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The first episode of Scéal is something quite special. I sit down with a close friend, Brigid Glynn and talk about her story. We touch on a variety of subjects including her birthplace of Connemara, her childhood, Emigration, the Magdalene Laundries and many more. She sings a few of her own Ballads which will bring a tear to your eye. I hope you all enjoy, Cathal
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The first episode of Scéal is something quite special. I sit down with a close friend, Brigid Glynn and talk about her story. We touch on a variety of subjects including her birthplace of Connemara, her childhood, Emigration, the Magdalene Laundries and many more. She sings a few of her own Ballads which will bring a tear to your eye. I hope you all enjoy, Cathal
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Listen to Scéal - Episode 1 le Brigid Glynn by Cathal Guilfoyle MP3 song. Scéal - Episode 1 le Brigid Glynn song from Cathal Guilfoyle is available on Audio.com. The duration of song is 54:17. This high-quality MP3 track has 658.067 kbps bitrate and was uploaded on 28 Jan 2024. Stream and download Scéal - Episode 1 le Brigid Glynn by Cathal Guilfoyle for free on Audio.com – your ultimate destination for MP3 music.
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This is the first episode of the podcast "Scéal" hosted by Colin McGillifoil. He interviews a woman named Bridget Claim, who sings a song called "New Connemara Skies" that she wrote during COVID. They discuss the impact of immigration on Irish families and Bridget performs another song called "The Immigrant." Bridget shares her personal experience of her family members leaving Ireland for England and America. She reflects on the hardships they faced and the loneliness many immigrants experienced. Jeez, Agus Fáilte, I'm Colin McGillifoil, my name is Colin McGillifoil and you're all so so welcome to Scéal. The podcast where I dive into stories of ceoil, traic agus canna and immerse myself in the traditions of Irish music, singing and storytelling. Yeah, you're all very welcome to the first episode of Scéal. Today's episode, the first episode, is recorded with a woman by the name of Bridget Claim. Now, to tell you the truth, I have fallen in love with Bridget and I know in my heart you all will as well. We listen to her stories, she sings us a few songs and I hope you'll all enjoy it. So sit back and relax, go míne maith agus agus sána fóill. Díograoch, Bridget. Céan chuaibh a dhú. Díograoch, Cathal agus Fáilte róis. Tána go maith. Céamhain go raibh maith. Go maith agus níocháir. We're surviving anyways. Yes, we'll see. Thank you very much for coming on the first episode of Scéal. It's very exciting. Well, you're very welcome and I hope that you won't be regretting it. No, not at all. No, no. Ever since the talk came into my head for doing a podcast on Irish history and songs and ballad singing and stuff and music, you were always number one. I remember, it was the first night of the John McFadden Fáilte Festival down here in Newport, which is going to be a year old now next week. And you came in to do it. I was in Declan Nathans' bar and I was just there with mam and we were showing a face and it was see how it goes and sure, be nice for the town or whatever. And sure, you came in then and we were all having a good laugh and then you started singing and I just, my breath was taken away. It's just gorgeous. And that's really what starts this whole journey for me. Oh, thank you, Cahill. Yeah, I remember that night very well. And I think I sang New Connemara Skies that night. Yeah. And that was a song I had written during COVID, mainly because we had the two kilometres and the five kilometre limit and I couldn't travel to Connemara. And the weather was very nice, if you remember that. Oh, it was lovely, yeah. I was sitting here one day and thinking I really would love to go up. I would always go up to the graveyard there quite often. And I couldn't go up there and I kind of sat down and started thinking and that's when I wrote that song, you know. So, I can give you a verse, but whenever you feel like it. Yeah, yeah, well, if you want, we'll go straight away. Yeah, so, as I say, I wrote it mainly because I couldn't travel up there. So, it's called New Connemara Skies. Home is where the heart is, where I first saw the day. We played through the little fields in summer, save the hay. I see the gable ends now, the turf smoke swirling high. The donkey and the old bog road meet my Connemara sky. After school and homework, sure the neighbouring lass would come for a football game in that middle field when all the work was done. We played until the darkness, we could barely see the ball. Come for your tea and the rosary, we'd hear our mother's call. The fuchsia and the hawthorn bush, the berries on the briar. The folk I love, my friends so true, at Sunday mass the choir. We have our own old-fashioned ways, we shut out all the noise. Everything I've loved so dear is neat by Connemara sky. No