At the Edge of Ireland Page 20

  “What an incredible kaleidoscope of epics!” said Anne.

  “Ah boy, yes—endless! Some call her ‘Our Irish Mary Magdalene.’ Others see her as being symbolic of the Irish and European purge of female witches. Some of the old gods like Dna, the mother of Irish gods, became St. Brigid, whose annual festival celebrates the beginning of spring. In some ways they could have been forgotten as the Catholic church became supreme, but there seems to be a new level of interest in these ancient, powerful, and pagan forces today. Maybe we see great wisdom in their awareness of the interconnectedness of all things and the balancing of male and female forces. Things we’re still trying to work out ourselves right now!”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “The old values resonating once again in all our current chaos of global decimation and disaster!”

  “Story of life really, isn’t it?” said Carey. “In the tough times, we dig back to the simpler, clearer beliefs. Yesterday I heard of a woman in town…someone called her ‘as ancient as the Cailleach Bhearra.’ She’s still a feared—but also very respected—Hag. In fact her code for a healthy life is still listened to today:

  ‘I never let the top of my head see the air

  I never let the sole of my foot ever touch the ground

  I never ate food but when I was hungry

  I never went to sleep but when I would be sleepy

  I never throw out dirty water until I’ve taken in the clean.’”

  “So the spirit of the Hag is still alive and well,” I suggested.

  Carey laughed. “Sometimes a bit more alive than seems sensible or safe! You talk to some of those folks who come over all the way from Belgium or Germany to visit The Hag rock and leave gifts and whatnot and you worry a bit about where their heads are at!”

  I worried about our heads too. But we steadfastly decided to honor the required rituals, and all in all, it was a unique and pleasant experience.

  We left the car at the roadside and entered the moor by a small gate. The sun was bright, and a refreshing briny breeze scampered up the hillside from the small bay below us. A mussel farm and a couple of modest fishing boats (the old kind—nothing like the mega-monsters now in Casteltownbere harbor) occupied the landward side of the bay. In the hazy distance, purpled and jaggedly mysterious, were the two Skelligs, so strangely similar in profile, like enormous schooners on the horizon.

  A narrow, muddy path led us around the flank of the hill. For some bizarre reason, rather than avoiding all the bogs and peaty patches, it seemed to delight in taking us straight through them and soaking us up to our calves.

  “What is this—some kind of endurance test?” I asked, annoyed to see my new hiking boots obliterated in thick black mud.

  Carey gave me a warning frown and whispered (she actually whispered), “Best to be quiet now. We’re almost there. She’s just around the bend…”

  And Carey as usual was correct. As we shuffled in soggy single file along the path, an oddly shaped rock rose up just ahead. Compared to all the bulky “standing stones” and stone circles on Beara this was a very modest-sized rock, barely five feet high. But it did possess a definite animate presence. In silhouette it was like a large figure sitting on the ground wrapped in a broad blanket with a small head perched on wide shoulders. And, as we got closer, we realized that, just as we’d been told, the rock was covered with and surrounded by the most bizarre types of “personal gifts”—buttons, coins, cheap rings, bracelets, necklaces, and even pens, ribbons, and a number of those popular rubber wristbands proclaiming support for worthy causes.

  The Hag of Beara

  We stood in silence for a while. Maybe even a little awe crept in. It was obvious that scores of people had made their way here over the months, trekking through the peaty glop, to pay their respects and sit or stand silently in The Hag’s presence. She seemed to induce that kind of respect. Stupid really that a bit of odd-shaped boulder set on a lonely hillside in a very remote part of Ireland should engender so much veneration. And who knows, maybe even a little fear too. Hags to many people are obviously not harmless. Especially Hags that may be tangible links to the greatest female goddesses of all—the ones with the real powers for earthly fertility and life-continuity.

