Lately, I find myself featuring as a guest in numerous podcasts. Despite scarcely ever tuning into one, I’m frequently engaged as a special contributor. Having a book under your belt typically results in a certain predictability in the interrogation – you eventually find yourself reciting rehearsed responses. Occasionally, however, a probing query can ignite an unanticipated introspective. Participating in an American podcast via Zoom recently, the host, possessing that unmistakable ‘podcast voice’, queried, “Mr Barry, if asked to encapsulate the essence of the people from your native West of Ireland in just one term, what would that be?”
“Unsettled,” was my reply.
I sincerely believe this captures our essence. We are a coastal people, our emotions susceptible to the whims of the Atlantic’s temperamental weather system. The colours of our sky and sea might change a thousand times a day, with our moods fluctuating in tandem. Occasionally, Co Sligo experiences drawn-out stretches of overcast gloom, the resulting despondency only broken by sporadic intervals of breathtaking, blue-sky clarity, intense light, and suddenly everyone is buzzing with life, tractors scaling hills, livestock frolicking in the pasture, love blossoming all around.
I admit, we are a mercurial bunch. Eastward winds, in particular, have been known to unhinge us. Trustworthy sources suggest that from Cork to Donegal, the accident and emergency departments are congested whenever the wind hails from that direction, not dissimilar to full moon nights. Our moods are as capricious as the tide, overpowered by surges of burning emotion. The ever-present ocean can at times be menacing and inscrutable, its endlessly deep waters a mystery, yet other times it infuses a sprightliness into everyday life, endowing it with a certain magic and radiance.
Attempting to depict an authentic representation of life in the West of Ireland through literature leads us directly to Dermot Healy.
[ Dermot Healy possessed a mind that was inherently tumultuous ].
While it’s been a decade since Mr. Healy transitioned to a different realm, his words continue to eerily linger for his readers. His prolific writings were more than mere fiction, they provided a spiritual commentary on our circumstances. This is apparent in his final notable novel, Long Time, No See and in Sudden Times, which tells the narrative of Ollie Ewing returning home to Sligo from London. Perhaps most prominently, his storytelling is showcased in his spectacular masterpiece, A Goat’s Song. Today, we commemorate this monumental work.
The narrative commences on the Mullet Peninsula. For those who haven’t immersed themselves in Healy’s captivating works for some time, or those unfortunate to have not stumbled upon his writings yet, here’s an early excerpt showcasing his understated strength –
Blue-marked sheep grazed in the field behind him. A chilly expanse of sea lay beyond with winter-bound boats. A storm from the previous night had left the beach resembling a disorderly bed after a nightmare. He ambled through the town. Lads in Belmullet played football, sending it over the square’s ESB wires. It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon. At The Appetizer, a handful of women indulged in cream buns. Trailers heaped with Christmas trees were being hauled up Seán America Street by tractors under the unusual December light.
The tale introduces us to Jack Ferris, a playwright and a fisherman, who occasionally indulges in drink and suffers from a broken heart. His love, an actress named Catherine Adams, has left him, but their separation might not be permanent. Catherine is the progeny of a Presbyterian RUC man, Jonathan Adams, from Fermanagh. The Adams family found solace on the Mullet in the early 1970s, using it as a holiday spot and an escape from the Troubles.
The narrative weaves between the lives of various people. It tells the tale of an intricate island and its stubborn, challenging and tortured inhabitants. It elegantly transitions through time and place yet always returns to the windswept west. Those who have visited the Mullet will tell you it’s intense west of Ireland, an environment of bone-chilling dampness and mind-whirling gales. Yet it also hosts sudden flashes of striking, inexplicable beauty that seem bestowed by a mystical seaside entity.
One foggy instance, a group of hares appeared, hopping energetically through the garden.
“Jack,” she quietly called out.
“I see them,” came his gentle response.
The hares paused to regard the pair, their leathery brown bodies and honey-coloured eyes catching their attention. They cautiously moved away, stopped to listen, darted a bit further, then squatted once more. Their eyes held wild adeptness, their fur worn and hard. Finally, they bounded away.
Skilled eyes of the author keenly observe his world, breathing life into the inanimate. He gives all things a vivacity that makes the storytelling remarkably relatable and filled with intricate, authentic experiences. Strikingly, he’s able to hold the fine equilibrium between savageness and discipline—essential elements that give a novel its worth. He presents a plethora of extraordinary facts that ring oddly true.
“Jack Ferris began a conversation about the dogs in Roscommon as he observed Daisy. “They have mismatched eyes— one brown, one blue. It’s unbelievable. Any ideas how that came about?”
“I’m not sure,” Catherine responded.
“There are quite a few twisted-eye dogs in Leitrim and a handful of Albino ones.”
The book elegantly circles around the intense and star-crossed romance between Jack and Catherine, exploring her father’s adjustment to the Mullet lifestyle, his endeavor to grasp the Irish language and understand the fate of the remaining Protestant clans. The narrative takes us to bleak Belfast during its darkest period and briefly to Dublin, but the east seemed alien, and we didn’t stay there long. I revisited the book last week after almost two decades, and each scene was still vivid, humorous, poignant, and the cumulative effect of these scenes on the reader remained a silent devastation.
[Dermot Healy: A modern virtuoso]
Healy was a notable creative force in County Sligo, likely inspiring many artists and writers to gather in the region. Originally from Finnea, Westmeath, his life took him to London, which he treasured, and then to Dublin. Eventually, he journeyed westward, spending his sunset years in the remote Ballyconnell, on the Sligo coastline, alongside his wife, Helen.
Although I never got to know him personally, we crossed paths at a few written art events and around the town of Sligo. I remember our meeting at Kate’s Kitchen one day where he asked about the historic barracks I’d purchased in the county’s south. When I mentioned the problematic ancient chimneys and a pesky crow invading the bedroom, his reaction was one of mild sympathy for my partner in the south. He swiftly dispatched a builder who adequately resolved the chimney issues and there has been no sighting of a crow in the room since, barring ghostly memories of the troublesome bird.
Currently, it’s midsummer in Co Sligo. The sky retains its light beyond 11 p.m., leaving only a brief spell of peculiar half-darkness – an atmospheric period filled with ambient hours of unusual, dark-grey déjà vu. During these mystical hours, the avian inhabitants near Arrow lake persist in delivering their uncanny calls and nocturnal melodies. On a cloudless night, one can leisurely chart the moon’s trajectory over the Curlews, eventually winding towards the Bricklieves. The celestial bodies remain as familiar as ever. It’s an exceptional period to immerse oneself in solitary strolls along deserted country tracks or moon-illuminated lanes, perceiving our world anew through the intriguing insight and delightful diversion provided by a distinguished author who once journeyed these parts. Kevin Barry is the author of the latest novel – “The Heart in Winter”.