matter where I travelled, you were always in my dreams. We ran o'er fields of heather, we fished the mountain streams. I have those happy memories of days long ago. Climbing up the craggy rocks with views down to Mayo. How I love to go back still to the place that I adore. Its beauty holds me spellbound, the lakes, the sea, the shore. The mist upon the mountains, the streams that trickle by. Everything I've loved so dear is neat by Connemara sky. So many souls have left there, ne'er to come home again. To England and the USA, they left in boats and planes. Some made their fortunes and earned all their joy. Others came home in coffins neat the Connemara sky. Climbing up the diamond and Knights and Tully Cross. Pictures in the parish hall, a crossbar from the dance. I have those happy memories of those days gone by. Everything I've loved and lost is neat by Connemara sky. Everything I've loved and lost is neat by Connemara sky. Oh wow, I'm actually tearing up to be honest, that's just gorgeous. Thank you Carl, thank you and it's a pleasure to do it and it does bring me back to my memories of Connemara which are always there and always were there. Just growing up there, there was 11 of us and I was the second youngest of 11. So my mother was a widow, I was two when my father died, my youngest brother wasn't born, he was born three months later. And I had a very nice childhood I feel. I feel we kind of worked hard because we had to go to the bog and the hay and bring water from the well, all that type of thing that you can't imagine young kids doing nowadays. But my older brothers and sisters tell me that the young women didn't really work at all. Because my oldest brother went away, my father died in October and my oldest brother was 16 in November and he went to England. And I vaguely remember him going, then my other brother went to England. And basically because there was no help other than having the small farm and waiting to sell cattle and that. I don't think we had any other income, I don't know. So they would have sent money home. My sister went to England and then two other sisters went to America. And basically we were kind of reared on the money they sent home, took after the younger ones. Which is, I'm always very grateful to them. It's such a massive part I suppose of Irish history and our culture is that immigration, you know, ever since the famine. And like you've had such a hard life of losing your loved ones to immigration, you know. And that was so sad, I remember when they were leaving and it's hard probably for any young one to imagine it now. But we were, where we were living, I hadn't, I don't know how old I was when I even went to Clifton. Which was only 11 miles away, that would have been the largest town. But we didn't have a car, so my mother would usually hire a car. And obviously we all couldn't go with her if she went into town shopping. So that's, I was probably 6 at least, maybe 5 or 6 before I'd ever even been to Clifton. So when I would see my brothers and sisters leaving to go to England or America. It was so sad and so heartbreaking because you didn't know when you were going to see them again. And America and England was, they were just places that were terribly far away. And we wouldn't have any concept of the distance really. But I do remember, you know, running to meet the postman when he'd come with the letters, you know. And in them days, believe it or not, my brothers would have sent English pound notes in an envelope. And we knew it was a fairly fat envelope. My brother and I would run home with it because we knew there was money in it. And it's amazing that it was quite safe to do it that way. And, but I, yeah, so it was certainly a different way of life and a way of life that is gone. And it was probably, I mean, it was a nice life for us, but it was a hard life for the people who went away. It was very sad for me when my family went away. And I did recently wrote a song about that called The Immigrant, really. And it's, I'm lucky, you know, my brothers, they did well. But a lot of people who went from places like Connemara, Mayo and a place that they made a lot of money. But they really didn't. They killed them while they were doing a show. And there was the loneliness too, I think, you know, and they went back to one room and, you know, and they drank too much. And if they didn't get married and settle down, you know, or if they did get married and their marriage broke up through their drinking. So many of them ended up in one room in places like Kilburn. And I wrote a song about that. I called it The Immigrant. And it's about leaving them. About my case, my brothers leaving and then bringing it back to this man who was on his own at the stage in Kilburn. Yeah, I know this song. I've sung it a few times. There's another one that I'm going to start tearing up and crying now. It's called The Immigrant. Well, here I am in London with my back against the wall. Remembering the glory days, the dancing in the hall. I danced the Siege of Inniswith, the Colleen's Grand