In the northern Sligo town of Ballyconnell, midsummer of 2024 brings with it the peak of the marshlands’ flourishing greenery. The unpredictable oscillation between heavy rainfall and quick spells of fierce heat has resulted in the blooming of striking clusters of white cottongrass, as radiant as midyear cumulus clouds. Against the illumined brine spray drifting inland from the foamy crests of the ocean, it might take a second to distinguish the outline of a coastal dwelling, established by the author Dermot Healy and his partner Helen in the dawn of the nineties. The residence is so proximate to the Atlantic that it almost appears to be a compact vessel facing the oceanic surge.
Standing over a shingle seafront specked with grey grains, the beachgrass tenaciously grips the bank that runs parallel to the track leading to the cottage and accompanying outhouses. The elevated bank, an amalgamation of compacted clay, sand, and pebbles, is strengthened by strategically arranged wire mesh cages filled with stones. The design and arrangement of these protective stone-filled structures, also known as gabions, were determined only after Dermot’s thorough and regular scrutiny of the rising and falling tide patterns and the areas most susceptible to erosion during high tides and tempest surges.
During Dermot and Helen’s residence, the gabions that shielded their property from the ocean required frequent upkeep. Dermot would regularly emerge on the beach to direct a local operator of excavation machinery, who worked alongside his sibling, to collect and stack stones into the insatiable gabions that would arrive as flat-pack units. Donning his beaten anorak, denims, and woolen pullover, Dermot appeared every bit the experienced seafarer; his red-grey hair and beard, coupled with his tendency to hunch his shoulders, gave him the appearance of a ‘seasoned sailor’, seemingly weathered by a lifetime of rum, hostels, and maritime hardships.
As I strolled along the seaside, I would occasionally pause for a friendly conversation with him, as he used pliers to mend the wire ties essential for manually constructing the gabions in the freezing weather, and then laboriously fill them with piles of stones. In retrospect, I now question if the coastal restoration labour he performed, and his zealous dedication to it, shares a common thread with his writing – the challenge of precise positioning. The careful arrangement of irregular stones in the gabions to create a lasting barrier seemed to mirror his adeptness in weaving significance through mindful selection of words, given the burdens of legacy he had to grapple with.
An accomplished poet, fiction writer, novelist, playwright, actor, director and editor, his unique lifestyle consistently provoked inquiries regarding the creative advantages and professional shortcomings of working on the fringe. From my point of view, the immense value he placed on these efforts seemed more idealistic than pragmatic. Surely, in the face of a ferocious storm, such makeshift or homemade solutions would be insufficient to resist the force of the sea. During extraordinary weather conditions, the gabions, over which Dermot held such personal investment, indeed submerge, and the turbulent sea gnaws at the embankment they were designated to safeguard. Storms of astounding ferocity, which would overwhelm the gabions and the embankment to force the sea inland, happened luckily few and far between.
In such instances, the salty deluges morphed into a disastrous mixture of saltwater and tumultuous stones that would shred the beach, batter cavities into the embankment, shatter gabions, rip apart the roadway, eventually depositing enormous mounds of stones strewn about the roads and fields crammed with seaweed, marine wreckage, crab and lobster shells, and occasional fish.
After enduring such severe batterings, depending on the magnitude of the invasion, Dermot and Helen might face a day or week of cleanup before reclaiming their driveway. The cottage itself, enduring the brunt of the storm yet standing in tentative yet bold resilience. And once the area was tidy, Dermot could return to his writing – the very devotion that initially seemed to lure him here. Facing the challenge of “restraining the irrestrainable”.
Dermot found value in a different sort of trade-off. The home he owned providing more than just shelter, but a also a safe space for his writing, coexisted with the looming peril brought about by the sea. Living on the brink of danger provided him a crucial creative reserve for his craft. Dermot was somewhat of an anomaly in this regard, being an accomplished writer who hadn’t embarked on a teaching or lecture career. Instead, he found himself conducting writers’ workshops, guiding groups and partaking in sporadic residencies, however, primarily, he penned.
In what seems quite unconventional, the cottage was reportedly purchased by Dermot in the veil of night. The pact between the previous owner and himself initialised by match light. The cottage left much to be desired in terms of amenities, with spaces that were difficult to warm and basic facilities. The comfort in the place came mainly from fires fuelled by solids. Nevertheless, the doors to the front opened up to an incomparable perspective, capturing a lush scenery of lavender-hued mountains, azure sea and a variegated coastal hinterland as calming and delightful as the sea behind his home was untamed and ominous.
Witnessing Dermot in his sun-drenched porch each morning, soaking up the new day, was tantamount to an encounter with a person who was absolutely present in the “now”. Being immersed in such a peculiar location simply escalated the creative expectations he held for himself.
Perhaps his relationship with this coastal stretch found its most profound and complete representation in “A Fool’s Errand,” a collection of poetry that both celebrated and pondered the seasonal performance of the migrating barnacle geese. From October till April each year, Dermot would watch as the barnacle geese, or “barnies” as they were endearingly referred to, would pass over his metal-roofed cottage at dawn and dusk like clockwork. This familiar yet fleeting spectacle had become an integral part of life on this coastal strip, akin to “skywriting” in Dermot’s perspective.
Despite the relentless battering from the elements, Dermot’s cottage stood firm with an unstable yet resolute stoicism.
In 2015, the follow-up poetry work of the late Dermot, The Travels of Sorrow, was released post-mortem. This came after his startling, unanticipated death due to natural causes at the age of 66. Dermot passed away on June 29th, 2014, in the comfort of his own bed, in his seaside cottage, leaving a profound shock akin to a massive wave crashing on his backyard reef.
The tenth commemoration of Dermot Healy’s passing remains a wrenching adjustment to the emptiness he left. Renowned as a manifold skilled poet, novelist, playwright, actor, director, editor, and short story writer, his marginal lifestyle still sparks inquiries regarding the creative advantages and the business cons of living on the outskirts. In a period where predicting future society from a creative perspective is an obstruction, I wonder if the society in another decade will find interest in Dermot’s type of books or the stage plays he scripted. Will his and my efforts be deemed outdated, insignificant, an echo from the past or simply be dethroned? A future where fortified traditions are in greater doubt, uncertainty, or are more prone to be replaced by a wave of transformation.
Walking on the bog-cotton-clad headland next to his edge house, the steady approach of waves on the beach lashing at whats left of the stone-stuffed gabions, can be perceived as the perpetual cycle of life. However, this cottage, largely unaltered since Dermot’s time, is in the pipeline of renovations by a new proprietor with innovative plans. The abode of the poet in its next phase. For now, at least, it stands as a vestige of the harmonious life Dermot selected for himself in a place of such remoteness. A precarious location to uphold one’s reputation in the world. He discovered his serene harbour. The location he was destined for.
The latest novel of Brian Leyden is called Love These Days.