The fleet of Ceol faoi Shéol (Music Under Sail) reached Crosshaven safely and in time for that sweet village’s Traditional Boat Festival last weekend. I’m not sure if there is a nicer way of spending a week’s holiday than amongst sea-faring, musical friends with the gift of the gab and a passion for the people and the pubs along the fabled coast Cork. This June beano is now as fixed in our cosmos as the North Star; and while cynical coves will scoff at our simplicity as we trudge down the gangplank towards the pub, a gadget, perhaps, or a fiddle under your oxter; I am reminded of what the great East Galway practitioner of Irish music, Joe Burke, told me some years back. Joe said that around Loughrea in the fifties you’d have to hide your melodeon in case the people would be laughing at you; tinkers’ music, they called it, which is doubly disrespectful, as our traveling community is amongst the most authentic tradition bearer. Now, Joe tells me, traditional musicians have to conceal their instruments such is the incredible interest in the music.
Amongst the coterie of musicians and singers on board the mother ship, Ron Kavana, as he spells his name, stood out like a beacon of contemporary light, candescent, vital, yet all of his songs while treating of present-day events like reconciliation in the North or between Ireland and England are firmly fixed upon traditional navigation. I was delighted to include two of Ron’s songs on my new album Soldiers’ Songs with Máirtín de Cógáin and our new band, “C aptain Mackey’s Goatskin and Stringband”, both on the fortunes of Irish soldiers caught in the vortex of history. Kavana can reach back and sing the unsung, champion the tenor of their lives and more importantly, assuage their lonesome, wandering souls, because, as I read somewhere, the dead long to be remembered.
I’m delighted Ron has deigned to compose a new sea shanty about our humble coastal navigations; thought he has pitched his song far higher and to far loftier latitudes than those of Carberrry’s Hundred Isles and turned us all miraculously into blue water sailors, which some of our dauntless navy certainly are, like our redoubtable Rear-Admiral Dave Hennessy.
Last week’s ballad which Ron also kindly contributed to the column was handed to me as we rounded the Fastnet, on the back of a Players cigarette box (navy cut, of course); today’s was shouted into my ears as we tacked across Clonakilty Bay.
In the old days of sail, the shanty was a means of keeping the sailors in tandem and in time as they reached aloft or turned the capstan or straightened the yards. Because like most good things in life, communal team work is nearly always the most enjoyable, productive and noble. They intone it well in the Mother Tongue: i dteannta a chéile a mhairimid (in each other’s company we live best).
Monkstown Traditional Sail Festival is on this weekend and I’ll see ye all at their delightful,cosy Sailing Club on Sunday afternoon for a selection of maritime songs.
From Oileán Cléire we have come,
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
Across the broad Atlantic foam,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.
Chorus after each quatrain:
Land ahoy, land ahoy,
Land ahoy, me bonnie boys;
We’ll soon be with the girls we love,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.
The season’s o’er, the music’s done;
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
The Holy Ground we’ll soon walk on,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.
Is that the Head of Old Kinsale?
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
Soon into Queenstown we will sail.
Land ahoy, me sailor boys
There’s Captain Tanner at the wheel,
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
And Seanie Driscoll playing a reel
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.
Tonight we’ll sail right up the Lee,
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
Captain Dave, the crew and me,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.
Let Ado strum that old guitar,
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
And play The Coast of Malibar,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.
Is that the cove of Cork I see?
Land ahoy, land ahoy.
We’ll sup tonight with our family,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.
We’ll Trim the Velvet, Speed the Plow
Land ahoy, land ahoy,
Play all the tunes we know somehow,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys.
Perhaps we’ll shed a tear or two,
Land ahoy, land ahoy,
For shipmates taken from our crew,
Land ahoy, me sailor boys
13.6.09
SONGS OF CORK:ECHO SERIES 338: CITY OF SONG.