  Eventually Carey broke the silence and said quietly. “This is my favorite place—here with her. When you think of all those prayers and wishes and all those people over the ages who’ve left imprints of energy here, it kind of cloaks you in a mystery when you touch her. After all, she is Mother Nature in solid form. And across this small bay here is that giant ogham stone—a huge masculine symbol of energy. The two of them facing each other, watching one another, seeking to maintain balance and harmony…makes me just want to sit and be a little part of all that…”

  I reached out and stroked The Hag. The rock was rough with dry lichen and felt pretty much as a rock normally feels. But as I moved my fingers slowly across its surfaces I sensed two odd sensations—a distinct warmth in the rock despite the fact it was a rather gray and chilly day, and sudden faint tingles of energy, like low-voltage electricity that radiated up my arm…

  OVER THE MONTHS WE returned to The Hag a number of times, bearing our small gifts and leaving our spit as gestures of respectful farewells. Invariably we brought our American friends with us—Robby, Celia, Danny, Theo, Lizbeth, Kathleen, and others, and in every instance, each one sensed the power and impact of this strange, beguiling entity. I can’t say we actually came to love The Hag, but we were certainly proud she was here with us on Beara. And—in an odd way—I guess this book is a kind of homage not only to this magnificent peninsula but also to the earth-nurturing spirit that resides here, centered on places like this wild hillside.

  And while I’m in this homage mode, I’ll also acknowledge other friends of ours—the magnificent O’Reilly family. Two of them, James and Sean, creators of the Travelers’ Tales publishing company in San Francisco, came over for an enormous family reunion near Killarney (forty plus children and grandchildren reflecting a “fine Catholic family!”). While we never managed to lure them over Moll’s Gap to Beara, we visited them and were treated to a personal tour of an enormous ruined castle they’d recently purchased. It was a most impressive if very broken pile, set high on a wooden hilltop overlooking the Macgillycuddy’s Reeks range. And they had absolutely no idea what to do with it. We suggested that a visit to our powerful Hag and a few questing prayers might help resolve the matter…

  IT WAS FASCINATING TO watch the different impacts Beara had upon our friends. Each one had gone to a considerable amount of trouble to reach our tiny wild corner of southwest Ireland. Some had landed in Dublin, some in Shannon, and all had to fight the horrors of the rental car rip-off when they realized that Ireland was one of only three nations on earth not recognized by USA insurance and credit card policies (the others being Israel and Jamaica!).

  But finally they arrived, each one bearing lurid tales of crazy drivers, horrendously narrow roads, gorgeous little rainbow-colored villages, the oddly brain-numbing porridgy impact of a céilí hang-over, the gargantuan breakfasts particularly following a night of craic and overconsumption…(“How can anyone start the morning with one of those cholesterol-dripping platters of bacon, sausage, black pudding, white pudding, fried tomatoes, fried mushrooms, fried bread, eggs, and baked beans and still hope to stay upright for the rest of the day?!”) Others less inclined to the juice of the barley thought they were some of the best breakfasts they’d every eaten.

  We sympathized, empathized, and finally itemized for our poor overburdened guests, all the joys of Beara and beyond. And they—god bless ’em, each and every one—smiled and sank into receptive mode for the rest of their visits. And, of course, respectful trips to The Hag helped consolidate their fun and good fortune.

  So thanks once again, Cailleach Bhearra—and Carey too, for first introducing us to her and to so many other delights in this wild and spirit-nurturing place.

  15

  Cookie
s with Cormac and Rachael

  “WELL, I MEAN, JUST LOOK AT all…this…” Cormac Boydell, one of Ireland’s foremost ceramic artists, laughs and flings his arms wide. “You can’t possibly be dishonest, can you?…Untrue to yourself…your creative self—in a place like this…”

  And what a place it is. Just past an amazing geological tangle of scalloped rocks and “curled strata” constantly being carved out by furious ocean surf, we’d found this modest cottage tucked away at the end of a narrow rocky boreen off the Allihies-to-Eyeries Road. It was virtually invisible and set in a rocky cleft filled with a tumultuous tropical riot of bamboo, palms, huge explosions of rhubarb-like Gunnera with leaves as big as elephant ears and nine-foot-high clusters of something strangely giraffelike. Add to this Edenic environment a chuckling but barely visible stream, a constant chorus of birds, soft ocean breezes that make the brittle palm fronds chatter together, and deep shadowy enclaves behind the huge plants. Then you begin to understand the broad smile that appears on Cormac’s lean face when he watches our reaction to his hidden haven of peace and creativity.

