A Son of Aran Read online

  ‘And what will you say to the Spaniard in reply to this letter? Will you accept his offer of money by way of compensation for the terrible havoc he caused in your life? Does he think that money can make amends for the trauma and tribulation that he brought on our family?’

  ‘If I had only myself to think about, I would tell him what to do with his money. I have no need of his charity. I am happy to be back in Aran mingling with my people and going about the tasks that I grew up with—rearing a few cattle, saving hay to feed them over the winter, and fishing with Máirtín in the hooker. Having come to terms with your mother’s death and the trauma I suffered because of it, I am content. I would like to be left alone to get on with the rest of my life. Peace of mind is worth more to me than wealth. However, you are part of the equation—your decision is central to the problem. Having regard to what I have told you, how do you feel about the situation?’

  ‘Seosamh, I am truly sorry for the predicament caused by your father’s death,’ Eileen tendered sympathy as she threw her arms around him. ‘I know you loved him dearly; you are going to miss him very much. I will do anything I can to soften the blow, and to assist your mother, your brother, and yourself, in the anguish of your bereavement. All you have to do is call on me. I will take time off from my job in the Warwick and stay over if you wish.’

  ‘Thanks, Eileen, for your concern; your offer is more welcome than you know. I have never before experienced the death of a loved one; I can appreciate how you must have felt when you lost your own mother. Go ndéana Dia trócaire ortha araon (May God have mercy on them both). Will you come around to our house tonight just to be with us; our conversation will break the monotonous dirge of grief that goes on there non-stop. I don’t identify with their kind of ologón (wailing); real grief is within the heart, not displayed by outward show. I prefer to turn my mind to the time I had a father who took me by the hand, showed me the birds and the wild flowers, told me every thing he knew about them, taught me how to dig and sow, reap and mow, gather feamnach, slataí mara, and corrigeen moss. You know, Eileen, he had a wonderful appreciation of the things that matter most in life; he had in-built wisdom and a capacity to dismiss out of hand matters of little significance that others spend their time nattering about. Though he was modest in his demeanour, he was a titan when strength of mind or body was called for. He gave us children all he had; it didn’t amount to much in worldly goods but he was a treasure house of wisdom and advice; I don’t know how I’ll manage without him if I have to stay in Aran and try to follow his footsteps in farming and fishing.’

  ‘Seosamh, I don’t wish to compromise you in any way but, to take your mind off your own troubles for a while, I’d like to walk with you along the shore at low tide and relive the days when, footloose and free, we chased sea birds, gathered shells, and swam in the warm sea. At that stage we were just good friends but I always felt safe in your company. Let’s start there again and see where it takes us. We are both mature enough to realise that, as we meet and mingle freely with other people in our respective situations, we are liable to be swept off course from time to time like boats in a storm. Let us not allow those attractions and distractions to undo the firm friendship we formed during our early days. Whatever happens, I hope we’ll always remain close friends and be there for one another if our needs demand.’

  As they walked together in the moonlight, Eileen broached the subject that troubled her since the discussion with her father.

  ‘Seosamh, can I ask your advice on a problem that has arisen for me recently? I would like to discuss it with you in confidence to help me to form my mind on what course of action I should take. I would appreciate if you keep to yourself what I am about to tell you: A Spanish sailor who was close to my late mother before she married, kept up a platonic friendship with her afterwards. From what I can gather, he had a crush on her and would probably have married her if circumstances had permitted. When I was born, he fantasised that I was his daughter. When I was seven he tried to inveigle my mother to join him abroad and take me with her. She must have had a shine for him too—she went along with his suggestion and decided to go away with him. Dad got to know about their plan; he was very disillusioned that his wife would desert him like that and try to deprive him of me. Quietly, he took me away to keep me safe from them. Disappointed at the outcome, the Spaniard rejected my mother; she followed us to Aran in the hope that my father would forgive her and take her back. She didn’t find us but, in her frantic searching, she accidentally drowned. The man in question came to Aran last summer with the intention of seeking out my mother and renewing their relationship. It was only then he learned from an islander the story of her death. He now blames himself for being the cause of her marriage break up and subsequent death; he has written to my father to tender profound sympathy and he says he wants to make amends to dad and myself. He is evidently quite wealthy, he has no family of his own and he has offered to share his worldly goods with us. Neither of us has ever met him; my dad feels we should tell him to back off and leave us alone but, first of all, he wants to know my feelings on the matter. What do you think I should do, Seosamh?’