Unfair. I'm in one room in Kilburn now with not a friend to care. My young brothers and my sisters, they cried all morning long. The few rocks in Connemara could not feed us all. I cried and kissed my mother at the train in Westport town. With plenty work in London, sure, a good man won't stay down. My heart was sad but hopes were high as the train pulled out of town. For adventure is the saviour of the youth and the unknown. A young lad sat across from me, he said his name was John. As the train hummed a melody, I said my name was Sean. We travelled on in silence then, my aching heart was sore. I'm sure this young lad felt the same, but we didn't speak no more. I gathered my brown suitcase for the boat to Hollyhead. Mother showed three beads in my pocket and all the prayers she said. The sea was rough and choppy, I smelled cattle in the hold. The first pint I ever drank seemed to lodge there in my throat. I went up to get some air and cure my aching head. The harbour lights had faded now with darkness in their stead. My uncle met me in London town, the sky was dark and grey. He said I'd need to get some rest, as work I'd start next day. At six o'clock next morning I stood outside the Crown. My young heart was so excited to start life in London town. They dropped us at our place of work, now Victoria Station Grand. The ganger roared, you're not at home, he put a shovel in my hand. With pick and shovel all the day, I hacked the London clay. And wished that I could swing a scythe through Connemara Hay. That night I wrote a letter home to say that I was fine. But fell asleep before I could write another line. Morning came too quickly, I was on the road once more. Driving a tunnel through the London clay was now my daily chore. Being strong I soon rose through the ranks and earned a ganger's pay. I drank and sang in the Rosencrown and I worked hard every day. With lads from Cork and Kerry, Connemara and Mayo. We'd taken the Saxon shilling then, even though we didn't know. Now I'm old, in Kilburn still, and my room is damp and cold. And as my eyes are closing now, I hear music and shadows. The lark is singing sweetly now, I see the diamond and wheel ray. And my mother's waiting at the door, and it's a grand soft day. Oh, that's just so, so nice. You're such a talented singer and songwriter, like you wrote that yourself. I did, I did. I wrote that and yeah, it's, it's sadly, I mean, I'm lucky, you know, my family, my brothers did okay. But so many people, and I think, you know, we can never forget these men who really helped to build Ireland at the time, and women. Their money helped to build Ireland at the time, and helped the economy in places like Connemara and Mayo and, you know, parts of Cork and Kerry as well. And that's the thing with all your ballad singing and stuff, it tells our story in the most natural and organic way it's told. You know, it's like, that is, that is such an important part of our culture and our history. And we just mustn't forget it because, you know, like you say, that's who built Ireland, you know, and it's just, that's just powerful. I am still, I'm still shook like that. It's just, it's so lovely. Yeah, it's very important to remember it. And it's, you know, it's, it's something, I think it's something we can be very proud of, you know, and not be kind of ashamed of it. No, no. Oh yeah, and that's like the diaspora, like we are, like even if you go over to America, like they're, they're so proud to be, you know, Irish or whatever. And, and that's, that came from the boys who went over there, from the farming ships up to, even nowadays, like, I don't know what I'm going to do when I go in. I'm sure I'm going to have to go away at some stage. But, like it is, immigration in Ireland is such a big thing. It is. If you go, it'll probably be by choice. Yeah, this is it, yeah. You won't have to. And with your bra for Irish, the language and the culture and the songs, you'll bring a rich, you'll bring a rich, a rich package with you, you know, and I'm quite sure you will return. Oh, I'll have to, yeah. Oh, I'll have to. Like, yeah, even just the style in which you sing, that is the traditional style of Ireland. I know a lot of people probably listening wouldn't be familiar with that style of singing, where, with no music accompaniment. But that is the original and traditional style of singing, and it's just so powerful, isn't it? It is, I think, really, and I'm, I'm, I can't sing with music, and I know so many people have tried to kind of back me, and it's not them, it's me. I can't, it actually puts me off, you know, and I'm sure I could learn to do it, but I'm much more comfortable just singing it this way. It's just so emotive, like, it carries such presence and power, I think. I think it is, yeah. Human voices, it's quite, I mean, and we know from our Rambling House now, I mean, it's just, I just love, I just love, and I love to hear the different songs and various sessions I go to. I just think, I've never heard that song before, that's a great song, you know? But I've always had that grow, growing