Three festivals in Ireland every week for a year. Can Mark Graham do it?
THIS MIGHT sound a little odd to some of you, but bear with me. I’m currently on a quest to attend three festivals in Ireland every week for a year... yep, three festivals EVERY week for a whole year! “He’ll never do it,” I hear you cry. Seven months down and I’m still alive. I’ve been crowned the Conker Champion of Ireland, I’m the sixth best bog snorkeller in the country, I’ve hallucinated on Lough Derg, I’ve hucklebucked with comely maidens in Lisdoon, been an escort in Macra’s Lovely Girl competition, boogied to Ethiopian Jazz and had the runs in Kinvara after too many oysters. As you can probably guess, the type of festivals I’ve been gravitating towards are a little bit more Pete Doherty than Pete Seeger. My festival quest is a protest of positivity. In May 2011, having scraped together a 10 per cent deposit for a house, I applied for a mortgage.
One financial institution told me to call back to them in three months with a tidier ledger, and another said that they would give me a mortgage if I anted up 20 per cent. I prepared myself for some serious scrimping and Saturday nights in front of the telly, joining in the Brendan O’Connor squirm-a-long.
Thankfully, a little voice in the back of my mind yelled “Stall the Digger! This crowd have a worse credit rating than you, and you’re gong to kowtow to them? Cop yerself on!”
So I did. I decided to seek out the festive pueblos, parishes and paircs of Ireland to load up on some positivity. I’m Sky Plusing The Saturday Night Show.
A BIT OF SWINGING
Sometimes on the festival trail, it’s a form of morbid curiosity that attracts me to an event. Crystal Swing are not my cup of tea. They’re not even my bucket of Bovril, but there were hundreds of people in the Vienna Woods Hotel in Glanmire last Saturday night for whom they are a piece of gilded Wedgewood containing fragrant steaming Earl Grey (fragrant and steaming could have gone in a totally different direction there). They’ve been flown to LA to appear in front of millions, they’ve been on the Late Late a few times, and they sold out Cork Opera House. Is it this success that makes it difficult for me to have a cut at them? Nah. I think I have an odd crush on Mammy Murray Burke!
HELL IN CONNAUGHT
On Good Friday, after some fine dining at Galway Food Festival, I headed to Letterfrack, to meet Paul Phelan from Walk Connemara. Paul brings people walking all around Connemara National Park.
When there’s a full moon, he travels in the dead of night (even when it rains). As we walked through the squalls, mist and inky blackness of an inclement night, isolated in the narrow pools of light afforded by our head-torches, the wind suddenly dropped away completely. The deathly silence and stillness revealed a strange whining and eerie rhythmic rasping sound. It was me, struggling up the mountain. I sounded like an asthmatic pervert on the phone to a hard of hearing super-model. The scary part is, I really enjoyed this walk! A different form of perversion I suppose.
HERE FOR THE RIDE
Everything that still has me enthused about this festival folly was on display on the streets of Mallow in Cork for the Racing Home for Easter Festival on Sunday. The community took to the streets and it seemed as if everyone was smiling and enjoying themselves. The next day I went to the Irish Grand National in Fairyhouse, and where it lacked the homeliness and community vibe of Mallow, it excelled in pomp, polish and style. I didn’t back any winners, but I didn’t mind, it was ladies’ day. Giggity giggity!
Next week I’ll be striking out for the Five Lamps Arts festival in Dublin, New Music Week in Waterford and searching out Sean Nos dancing lessons at Fonn Rince in The Glen of Aherlow. ’Til then, safe travels, don’t die.
ayearoffestivalsinireland. com
