an early dinner mightn’t be a bad idea.