  “I don’t really encourage visitors,” he said almost apologetically, as if guilty at having this amazing place all to himself and his artist wife, Rachael Parry. “It’s not that I’m antisocial or anything, but I get so easily distracted and time just seems to leak away. And I honestly prefer the selling and whatnot to take place in the galleries—not here. After all, I’m not making mugs with people’s names on them. I need all the focus and quietude I can get just for the creative work…”

  Rachael emerged from the house bearing a tray of tea and homemade ginger biscuits (some of the best we’ve ever tasted). She was a small, lean woman with an aquiline face and large, melt-your-heart eyes that made me immediately want to pick up a pen and sketch her. She’d heard Cormac’s comments and laughed softly. “Oh yes—he certainly needs all that. And he gets it too! Have you seen his little hotbed of creativity yet…?”

  “Yes,” said Anne. “We snuck into his studio for a peep on the way up from the car. Powerful stuff in there!”

  “Curved Strata” near Allihies

  Cormac smiled bashfully and pulled his Aussie outback canvas hat tighter over his wild mop of sandy hair. The hat was a throwback to an early life as a geologist in Australia long before he met Rachael at a transcendental meditation workshop in Ireland in the 1970s.

  “That poor little shed. It’s been around for decades. Hardly enough room to swing a cat. But at least I’m going to get it insulated. I’m too old now for the winter cold. Rachael’s got her own shed”—Cormac pointed to the rocky crest of the cleft—“and hers has views.”

  “When did you actually move here?” I asked.

  “After Australia. In 1972. Pursuing the self-sufficient life, which actually turned out to be harder than we planned. But eventually we got things in focus. Rachael and our two children were wonderful. And my father too—Brian Boydell. His life was always an example to me. He also gave up geology for his real love—music. Became a pretty celebrated composer and professor of music at Trinity College in Dublin. And my mother, Mary, is a prominent authority on Irish glass. That’s her real love. So in 1983 I decided it was time to pursue my own real love of—clay! Our gorgeous, rich, chocolaty Irish Wexford clay. Using my hands as my only tools…and, well, I guess I was lucky. Very lucky. Galleries started to feature my work almost from the very start! I expected I’d have to go through the standard ‘starving artist’ gauntlet, but somehow I managed to skip that challenge, and doors opened and lo—I was an ‘Artist’! People started buying all my colorful creations.”

  “Similar to what we saw in the shed?” I asked. “All those wonderfully primeval slabs of fired clay painted in brilliant wild Fauvist colors…”

  “Similar. Maybe not quite so bold and carefree as now…and maybe not so tongue-in-cheek and humorous. But sometimes I’m surprised by the consistency because…well, I’m very fluid in the way I work. I don’t really know what I’m going to create with each piece until I knead the clay in my hands—like baker’s dough…letting the work lead me to new possibilities and forms I didn’t know I wanted to make. I’m usually inspired by prehistoric and tribal art and the New York abstracts of the 1950s and I guess all the incidental abstraction that surrounds us. Particularly in a place as powerful as Beara. You sense a great spiritual centering here. Magic in the mystic misty silences. And then the colors—well, that’s my latent geologist reemerging. I mix my own colors mainly from minerals and whatnot. You get some pretty unique shades and textures. And it doesn’t all happen at once. I know they might look simple—even primitive—but each piece goes through a complex series of color layerings and firings…”

  “I love their brightness—their vibrancy,” said Anne.