  ‘Joseph’s father has died,’ Miss Folan told Treasa, when she called once again to inquire about his return. ‘He has written to say that he won’t be returning to Galway. It appears he must stay in Aran to look after the farm and fishing that his dad used to work at.’

  ‘Strange that he didn’t write to tell me,’ Treasa replied. ‘I reckon that, in his book, out of sight is out of mind,’ she added sarcastically. ‘Not to worry—there are better fish about,’ she muttered as she left the shop.

  ‘It looks like Treasa’s hectic relationship with Joseph was not very profound,’ Miss Folan remarked to her sister. ‘I suppose we should start to look for a replacement. I thought a lot of Joseph; it’s too bad he couldn’t have remained with us.’

  ‘How are your Spanish lessons going?’ Peadar asked Eileen after her stint in the Warwick ended on the first of September. The results of her Leaving Certificate and Matriculation exams had come to hand—she had excelled in both. If her results were sufficiently high there was a possibility she would qualify for a university scholarship. She had applied also for a place in the training college for teachers. Given a choice she hadn’t made up her mind which one she would take. Funding might be a problem at the university—the grant covered only part of the cost and Peadar was not very well off. In a training college on the other hand tuition was free, but she would be required to pay back some of the cost by deduction from salary when she started to teach.

  ‘How would you like a trip to Spain while you are waiting for your future to clarify,’ Peadar asked. ‘I would like quietly to check out this Carlos man and see what the scene is like at the Estat de Tirelle. I’m sure Ó Máille would take us with him on one of his runs to Bordeaux. From there the Spanish border is within reach; we could make our way to Salamanca on bicycles without too much trouble. We’ll need to carry passports—maybe you would look after these. In the meantime I’ll have a word with Ó Máille. Wouldn’t it be an adventure for both of us!’

  ‘Seeing that it’s early September and not a very busy time on the land, do you think I might invite Seosamh to accompany us?’ Eileen asked. ‘Our relationship is not as romantic as it used to be but, having regard to what we were to one another in the past, we have reached an understanding. We will remain good friends despite any distractions that may cause us to drift from time to time. In the aftermath of his father’s death, I think Seosamh deserves a break. It isn’t often he gets a chance to see something of the outside world. If it’s all right with you I will ask him.’

  ‘Of course, Eileen, feel free to bring him along. All it takes is another place on Ó Máille’s boat. Seosamh and I will lend a hand on deck if circumstances demand. In that way Ó Máille will be the better for our company. I will ask Father Corley to give us a letter of introduction to his contact in Salamanca; a member of the community there
might act as interpreter for us. Go for it, Eileen—this could turn out to be the trip of a lifetime.’

  ‘Several months have gone by and I have still received no response to my letter to Peadar O’Flaherty. What kind of people are those islanders? Here am I offering them part of my inheritance and they haven’t the graciousness to acknowledge my letter. Are they so proud that they prefer to live in poverty rather than accept gratuitous assistance from a foreigner? I do not understand their mentality. I recall what the guide said to me that day in Aran last year when I debated with him on the same topic: ‘When God made Aran, He created a race of people, strong, and healthy— they don’t expect too much from life and are happy to live as you now see them. They have great trust in God and they accept whatever happens to them as His will.’

  ‘I wish I could share their philosophy. Here I am in the midst of luxury and hedonistic practises that I should be able to enjoy to the full, yet I am not happy. Is there something in the human psyche that causes us to be fulfilled only when we wrestle with adversity? The English author, Shakespeare, voiced a similar theme. What was it he wrote?