up, you know, and it's, you know, and I've always had a great grow for, you know, the old stories of Ireland, you know? And, you know, and the tragedies of Ireland, like the, you know, the Magdalen laundries now, that really, when I got to know what they were, because the first time I ever encountered the Magdalen laundry was when I was in the convent of Mercy in Galway, and our laundry went out to this, and it came back stamped Magdalen laundry. I never, none of us had a clue what that was about. We didn't actually give it any thought at all, really. And then, one day, my, a nun in the convent asked me to do a big favour for her, and, of course, it's such an honour to be asked to do a favour by a nun that you felt very special, though I was only about 14, and she asked me to go up to the Magdalen laundry and pick up the Bishop's tablecloth, which was Bishop Brown of Galway at the time, and he had his own special tablecloth, and he had his own parlour, I guess, in the convent as well. He was coming for tea, and it was such a big chore to be asked to do, but I actually didn't know if I'd find my way, though she gave me directions, but I was fresh from Connemara and hadn't been to Galway City before, and whatever time I was there, I hadn't really been out. So, I found my way to the Magdalen laundry, and when I got there, there was a nun behind quite a high desk, so I said, she was expecting me anywhere, she said, I was here for the Bishop's tablecloth, she went away to get it, and when she was gone, I noticed there were some ladies, which I thought were older at the time, don't forget I was 14, older ladies peeking around a door at me, and I just thought it was kind of strange, so they kind of disappeared when the nun was coming back, so when I got back, I asked the nun who sent me, I said, what kind of a place is that, that these ladies were looking out, and I said, what kind of a place is it? And she didn't tell me anything about it, she just wagged her finger and said, they're bad women, and don't ever talk about them again. And I thought, I didn't talk about them again, I didn't talk about them again. And then, about 1996, my family had a personal account of it really, when a cousin found us, and she was, I don't think she was 60 at the time, but she had looked for us all her life, and my mother would have been her aunt, and this girl's mother was dead at the time, and then we heard her story of how she went through that system as well, and it just made me very sad, and then when the whole thing broke about the Magdalene Laundries, it made me very, very sad, and again, I was very angry, and I did write a song about the Magdalene Laundries, so if you want to hear it, I'd like to hear it. I think everyone will. I told you to give me talk, and you never should have. Sorry about that, no. The back story to the song is as important as the song itself. Yeah, and I wrote this song, I call it The Magdalene, but it's, I suppose, I wrote it in a way that's a tribute to these youthful young women who had their life literally taken from them for doing the most wonderful thing really, as giving birth to a child, and that was such a crime, and I don't know how many thousands of women were locked up in the laundries, but sad to say, you know, no men ever paid for the crime. That was supposed to be a crime at the time. It was just the women, and I wrote this about it. Ireland has a history of which we're very proud, but secrets only women know, it's a dark and dreary cloud. Men on a heron, we salute your dignity and pride, forgetting all our sisters that we locked away to hide. Young woman, you must pay for your sins, I was told, and did that mean I must endure this place till I am old? I came to the convent, fourteen years old, being deemed it was the only way that I could save my soul. The nun, she grabbed me by the arm, and she led me through the door. She said it was my punishment for being a little whore, while playing with my friends one fine summer's day, befriended by a neighbour, and he led me away. I confided in my mother, told her of that fateful day. Father Tom said I must go, and with the nuns must stay, and when some sin I would refrain, I could be pure again. Mother said that she'd return, but never did say when. I lay awake in the dorm at night, and prayed for a better day, when the sisters of mercy would change their cruel ways. Being told each day I was so bad, and deserved nothing more, seeping with evil and rotten to the core. They took my little baby boy, and I was left alone. I cried so each day and night, till I became like stone. My pleadings, they were not heard, to God I often cried. I kept my dirty laundry here, safe from the outside. My innocence was taken, and for that I'm deemed a sinner. The old church candles' light of hope, for me, are getting dimmer. For fifty years I've lived here now, worked fingers to the bone, washing dirty laundry, and dreaming dreams of home. But nobody wants me now, so here I must stay, to pay for my awful sin, until the judgment day. I pray that God will take