The Beauty of an Irish Spring

Cormac MacConnell - The West's Awake

The Beauty of an Irish Spring

May 8, 2008

By Cormac MacConnell

THE longer I live the more I am touched to the heart by the exquisite manner in which the Irish year unfolds itself during the last days of April and the first week or May. It is stunningly and gently beautiful. And these are the cherry blossom days as the most exotic of our trees and shrubs flaunt themselves for the whole world to see.

I stood for a while at the cottage door this morning, a strong coffee in my hand, leaning against the jamb, and noted the way in which the young delicately pink blossoms are still clinging tightly to their branches. There was a light breeze from the south, yet not a single petal fell whilst I was there.

It is as if the young things are genetically aware that they have only about 10 days in which to show off their summer dresses. And when they begin to fall nothing falls faster.

The earth beneath the trees will be pinked thickly when May is still in its teens, the skies full of flashing swallows, the fields of the good land around here lushly greening themselves again, the lambs and the spindled foals already wandering further away from the flanks of their mothers, the tadpoles in our little garden pond already froglets, the earliest of our dunnock fledglings already unsteadily flying from one bush to the other.

I trimmed the garden yesterday. The morning air is aromatic with that grassy perfume.

When I was working under the apple trees they were already unfurling the blossoms that will soon be young apples.

In one corner the vivid furze bush was clad in bright yellow. We own a million daisies already, hundreds of dandelions. And all the daffodils if the dark days have died away.

A farmer neighbor halted at the gate while I was standing there.

“A grand day Cormac.”

“It is indeed, thank God.”

“The summer is coming at last. It is indeed. There is a great stretch on the evenings. It was bright yesterday evening until nine o’clock. And, Cormac, the forecast is good for the rest of the week too.”

“We won’t know it now until it’s the longest day and we’re heading backwards again. That’s for sure. Let’s enjoy it when we can. and sure if it rains didn’t the Lord make us waterproof!”

And he trudged away to see his big bullocks at the height of his ease with the mist of our small talk still hanging over the gate. I love that kind of casual contact.

There is a hidden and deeper context to it as well. I know he was recently unwell, ill enough, a hip replacement that developed complications. This morning his hospital pallor was gone, he was walking well, he is recovering.

One notes these things too even as one notes the upward flighting from Shannon of one of the big red-finned transports bringing home a load of your soldiers from Baghdad. The sun glinted happily on its homing belly.

Salem calls for his biscuit. Salem is the beautiful snow-white three legged dog that lives at the top of our road.

The missing leg is the left front. He lost it in a traffic accident years ago but has coped splendidly. He can run as fast now as any other dog and is a gentle character.

He is the shape of a collie, but bigger, and has an intelligent upright head. He roams the road freely and he’s friendly with our dogs Friday and Anika so he calls often.

We give him a dog biscuit when he calls, and I do so now. He brings it serenely as always into the room behind me and devours it slowly beside the hearth, leaving not a crumb behind.

Then he wanders back out into his free world again, a three-legged king. I’m very fond of Salem. Everybody is.

I have the radio on. Two stories dominate the headlines as I sit down to write this.

Over on your side of the Atlantic, in a few hours, our poor allegedly tainted Taoiseach (Prime Minister) Bertie Ahern is effectively ending his political career by addressing your joint houses. He will be replaced by Brian Cowen, as clearly a countryman from the boglands of Offaly as Bertie was always a city slicker.

The other story, infinitely sad, is discussion of the aftermath of a family tragedy in Wexford. The emerging facts suggest that a young man who was in business difficulties killed his two young children, shot dead his beautiful wife, who was once a Rose of Tralee contestant, then set his home on fire before shooting himself.

Even in cherry blossom time the real harsh edges of the world are never far away. You say how could anybody in their right mind do something like that? And then you say God love him, because he clearly was not in his right mind.

My friend Mick calls, walking right in here to where I am sitting behind the keyboard just as serenely as Salem did. I tell him to let me finish up and to go ahead himself and make the coffee for the pair of us.

He says he met the Dutch Nation on a tight bend between here and Shannon and is lucky to be here at all! They were within an inch of contact.

He has the kettle boiling and is lighting his first cheroot of the day as he readies the mugs. Mick always has a good story to tell, usually funny, and, as I end up, maybe it will be good enough for me to retell it to ye next week.

When the cherry blossoms will already be falling down…

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