Bodhrán and knackered

Ryan’s met a young girl, and he’s sweet on her. It’s cute how they meet on the farm: how she perks up when he enters the room; how she leans colloquially against the gate as she waits for him to come over; how, when his back is turned, she sneaks over and nibbles on his shirt to get his attention. She is a goat, and her name is Fudge.

Sadly, Dusty has hurt some ligaments in his wrist between his last race and galloping on the beach this past week, and he has to back out of tonight’s race on the greyhound track. Phil and Chris decide to take us out anyway.

In East Cork, miles or kilometers are meaningless. Time is measured in minutes, because, despite the distance, the folds of the country roads are the real determiner of trip length. So, thirty minutes away we pull into Marine Bar, where there are just two cars. So we sit down and, in the bar’s apparent fashion, Phil and Chris met a couple they’ve never seen before and become fast friends. After the band has had a few pints the place is full, and the instruments come out. As they get situated, the bar attendant places a Murphy’s or Guinness in a special holder on each of their mic stands where otherwise one might put a gadget to hold picks.

The music is great, and I am openmouthed at how quickly the squeezebox player’s fingers move over the tiny keys of the mini-accordion. The drummer’s hand is a blur as he double-strokes the bodhrán and moves his unseen hand behind the skin to create different pitches. The guitarist – the owner of the bar – fingerpicks and leads or harmonizes with that bright, clear Irish timbre, the Italian of English dialects.

All of this frenzy does us well, though I learn to fear the country roads. Ben sits in the front of our big, blue farm van because he wants to be able to see the road and, in doing so, trick his stomach. I realize this wisdom too late and the dark, cruel curves get me so motion sick that the floor, the wall, and my jeans were able to join the toilet in my late-night yakking. It’s over soon, and I lament the fact that one whose head is clear can still be brought to one’s knees by a continuous change of direction. Ryan sleeps nearby, dreaming perhaps of arts, rainbows, or the roar of the waves on the jagged coastline – walking through the pastures and brambles to the place where the water runs off to the rocks and the sea meets it with a crash of foam.