By David Yeadon
In contemporary years, eire has loved a newfound prosperity as Europe's such a lot prosperous country. yet tucked away in a much nook of the so-called "Celtic Tiger," that different enduring and actual country—that small, hidden position of straightforward magic and romance—still exists. Acclaimed go back and forth author David Yeadon and his spouse, Anne, got down to locate it.
On the Beara Peninsula of southwest eire, the Yeadons came across their very own "little misplaced world," an attractive Brigadoon of hovering mountain levels and impressive coastal surroundings, a ways faraway from the touristic hullabaloo of Dublin, Killarney, and the hoop of Kerry. here's the fabled "Old Ireland," alive and good with song seisuins, hooley dances, and seanachai storytellers—a haven for searchers, healers, artists, and poets hardy sufficient to have braved a similar slender and winding mountain roads that preserve the package-tour coaches out.
Bursting with colour and lifestyles, At the sting of Ireland is an intrepid wanderer's occasion of a paranormal, unspoiled, and unforgettable Éire.
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Additional info for At the Edge of Ireland: Seasons on the Beara Peninsula
This work consists of a curtain raised up with a faint light falling on “miscellaneous rubbish” scattered across the stage followed by “a faint brief cry,” an expiration of breath, and then silence, before the curtain drops again. Some claim it’s actually been performed in just over twenty seconds as opposed to the forty seconds estimated by Beckett. Undoubtedly a relief to many in the audience. What a bizarre nonworld the Nobel-Prized Beckett offered to a confused public—minimalistic tableaux of suspended heads with frantically chattering mouths; people in overgrown plant pots; characters immersed in sand; two Chaplinesque tramps waiting by a solitary tree for someone or something that never comes; a man feverishly winding and rewinding a recorded tape searching for .
It seems that after all the great times of legends and the mighty magical worlds that wrapped our little Ireland in shrouds of mist and mysteries . . should I tell y’more about that time . . before the coming of the Celts . . I’ve got some wonderful tales of far off down all the years . . tales of our ancient rulers, the Tuatha Dé Dannan, who were defeated by Milesian invaders around 250 bc and went to hide underground and became our fairy people. And all the great stories of that time like Táin Bó Cuailnge—The Cattle Raid of Cooley—or lots of others and Finn MacCool, our great warrior hero, and the Druids .
Just, ah, a bottle of Sam Smith’s? Pale Ale will be fi ne—or a Newcastle Brown . . Even a Worthington would be okay if . ” More silence. Of the sinister, sniggery kind. And then: “So— that’s the way then, is it? Guinness is not good enough f’ya, then? Is that it? Or Smithwick’s or Harp. Or Murphy’s. Or Beamish. In fact, it seems t’me like nothin’ made in our beautiful country will suffice? Is that right? Y’ll just be lookin’ exclusively f’yer English pisswater, it seems. Puttin’ our poor lads at the breweries here out o’ the business while y’ be asking fer yer own imported rubbish instead .