  ‘Sweet are the uses of adversity which like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head.’ I should have paid more heed to English literature when I was at college—I might have gained some insight into the way in which people who are close to nature philosophise. Is it now too late for me to pursue such studies?’

  The sea trip to Bordeaux had been uneventful. Ó Máille steered a course well out to sea in order to escape the attention of customs patrols. Outward bound craft drew less attention that those on the home run—illicit transport of wines, spirits, and tobacco, were of greater concern to the Irish customs authorities. Seosamh, never before having been so far away from land, was agog at all the marine species that passed close to their boat.

  ‘Eileen, why don’t you and I get a boat and go sea fishing?’ he laughingly asked. ‘You could be Gráinne Mhaol, the fearless seafarer from Clare Island; I would be your first in command. We’d fly the Jolly Roger and consign to Davy’s Locker every foreign ship that crossed our path. What do you think?’

  Eileen was pleased to find Seosamh resuming his normal humorous demeanour; she duly reciprocated by contributing her own share of light banter to the conversation in order to promote his fantasy. In Boreaux, Peadar displayed his knowledge of the city and reiterated all that Máirtín and he had seen on their previous visit. He took them on a tour of the mile long Rue Sainte Catherine with its many shops, cafes, and stately buildings. He showed them the magnificent cathedral, and the site of the former Irish College where seminarians studied in exile during the era of the penal laws. He introduced them to cafes where he told them Máirtín and he had discovered excellent French wine which he intended to sample again. Seosamh and Eileen hadn’t yet abandoned their pledge against alcoholic drink; they settled for tasty fruit juices that were available. Two days later, mounted on strong-framed bicycles, the trio headed south towards the Spanish border.

  Bare boughs and falling needles heralded the onset of autumn among the trees in the forests of Landoc. Equipped with a camping tent and lightweight culinary items, the three set out on the journey from Bordeaux to Bayonne. For Eileen, the experience was ecstatic. Having read extensively from the works of Mauriac, she wanted to savour the atmosphere of his favourite haunts. Narrow gauge light railway lines laid down to facilitate removal of timber and extraction of valuable resins from standing trees, made for easy access to the forest where the author resided when he wrote the Brood of Vipers and other works. Four days later they reached Bayonne and Larressore where, in the foothills of the Pyrenees, they could see the Basque country they had heard so much about. Set against lofty mountains in the distance, the area was a mixture of hillsides, verdant valleys, and gorges, covered in abundant vegetation. Small dwellings facing mostly east, appeared here and there, their doors lying open as if in welcome. Men working in cultivated plots and orchards were clad in traditional short jackets, colourful belts and red berets. They were equipped with what appeared to the visitors like primitive hoes and spades. Though friendly and courteous, initially the natives were suspicious of strangers travelling in their territory. Eileen, through her knowledge of French was able to dialogue with them. Allaying their fears, she assured them that she and her companions were not spies; they had come from Ireland and were merely passing through on a journey to Spain.

  ‘Ah, l’ Irelande,’ one of them exclaimed, ‘cest une autre région Celtique—Je vous solve.’ Gifts of goat’s cheese and locally made cider, proffered by the people, were gladly accepted by our friends who, at this stage, were beginning to feel the tedium of riding hill and hollow on rough-surfaced roads.

  ‘A pity we can’t stay here for a day or two,’ Peadar said. ‘My bones are aching and my rear end is blistered. I’m not accustomed to cycling such long distances. Let us rest for an hour or two and savour some of the local fare that we have been generously offered.’

  None of the others dissenting, they sat down to a picnic of sweet bread, jambon Bayonne, Idiazabal cheese, local cider, and fruit juices, and slept for two hours in the balmy air before resuming their journey. To the east the snow-clad peaks of the Pyrenees towering above them, gave a chilling sensation despite the warm sunshine. The lush green valleys of Baztan and Bidasoa spread out before them to the south, presenting a view of fertile land at its best.

