The snow and ice have melted from the low ground around Sallins but, away to the south east, the sun still glints brightly off the whiteness remaining on the Wicklow Mountains. Now the high roads are open again our desire for elevation above Kildare’s flatlands needs to be met so, packing a flask and picnic, we head for the hills. The roads are only just open in places - the Wicklow Gap is single file with occasional snow ploughed passing places - and we have to wait as cars stop in the strangest places with one of the occupants (usually male) pointing a camera out of the window or even mounting it on a tripod set on the road. Following the camera’s line we sometimes see the cause of the excitement: a herd of deer grazing through the snow on the upper slopes or the play of light on ice and rock. Further on, descending into Glendalough, we wait while a JCB repairs the damage done to the road by floodwater in some earlier thaw; damage that has even swept peoples’ driveways down the mountain.
We usually go to Glendalough in the week, but today is a Sunday, and we struggle to park and even need to wait for a gap in the pedestrians before crossing the river over the iced up footbridge which was the only bridge left: only the concrete foundations of the upstream bridge remained after the floods. While surprised by the number of visitors we are confident that the usual rule will apply: the further you get from the car park the fewer people you see. We were relieved that this held true and, by turning south up the steep hill next to the waterfall filled ravine, soon found the solitude we were seeking. After half an hour of climbing we turned east and followed a trail along the hill to the south of the monastery. While primarily walking through the inevitable pinewoods we do pass a large cleared area surrounded by deer fences that is being returned to native woodland. Two other areas had been cleared to open up the views:
West along the upper lake and over Van Diemen’s Mines
And down over the monastic site
After eating lunch sitting on a log with the mountain at our back, we returned to the car to find the car parks so full that cars queued for our space while we were taking our boots off. Foregoing our planned coffee we left without resentment: Glendalough is such a glorious spot that it can only do souls good to enjoy its peace. Driving home by a different route - we follow the ‘Braveheart Trail’ briefly ( the Scotland Wallace/Mel Gibson is so passionate about in the film is actually Ireland!) and, once home, we pause for a few hours before the hundred yard stroll to the pub and the weekly music session.
There has been no getting away from music in Ireland: Eric plays the low whistle and his practicing was the perfect score while we drifted through the lakes, mountains and islands of the Shannon and the North. And the tourist economy that drives the waterways meants many pubs set a corner set aside for traditional musicians. The Sunday night session in The Mill at Sallins is a long way removed from these though: here there would be no fiddlers or pipers but the range of musicianship extends from a whistling Fleadh winner and other semi professional musicians, through keen players who practice diligently and others who just turn up for the craic. No Sunday is the same but the evening of our walk at Glendalough was really fun with sixteen musicians and, one instrument not being enough for many, something in excess of twenty five instruments present. To sit with a decent pint of Guinness in good company listening to some fine playing has to be the height of civilisation. Ballads, jigs and reels all feature, drinkers are cajoled into singing their own numbers, somebody at the bar will ask the barman for a couple of spoons and then beat time perfectly (even piling beer mats at different heights to ‘drum’ different sounds). Marketa, who is sitting at the table with us, digs a ‘rattly egg’ out and shakes time. So inclusive is the sound it seems the whole bar is involved for some of the songs. Virtually every player will do their own song or songs although this might involve putting down their own instrument and reaching for someone else’s. This only adds to the fun as the musician lending their instrument might end up grasping something they never considered, e.g. Darren a huge man who somehow plays exquisite guitar ending up playing a mandolin, truly a toy in big boy’s hands. One of the players once described the individual pieces (albeit supported by anyone who wants to play) as ‘the telling of your own story’, a suitably lyrical description of a magical process. For my own part, while tapping along in a manner becoming an English tourist, I am listening with a keen ear for the inevitable has happened: an instrument has found its way onto Hawthorn.
Many years ago I was ‘encouraged’ to play both the guitar and the recorder. Neither filled me with enthusiasm and I soon got out of trying to master either. Now, with so much music going on and time on my hands, I thought it might be fun to have a go at learning something. Guitar was out of the question: I would have to whittle my fingers down by about a third in order to cover one string at a time (not to mention having my hands run over so that I could reach the aforementioned without cramping). I then had a go at Eric’s low whistle (Yeah Yeah). This seemed much more approachable to a prop forward’s hands and the process appeared relatively simple: you blow down it and cover some or all of its six holes (albeit quite a long way apart as the low whistle is 22” long) to make the notes. Given that Eric was happy to teach me, a trip to the music store followed and Jill’s suffering could begin. Eric’s low whistling has a gloriously haunting quality perfectly suited to the wide open spaces and gentle pace of the waterways. The haunting quality I make reminds me of school mornings when I would wake to a noise not unlike the torturing of animals and be relieved to find it was my sisters practicing violin and oboe in their bedrooms. Now poor Jill suffers the constant repetition of ill played scales and melodies without melody. I thought it was going quite well until Eric pointed out that the notes had to be arranged not just in order but in something called ‘time’. And it would be a lot easier if I did not have to breath. Aah well, I have plenty of time (days, hours, minutes that is) and even the few weeks spent to date have brought improvement so there is some hope. I am being encouraged (mainly by those who have not heard me) to try to play on a Sunday night before the sessions at The Mill come to a seasonal close in March but I have grave doubts about that. Then again, should Jill crack, I may want the company.....
Sadly I did not take the camera to the pub the night of sixteen musicians, I took it the following week when there were only eight and all of them were smokers!
Fag break in music corner at The Mill
Hawthorn Blog 