me, and from this place arise, my dreams of love and laughter, maybe then I'll realize. Oh Ireland, Mother Ireland, you were so quick to blame, the women of your country, when it never was our shame. Can you be forgiven now, for your cruel ways, for those Magdalene's that lay now, in their unmarked graves. Arís agus Arís, again and again that, it's just breathtaking. As you said, it's such a dark cloud on our history. Yes, it is, and I don't think I ever sing that song well, because I find I always choke a little bit, choke up when I'm singing it. And it's a dreadful crime of our country, of our society, and of all the people who felt maybe in a way, did they feel they were doing the best thing? I don't know, but it was a secret that mustn't come out, and it mustn't be seen. Yes, and it's still in the news, you know, and there are mother and baby homes being in the news, and investigated and stuff, so it's still such a recent part of our history. It's so recent. I think the Magdalene Laundrie Clause, I think it was 1996, I think something like that. Which is, I mean it's... It's crazy to think, because that was only 10 years before I was born, and oh, I don't know, we mustn't forget it, and I think that's the most important thing. We can't forget it. To do those for a girl's justice, you know, songs like that, we have to just keep singing them. They have to be remembered, and the trauma, I mean, it was like being sent to prison for a lifetime, really, for crime, and actually some, believe it or not, having looked into some stories of the Magdalene Laundrie, a lot of girls were sent there, mainly by their parents and the church, if they thought maybe they were likely to get in trouble, if they were flirtatious in any way, that they were likely to be trouble, and maybe to be safer just to lock them up, in case they commit the awful crime of having a baby. Oh, yeah, powerful stuff, really powerful stuff. Have you been writing songs all your life, Bridget? No, I actually haven't, but I always loved songs. I always loved songs, and I remember my older brothers and sisters, we always got the Ireland Zone in our house, and my mother would read, some people remember the stories, Kitty the Hare and that, and some ghost stories, but we always upped the center pages, because the songs were in that, and I remember we'd all be trying to learn the songs, and we weren't sure of the ears of some of them, and my mother would have known some of the ears, and then we'd all be trying to sing it, and I always learned songs, and I think I first sang, it was, I think I was very young, it was after John O'Kennedy getting killed, and we were good to John O'Kennedy, but anyway, there was a concert in Tully Cross, and there was a singing competition, and I must have been about maybe nine or ten, and I had learned a song that I saw in the Connacht Tribune about John O'Kennedy, and I had learned it, and I decided I would, and I remember going up on stage that night, and thinking, I got such stage fright, but I sang it, and maybe it was just for pure charity they gave it to me, but I came third, and I got a silver cup, which I have somewhere still, but I remember thinking, I loved songs, I loved songs that told a story, and that was really sad, because it was easy to win a prize in them days, because everybody loved JFK, and it was tragic that he died, but yeah, that was my first time I ever remember, but I would have sang at home if there was people in, and there was maybe somebody playing the accordion, or there was a bit of a sing song at a party, you got up and you did, if I knew a verse, I would sing a verse, I was always kind of quick to sing really, my brother now, he would be much shyer than me, and I didn't need much prompting, a show woman, well I don't know about a show woman, I just, I love talking, and I love singing, and I love stories, and I'll probably listen to stories and songs all night, and be quite happy. Yeah, I know you're singing the songs, and it's beautiful, but another part of the traditions is story telling, story telling, it's just lovely, like I know of sitting down in the Ramelin house in Newport, and stuff, you'd just be taken away by some of these characters, and their stories, and they're funny, they tell a story, they tell a history, and I just love it, and I often look at you, and some of the other younger people that's in our Ramelin house, I'm always so thrilled that we have the young people, because, and the way you've progressed, since the beginning of the Ramelin house, I'm still nervous now, you're still on the leaps and bounds now, and I often think, it's, it's such a privilege to listen to some of these, older, I'm not older people, but the people who have the stories, and the recitations, and that's the thing with the podcast, and even just, like that's the most important thing for me, is just recording these, and having them, and being able to keep them for generations, and for myself, and learning them, and stuff, and we just kind of like it, I find it an absolute tragedy, and an awful, awful