We are on the whale’s path, on that watery road that has no ending. Our fleet is not insubstantial being the sum of four stout, sturdy vessels still outward bound as I write. This is no ordinary flotilla; being the singular association of sea-faring musicians who flourish in each other ‘s company when the cuckoo’s song is nearly run and now known around the coast of Cork as Ceol faoi Sheol (music under sail). My own official holidays, this is the week the thought of which has sustained me through lonesome times in America; like when I ran into that snowstorm in Michigan or I was pulled over by the Texsas Rangers or when lightening flashed like dancing dragons and blanched the sky, I’d say to myself, Hang in there, Crowley, in a four weeks you’ll be off the Galley Head with a fleet of faithful tars heading for Mary Casey’s cosy tavern overlooking Glandor Harbour; the yellow moon pulling a yellow swathe towards herself in the firmament across the placid sea.
After a cosy “home” night at the Moonduster, Crosshaven last Wedensday the fleet weighed early on Thursday morning heading out the harbour under all plain sail, a propitious wind filling our canvas. Soon the Old Head is weathered, a fair wind off the land and with a fine academic commentary from my cousin “Bosun” Bill Daly who knows the topography and archaeology of this coast to the finer details. His intonation waxes slow and languid as he drones on about sunken ships off lonesome Rainey’s Bay, poor Chinese slaves who were once wrecked and imprisoned in sheds along the coast; distressed American steamers during World War One and more recent adventures or friends and associates.We make that lovely board towards Courtmacsherry where Billy Fleming’s cosy Anchor Bar is our first port of call for the session. A cashless, communist association, Seol fe Sheol bargains thus with benign coastal landlords: “How would you like to have the cream of musicians all jamming away together in your pub and there’s no transmission of cash even!” I can tell you, many publicans in retrospect would fare fiscally far fairer if a normal fee were stipulated ; because the barells of stout, the unquinshable thirst of those strumming mariners is inexorable .
We have an extraordinary team of chanters and traditional musicians which includes the reboubtable Admiral of the fleet Dave Hennessy, the best melodeon player between here and Shreveport, Louisiana. There’s his lovely wife Katrina on the timber flute, Gerry Harrington from Kenmare on a sweet Kerry fiddle that Padraig O’ Keefe would salute, the most subtle banjo player in Christendom , Seanie Driscoll, Captain Tanner, also on that instrument, the lovely Jessica on the flute and who graces us with sweet sean nos steps of dancing each night and the singers are the redoubtable Dick Hogan from Tipperary, perhaps the best comic singer in Ireland who springs into action each night to the delight of the people. Among other friends like Dr. Dave Nagle who joined us on Sherkin and played lovely fiddle and national steel guitar , our company is rounded off by songwriter Ron Kavana from the town of Fermoy.Ron’s songs (they are many and varied and not confined to the Beautiful City) are beautiful, poignant, didactic and spiritual.
Here is one that is specially suited to our column,written out by himself on the back of a fag box off the Fastnet, being in a plaintive 3-4 and all to do with the things we love about Cork . Can I thank, while I’m at it, all those publicans who hosted this motley crew along the coast for the last week or so, no sailor had to be cautioned or punished in any way, so behaviour was , I hope, not too bad. Thank you Jodie and Joe at the Moonduster in Crosshaven, Billy Fleming at the Anchor bar, Courtmac, Mary Casey in Glandore,William and Valerie and the Corner House, Skibbereen,Mark Murphy at the hotel, Sherkin Island,the people of Hackett’s bar, Schull and young Youen Jacob in Baltimore, for these are the pubs and publicans that will prevail when the westerlies of this recession subdue lesser vessels.
Pairc Ui Chaoimh on the Sundays,
I remember with pride
From the Ferryboat Inn
We crossed the river we’d ride;
The fans sang, We don’t care
If we win , loose or draw,
The Red and White blowin’
In the cold winter squall.
Dear old town by the Lee,
There’s no place I could be
So carefree and happy
As when I’m on your streets;
I can still feel the glow, boys,
Of days long ago, boys,
When you’d hear the Dunne Brothers
Outside Roches’ Stores.
Chorus:
Corcaigh! Corcaigh! Corcaigh abu!
It’s not just when we’re winning
That we sing of you.
A city of beauty, a city of song,
Just fire up the chorus
And we’ll all sing along.
The Danes built your first walls
To keep us at bay;
From the banks and the boglands
We drove them away;
The Tans tried to burn you down
Not too long ago
But never could conquer
Your bold rebel soul.