  Cormac smiled, bashfully again and rubbed his fingers together, as if slowly mixing soft clay. “Well—I blame that on where we are.” He flung his arms out again to encompass the surging tsunamis of vegetation around us. Pieces of his sculpture peeked out from the greenery. “I mean, look at this corner of Beara—beautiful rocks, the ocean just down the track, this jungle of a garden, the light, the sky, the colors all around…Then I combine all that with memories of wonderful bold images I’ve seen—Minoan sculpture, cave art…anything and everything!”

  “And then on a couple of plate-forms, I saw a cartoonlike portrait of Van Gogh…and the two Skellig islands on another,” I said.

  “Yeah, odd, isn’t it. I never really know what will appear. But whatever comes seems to sell. I think the humor in some of the pieces appeals—the enjoyment and play of art as a medium of communication. Also the sense of authenticity in the basic clay material and, well, I suppose what you might call an aura of primitive spirituality without overanalyzing…Also, I’ve never really cared that much about money…or celebrity. I’m honestly happiest just being here, working by myself and with Rachael. We work on multimedia pieces together—and I’m happy if my work just makes people feel happy. That’s success to me. If you’re driven by money concerns and desires, then you’re setting yourself up for failure. Your work becomes dictated by these elements—and you end up more concerned about what’ll sell and you start producing strings of sausages or objects that don’t particularly enhance your own life—or anyone else’s. So what’s the point? You project bad karma…”

  “Ah, another Beara Buddhist!” said Anne with a laugh.

  Cormac chuckled. “Actually, you’re right. I’m very involved with the center. Have been for years. Ever since I met Peter Cornish, the founder, and his late wife, Harriet. And before that Rachael and I were teaching transcendental meditation workshops. So I guess art and Buddhism play a large part in our lives—they’re interchangeable really. I guess the Buddhist way of looking at things influences my art too…unconsciously. Being ‘present’ and ‘mindful’ can produce a kind of immediacy and freshness in what I try to do. Meditation is important to me too, primarily for pragmatic reasons. It helps eliminate distractions and keeps me in the ‘now,’ to use that much overused—and misused—word. It’s very contrary to our normal habits and scattered minds, so it’s something you have to work on…”

  “And karma…you mentioned karma,” asked Anne.

  “Well…I certainly understand the concept of karma…everything you do has an effect on the universe. But it’s also another very misused—and misunderstood—word…”

  “And reincarnation?” I asked.

  “Ah, well, that’s…well, let’s just say…I’m still working on that concept!”

  Rachael’s fabulous ginger cookies were almost gone from the tea tray now, and she gave us all a forgiving smile and went back in the house to bring more. Silence settled, and a cool breeze tumbled over the lip of the deep cleft in which we, the house, the shed-studios, and the riotous vegetation were all cozily cocooned. I smiled as the air brought momentary relief to the warm sunshine, and then I realized we were all smiling together. Rachael laughed as she rejoined us (with a
nother brimming cookie plate). “You all look as if you’ve just finished off a whole bottle of sherry together!”

  Bees buzzed about; the birds were still chattering away; the stream chittered down over the rocks in the deep shadows behind the big tropical leaves; another cool breeze slipped over into our cleft. And we all smiled again. Together.

  And I began to understand some of the many influences floating behind the works of Cormac Boydell.

  EVENTUALLY—WHEN THE SECOND plate of Rachael’s ginger cookies had been devoured—Cormac excused himself and retreated down through the dense foliage to his reclusive cavelike studio. We wondered if we should leave too, but we were curious about Rachael and her own creative work.

  “Oh well—he’s the famous one in the family…,” she said with a wry grin. “Compared to Cormac, my work’s more like a hobby—I don’t even have a permanent gallery yet.”

  “Yes, but you’ve had a load of shows, according to something I read in our local paper,” said Anne. “They were very complimentary. And they mentioned your studio here—something about it feeling like being in a floating balloon!”