shame, if someone was to pass away with the songs, and the story of that, is that there was a young Clare boy, and he was off, he immigrated off to America, he was over in California, and he wrote that song, and he sent it back in a letter home, and then about three months later, he passed away in a mining accident, and then that song lived on, and his story lived on, and that's the most important thing, I think with this whole project, is to keep them songs, and keep the traditions living on. They're not really our songs, we can't take them with you, and it's important to sing the song, pass it on to other people, and that's why I think, you might think it's lovely, listening to us at the Ramney House, but it's such a privilege for me, and other people have said as well, and to listen to you, the younger ones yourself, and Kevin, and Mary Kate, and Connor, it's so great to see you do this, it's so great to see you do that, and then, that you are, and Mary Connolly is teaching you to dance fairly well as well, which is wonderful. She's one of the guests now, I hope to get on the show, so everyone can listen to her. Mary is a treasure, she is an absolute treasure, she really is, and what an amazing woman, I keep telling her, she is my hero, but I couldn't keep up with Mary. No, I really couldn't. I always remember, she'd be up, and you'd be dancing with her, and some guys would be playing music, and then you'd sit down, and the next thing, she'd be up on the floor again with someone else. I don't know, I don't know. And particularly now, after her terrible accident, she's a walking miracle. Honest to God. I actually genuinely believe that it's because of music, whether that's Irish music, or whatever music, and if they have it in their lives and in their souls, it keeps them alive, and Mary is a walking proof of that. She is. She absolutely is. And I know for sure, and I don't want to get too personal, but when I came back from Ireland first, a terrible tragedy, I lost my youngest daughter, and I, I couldn't sing. I was over two years, and I absolutely couldn't sing, so I really thought, I can't sing anymore. And I was almost three years, and I went away, really totally by chance, with, they needed somebody else to fill a space, I think they were going to Donegal, and I went with them, and then that night, one of the ladies said to me, do you sing? And I said, I used to, but I can't sing anymore. And then she said, maybe you try, and I did, and I could not believe that was the first time that I actually could sing again. And then, I had been to the folk club, it was run by Tony Reedy, and I think such a great resource didn't know me anyway, and I just said, no, I'm not singing. And it's on every month, so I think on the fourth month, I decided, yeah, I will, I'll try a song. And, and that I think to me, really, it really, it did my soul good. It kept me going, and I look forward to going out, and it really, the singing. That is the power of music, I really do think. It's such a sad story, but it's so inspiring, and you came back, and how music has helped you, and I know that, I didn't know anything about the Irish singing, or ballad singing, or storytelling, and I played music as a young fella, but that was about the height of it. And once I discovered it, I hope that people listening will get a graw for it as well, because I don't know, it's done me wonders. And it's a relatively short time for you, really. Yeah, no, it's about a year now I've been involved in the singing and stuff. I just, I am changed for the better. And I can see you, when you sing your songs, you love them. You have the graw, and you just have, I don't think, when you sing a song, and when you're in the Ramblin' House, I don't think there's any other place you'd want to be. No, I love it. There's such a buzz, like I used to get it when I was young for playing music, there's a buzz that is just indescribable. I play rugby or whatever, and hurling and football, and you get a bit of buzz, but music is something different. It really is. It's class, it really is. There's always something special that happens every night. The song that Noel did the other night, now a local song about Glynhest, and I mean, just absolutely powerful. You come home, I can't go to bed right away, you have to really come down. You'd be jumping, you'd be skipping into the doors to have a good night's sleep. That's right, yeah, but it is. I think that's the, I mean, and we're so blessed with them really in Ireland, and of course a lot of our songs are very sad, but then it doesn't mean we're all terribly sad and down when we're singing them. It really doesn't. I lived in America for a long time and when I would sing, people would say, I always sing very sad songs. I said, we sing sad songs, but it doesn't mean we're miserable. People waltz to a terribly sad song, Noreen Bond, it was one of the great waltzes, by the poor girl who died of consumption. But it's just, they're our songs, they're us, they're part of us, and I don't think you can, it's in your heart, it is absolutely