Well the spires of St. Finbarr’s
Stand regal and tall
While the sweet Bells of Shandon
To prayer call on all
As from high on St.Luke’s
I gaze fondly down
On the waters flowing gently,
Your island surround.
Repeat chorus.
After a cosy “home” night at the Moonduster, Crosshaven last Wedensday the fleet weighed early on Thursday morning heading out the harbour under all plain sail, a propitious wind filling our canvas. Soon the Old Head is weathered, a fair wind off the land and with a fine academic commentary from my cousin “Bosun” Bill Daly who knows the topography and archaeology of this coast to the finer details. His intonation waxes slow and languid as he drones on about sunken ships off lonesome Rainey’s Bay, poor Chinese slaves who were once wrecked and imprisoned in sheds along the coast; distressed American steamers during World War One and more recent adventures or friends and associates.We make that lovely board towards Courtmacsherry where Billy Fleming’s cosy Anchor Bar is our first port of call for the session. A cashless, communist association, Seol fe Sheol bargains thus with benign coastal landlords: “How would you like to have the cream of musicians all jamming away together in your pub and there’s no transmission of cash even!” I can tell you, many publicans in retrospect would fare fiscally far fairer if a normal fee were stipulated ; because the barells of stout, the unquinshable thirst of those strumming mariners is inexorable .
We have an extraordinary team of chanters and traditional musicians which includes the reboubtable Admiral of the fleet Dave Hennessy, the best melodeon player between here and Shreveport, Louisiana. There’s his lovely wife Katrina on the timber flute, Gerry Harrington from Kenmare on a sweet Kerry fiddle that Padraig O’ Keefe would salute, the most subtle banjo player in Christendom , Seanie Driscoll, Captain Tanner, also on that instrument, the lovely Jessica on the flute and who graces us with sweet sean nos steps of dancing each night and the singers are the redoubtable Dick Hogan from Tipperary, perhaps the best comic singer in Ireland who springs into action each night to the delight of the people. Among other friends like Dr. Dave Nagle who joined us on Sherkin and played lovely fiddle and national steel guitar , our company is rounded off by songwriter Ron Kavana from the town of Fermoy.Ron’s songs (they are many and varied and not confined to the Beautiful City) are beautiful, poignant, didactic and spiritual.
Here is one that is specially suited to our column,written out by himself on the back of a fag box off the Fastnet, being in a plaintive 3-4 and all to do with the things we love about Cork . Can I thank, while I’m at it, all those publicans who hosted this motley crew along the coast for the last week or so, no sailor had to be cautioned or punished in any way, so behaviour was , I hope, not too bad. Thank you Jodie and Joe at the Moonduster in Crosshaven, Billy Fleming at the Anchor bar, Courtmac, Mary Casey in Glandore,William and Valerie and the Corner House, Skibbereen,Mark Murphy at the hotel, Sherkin Island,the people of Hackett’s bar, Schull and young Youen Jacob in Baltimore, for these are the pubs and publicans that will prevail when the westerlies of this recession subdue lesser vessels.
Pairc Ui Chaoimh on the Sundays,
I remember with pride
From the Ferryboat Inn
We crossed the river we’d ride;
The fans sang, We don’t care
If we win , loose or draw,
The Red and White blowin’
In the cold winter squall.
Dear old town by the Lee,
There’s no place I could be
So carefree and happy
As when I’m on your streets;
I can still feel the glow, boys,
Of days long ago, boys,
When you’d hear the Dunne Brothers
Outside Roches’ Stores.
Chorus:
Corcaigh! Corcaigh! Corcaigh abu!
It’s not just when we’re winning
That we sing of you.
A city of beauty, a city of song,
Just fire up the chorus
And we’ll all sing along.
The Danes built your first walls
To keep us at bay;
From the banks and the boglands
We drove them away;
The Tans tried to burn you down
Not too long ago
But never could conquer
Your bold rebel soul.
Well the spires of St. Finbarr’s
Stand regal and tall
While the sweet Bells of Shandon
To prayer call on all
As from high on St.Luke’s
I gaze fondly down
On the waters flowing gently,
Your island surround.
Repeat chorus.
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