Footloose in the West of Ireland

An introductory portrait of this talented author sets the tone of this lovely book on page x of its introduction. His slightly raffish pose overlooking the southernmost point of mainland Ireland prefaces a splendid and colourful vista of the country's best of the west. Of course as everyone knows this is a wild and beautiful area, where farmers still carry their peat in wheelbarrows (Connemara), and stone walls are uniquely crazy (the Burren). Ireland's entire population is still less than Puerto Rico, though it is almost eight times its size. Its fiordlike coastline, and imposing mountains are wonderfully described with a storyteller's flair, a gentle touch, and often a winking eye. He lets you feel the flowers underfoot in County Clare, but doesnt talk about the ticks lurking in the bracken at the foot of Slieve Elva. He tells you of the music in the pubs, but doesnt say that a foreign fiddler can walk in to some such a pub, and be offered a fiddle hanging on the wall, so warm is the welcome. His love of the tunes is on the page... the text is interspersed with lines of musical notation (like Walter Starkie's Raggle Taggle) from Macgillycuddy's Polka to Old Nag You Have Killed Me. He speaks personally of almost losing it on the forbidding high ridges of Mweelrea, a truly imposing mountain, and he is poetic in chronicling the godawful tale of the starving, ragged band that was turned back not that many years ago by the heartless Poor Law guardians at Delphi Lodge. I just came back from following in some of his footsteps. The book was a true and constant pleasure, and got me a pint or two of Guinness into the bargain from trying on a few of his tales. Among his best stories, not well known apparently (so there is still possibly more guiness awaiting the telling) is the one about the true naming in Gaelic of the Devil's Mother, but you'll have to get the book for that.