Enroute, Peggy regales me with stories of Crookhaven adventures to date. Among them is meeting the Marys. When returning from a walk one day, Peggy came across two women with a small girl in a baby stroller descending the lighthouse's curlicue drive. Mary, her daughter Mary and her grand-daughter Sophia were on their way back to the house of Mary (senior), who lives about a quarter mile down the lane in a large white house with yellow trim.
When she learned Peggy's story, Mary (senior) asked whether Peggy was of Irish heritage. Peggy explained about the Cunninghams from Galway and the Sheehans from Cork. "Sheehan! I'm a Sheehan, too," Mary said.
"Cousin!" Peggy replied, arms outstretched for a welcoming hug.
"You must join us for tea," Mary said. So Peggy accompanied the family back to Mary's house for tea and exceptionally delicious chocolates.
There she learned that the husband of Mary (junior) is a professional yacht racer from New Zealand; that another of Mary's sons-in law, a barrister, is remodeling a huge stone house nearby; and that, in addition to cherubic Sophia, Mary (junior) has an equally cherubic son, Rory. A few days later, Peggy invited them over for tea and scones. Mary (senior) had been interested in purchasing the lighthouse property when it was on the market, so they were all thrilled to see what the world looks like from inside the glass box.
It is thanks to Mary (senior) that Peggy was able to retrieve me from the airport. When Peggy received my phone message, she couldn't reply by email because she had no computer (and couldn't call because my phone wasn't working). In a panic, she arrived on Mary's doorstep asking if she could use the computer. Mary graciously ushered her in, helped her with the computer (it proved to be difficult to get Peggy's email up and running) and fed her lunch so she wouldn't have to travel all the way to Cork on an empty stomach. As we arrive in Ballydehob, I wonder whether I'd be missing this event were it not for Mary.
We park and Peggy asks two locals about the festival. They point us to a pub halfway down the street. We step down into a small room with a few tables and a bar behind eight or ten barstools. All seats are occupied until two people leave and we take their bar seats. Several musicians sit around a table a few feet from us. As the music begins, people pour into the place. Just when the friendly elbow in my face convinces me that one more body couldn't possibly crush into the room, the door opens again and a couple squeeze in front of us.
I ask for an Absolut and soda, but all they have is Smirnoff, so I settle for Smirnoff, which is served in a juice glass accompanied by a tiny bottle of barely sparkling water. This could be a long few weeks.
The music is excellent. A bloke playing the Irish flute, who was introduced as a well-known musician and teacher, leads the group, which includes a couple of flutists, a fiddler, and a mandolinist, who holds the instrument but never appears to play. Peggy notes that it sounds like they are playing the same song over and over again.
Ellen, my flute teacher, suggested buying us Irish flutes while I'm here, so I study them. It appears that the accomplished fellow and another woman lean the end of the flute on their left shoulder. My neck hurts just watching them. The flute appears to be about the same length as ours, but thicker - about 2 inches in diameter, made of wood and featuring a combination of open holes and keys.
As the crowd continues to increase in density, we move up the street to The Whip, named for the signature move of a national wrestling champion who is memorialized in a strangely neuter town statue: the torso bears a striking resemblance to Mattel's Ken. The Whip is larger and we find seats at the back of the room next to a friendly couple who live in Cork and spend weekends in Ballydehob. Peggy asks about real estate in the area and hears again that the market has collapsed and that it's a good time to buy.
I order another vodka and soda and get the same measly drink I was served earlier. Given their reputation for drinking, the Irish sure are stingy on the vodka. I may have to switch to Guinness.
We notice that the musicians from the pub down the road are one by one joining the group here, including the mandolinist, who still doesn't appear to make any sound. The others play the same song over and over again.
Peggy and I take our leave and rocket into the darkness. Did I mention that we negotiate all these windy roads on the LEFT? That we have to shift with ourLEFT hands? That we circle the frequent roundabouts CLOCKWISE? That both Peggy and Cathy have cracked their sideview mirrors on the rock walls lining the narrow lighthouse drive? That it's not possible for two cars to pass each other in the center of most villages - or on many stretches of open road, especially those that drop suddenly into ditches left and right?
We are always grateful to arrive home in one piece.
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