  ‘What a place of contrasts!’ Seosamh remarked. ‘We have nothing like this in Aran. If we had a snow line and rich farmlands like we see here, we could farm all summer and sleigh ride all winter—we’d never ask to leave.’

  At St Jean Pied de Port they observed a road sign that read ‘Pamplona’.

  ‘Isn’t that where they have bulls,’ Peadar said. ‘What do you say we go that way? I’d like to watch a matador teasing a bull, and running like mad when the beast becomes enraged, especially when they let bulls run loose through the streets of the town terrorising everyone.’ Consulting the map in his hip pocket he added, ‘It isn’t the direct road to Salamanca but, what matter, we’ll get there in our own time?’

  In Pamplona they were fortunate to be present on the occasion of a fete. Wild bulls with bristling horns released from their pens, raced madly through the main street of the town. Pedestrians hastily sought refuge on adjacent walls and in shop premises, in an effort to get out of their way. Onlookers cheered and clapped when a bull’s horn connected with some runner who was too slow in escaping. Peadar wasn’t amused.

  ‘What a dreadful abuse of cattle!’ he remarked. ‘Look at their gaunt skeleton-like bodies’ They won’t get juicy beefsteak from those animals when the time comes to slaughter them. I’d prefer a cut from one of our own Angus bullocks to their kind of beef.’

  In their detour, the trio crossed the route of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostello.

  ‘Why don’t we follow it for a while and learn something about it from the pilgrims,’ Eileen suggested. When we reach Burgos we can divert and take the direct road to Salamanca.’

  ‘I must read up the history of that pilgrimage when we get home,’ Seosamh said eagerly. ‘I’d like to come back and follow the entire route all the way to Santiago. Will you come with me, Eileen?’ he asked teasingly.

  Four days later, tired and weary from dusty roads and unaccustomed high temperatures, they arrived in Salamanca, found the ancient seminary, and identified themselves to Father Benedictus to whom Peadar gave Father Corley’s letter.

  ‘I think you people should have a wash, a rest, and a meal before we start to talk,’ the priest remarked. ‘Looking at you, I reckon you are close to collapse. I can see you are not accustomed to our climate in this part of the world! Come with me and we’ll see what the kitchen can turn up,’ he said when they surfaced following a brief siesta.

  ‘Will you tell me what you have in mind in regard to Carlos de Montmorency?’ he inquired, as they sat in his study later that evening.

  ‘Sin
ce I wrote to Father Corley, things at Estat de Tirelle have not been going very well for Carlos. A subversive group which champions the cause of small landholders in the region, has unilaterally taken over a large proportion of the estate and allocated it to individual families from outside its boundary. Although he has been permitted to retain his mansion and the remainder of his property, Carlos has, to a great extent, thrown in the sponge; he has allowed his groves and olive plantations to fall into disuse. He dismissed his old housekeeper and most of the estate workers who, he suspects, are secretly members of the Tenants Revolutionary League. His days are divided between moping alone in his vast residence, and sporadic visits to a hostelry in some local town where he drinks to excess and dialogues only with hangers-on who take advantage of his inebriation. I feel he will be unlikely to engage in serious conversation with you in his current depressed state.’

  ‘We are not unduly concerned about meeting Carlos just yet,’ Peadar said. ‘If it is convenient for you to act as interpreter, we would like to visit some villages near his estate, talk with the smallholders, and see what kind of husbandry they pursue. In that way we will be able to get a bird’s eye view of their circumstances and to discuss ongoing farming practises with them. In the process we’ll get a glimpse of the estate and see for ourselves what degree of dereliction prevails. In Ireland, a century ago, we had a similar struggle between landlords and their tenants; there was a lot of bad blood between them. Tenants became organised and formed an association through which they refused to pay rent to the landlords until agreement for purchase of their holdings had been negotiated. As a result, the government of the time introduced measures whereby landlords were compensated for their estates, and tenants were able to purchase land on the basis of deferred repayments. In some respects we Irish have a common bond with the smallholders here.