Hi all
Back in the summer of 1975 myself and two friends went on an extended tour of Ireland, stopping where we liked, and moving on when we felt like it. We wound up in a little town called Kilkee right on the western coast overlooking the wild Atlantic. That week there was a 'Singing Pub' competition in town: each night one of the local pubs would host a talent competition, with the winner going on to a grand final at the end of the week. We went along to the first couple of these events and thoroughly enjoyed them. This is where the story gets a little weird.
On the third night we went along to that evening's venue. It was odd: no ladies, and (apart from us) nobody under about 70 years of age. All elderly men, all dressed in black, supping Guinness and smoking various bars and flakes. The walls of the pub were yellowed by years of pipe smoke. Frankly, we wondered if we had got the venue wrong - perhaps there was a pub just down the road where they were singing up a storm?
But, at the appointed time, one of the old men began to sing. He didn't even stand up - he just put down his pipe and began to sing in the quavering voice of the very old. It was a song about the Easter Rising which took place in 1916 which eventually led to the creation of the Irish Republic.
After he finished, another sang, and then another. All were songs of that period - some about the events, and some about the heroes.
All very interesting, we thought, and then it hit us: these old guys were THERE! It wasn't history for them: it was memory. They weren't singing about events learned from a book or people they had heard about - they were singing about the things they had seen and the people they had known as very young men.
This is not a comment on Irish politics, then or now, but I could not help but be moved by this proximity to history.
To this day, when I see a very elderly man with his pipe, I cannot help but remember that night in Kilkee, and I wonder what history this old man has seen. More importantly, as I get older myself, I wonder if younger people ever consider me and the things I have lived through?
Back in the summer of 1975 myself and two friends went on an extended tour of Ireland, stopping where we liked, and moving on when we felt like it. We wound up in a little town called Kilkee right on the western coast overlooking the wild Atlantic. That week there was a 'Singing Pub' competition in town: each night one of the local pubs would host a talent competition, with the winner going on to a grand final at the end of the week. We went along to the first couple of these events and thoroughly enjoyed them. This is where the story gets a little weird.
On the third night we went along to that evening's venue. It was odd: no ladies, and (apart from us) nobody under about 70 years of age. All elderly men, all dressed in black, supping Guinness and smoking various bars and flakes. The walls of the pub were yellowed by years of pipe smoke. Frankly, we wondered if we had got the venue wrong - perhaps there was a pub just down the road where they were singing up a storm?
But, at the appointed time, one of the old men began to sing. He didn't even stand up - he just put down his pipe and began to sing in the quavering voice of the very old. It was a song about the Easter Rising which took place in 1916 which eventually led to the creation of the Irish Republic.
After he finished, another sang, and then another. All were songs of that period - some about the events, and some about the heroes.
All very interesting, we thought, and then it hit us: these old guys were THERE! It wasn't history for them: it was memory. They weren't singing about events learned from a book or people they had heard about - they were singing about the things they had seen and the people they had known as very young men.
This is not a comment on Irish politics, then or now, but I could not help but be moved by this proximity to history.
To this day, when I see a very elderly man with his pipe, I cannot help but remember that night in Kilkee, and I wonder what history this old man has seen. More importantly, as I get older myself, I wonder if younger people ever consider me and the things I have lived through?
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