Here’s Barbara and me many moons ago with Pete St. John (who composed the iconic ‘Fields of Athenry, at a Publicity Club of Ireland lunch in Jury’s Hotel Dublin with the President of the Dublin Club (whose name escapes me…).
The Corncrake, the Dawn Chorus, and Drink.
Today, while listening to RTE Radio 1’s repeat of ‘The Dawn Chorus’ from around the world, I was reminded of an extract from my recent book (published for family and good friends) entitled ‘Mary’s Musings – Volume 1’. The story is called ‘The Corncrake of Tory’ and it recounts my exploits while cycling a bicycle in the dead of night on Tory Island, with a bit of drink aboard…
Here goes…
THE CORNCRAKE OF TORY
Barbara twisted her ankle when she fell into a rabbit hole that day on Tory Island, off the coast of Donegal. We had hired bikes, merrily speeding down the narrow roads as we explored this wonderful blob on the Atlantic Ocean.
Answering the call of nature, Barbara scooted behind a bush, emerging stealthily, only to come a cropper in a rabbit hole.
We hobbled back to the guest house, fortified by a couple of vodkas at the bar. The eyes of the descendants of The Spanish Armada were on us, silently assessing our pedigree, our reason for visiting and, I’m sure drawing their own inoccuous conclusions. Barbara, with the gleaming white hair and Northern accent and me with my blond mop and too much eye make-up.
It was decided that one of us should at least explore the island after dark, since we would not pass this way again.
I tucked her in and straddled my rickety bike, following the music coming from the other side of the island. The Community Centre was stuffed with people – I had inadvertently crashed the afters of a wedding, he a stock broker in London, she a nurse on the mainland, and both having the time of their lives back home amongst their own.
I perched myself on a high stool at the counter, beside a bedraggled-looking local and before long we were chatting. A man in his twilight years, he had a melodious, soft, accent, but he stank to the high heaven so it wasn’t long before I made my excuses and wedged myself between two skittish ladies on a bench. Well, we laughed, we cried, we cursed, we sang, we danced and we bade our goodbyes at some ungodly hour.
I hopped up on my bike, happy as Larry, a cool breeze washing over me and a song in my heart. It was pitch black, and the sky rolled out before me, bedazzled by stars and meteors and flying saucers! And of course, the odd falling star reminded me of my precious souls gone before as I thanked those lucky stars that I was alive and well and bursting with contentment.
Slowly I approached the little hamlet by the pier and it started.
It was so loud that I thought it was a recording, and held that thought for many years afterwards. Surround sound at its best, the corncrake sang proudly in the moonlight, crystal clear punctuations and loud as could be. I stopped in my tracks at the white-washed half-village and lingered and languished in this beautiful sound in the surreal island of Tory.