in your heart, and it's just, it's in your soul. Yeah, it's just so true. You were living down in Cork as well, weren't you? I did, I lived in Skibreen. Well, when I met my husband in England, we got married and we came back to Skibreen, and we lived there, and my two older children were born in England, and then my youngest daughter was born in Cork. So we moved to Cork City then to Black Rock in Cork, and it was a bit of madness or whatever, but my husband applied for a Morrison visa and he got it, and I thought, he won't get it, it's a lottery, you know, he won't get it, but he did, and for better or worse, that was 1994, he went to America first, and we followed two years later, though we'd been over, and it was never my, it was never my, kind of, I never wanted to leave Ireland, I was in England for a while, but I was happy to live the rest of my life in Ireland, and I really, I never really quite settled in America, though I ended up in there 20 years, which is hard to imagine, really. Yeah, and, yeah, it's just, for me, it's just, I just, you know, the one thing about America, I mean, the Americans, there really is no crack, you know, and I think the Irish, I think covers what we enjoy, you know, and I just, I mean, I love being back in Ireland, and I love living in Newport as well, you know, it's near enough to home up in Connemara, so, yeah, but, Yeah, I don't know, I'll leave Newport at some stage, but my heart will always be here, I just have a, I ever grow up in a small town, and knowing, coming home from school, seeing everyone on Main Street, I'd be able to know nearly everyone there, besides the pecker. Oh, my God, yeah, well, actually, pecker, we lived between Skibreen and Dermaleague, and pecker lived in Baltimore, and, pecker became a regular visitor to our house, and, he was just such a character, and my kids absolutely loved him, and if you know what pecker looks like, you'd think a child would be afraid of him, but they wouldn't, they just absolutely loved him, and, I was pregnant with my youngest daughter the first time I met pecker, and he would come to the house, and he loved scones, and he'd always know when I had a batch of scones made, and he would take the plate of scones, and he'd say to Tom, these are mine, I don't know where yours are, and no kidding, he could sit down and eat them, and he would bring his bag, and the thing is, we got so used to him, we didn't actually record him at all, and pecker is an Irish traveller, and he was a musician, and I'd been listening to him a good bit, he had just a wave of words, and I'd say some crack, he was, and he had the best stories, and I don't know whether any of them, or even half of them were true, but he had, he just had such a great wave of stories, and my kids would sit in thrall listening to him, and, he was absolutely fascinated, you know, he had had kids himself, some years back, and then he did go on to remarry, and have more children after he left West Cork, but that's another story of pecker's, but he would be so afraid if I, we had a bungalow at the time, and we had a range, and if I wouldn't lift the kettle off the range, he'd be, don't lift the kettle, and he'd be giving out, don't lift the kettle, and I said to him, when my baby was born, we had one of the bigger, older prams, I was so glad to get it at the time, because she was nine years younger than my oldest daughter, and seven years younger than my son, and pecker would come up, and he had a van, the pecker written on the side of it, a white high-ace van, so he would come in, and he would sit, he'd say, is she awake? I said, pecker, I just got to sleep, and it was a hallway, and he'd be singing, go to sleep my little tinker, and I used to say, pecker, you wake her, but I think he was hoping she would wake up, that he was, because he loved holding her, and then as she got a bit bigger, and the older two were at school, so she was always at home with us, or just me sometimes, and pecker would come, and he was, he kind of saw her through all their milestones, and she was learning to talk, and he decided he would teach her to swear, and I mean serious swear words now, and I'd be making the tea, and she'd come into the kitchen, and she'd lift such a mouthful, and pecker would be in stitches, and my husband's aunt was there one day, and she heard her, and she was horrified really, and I said, oh, I said, pecker, and she said, my God, she wouldn't learn her prayers half as quick, would she? And she didn't, and you know, but yeah, she had serious swear words, I mean, one time at mass, she came out with a swear word, and I think, oh, my God, pecker, I'll kill you, because I want you to get off the chair or something, the seat in the church, but yeah, and yeah, he was such a great storyteller, and you know, he's, you know, sadly, but pecker, she loved him, pecker done, you know, they, I mean, they threw away the mould and they made pecker, you know, and I feel bad he never really got the recognition that I feel he should have gotten, he was on the Late Late Show, maybe once or twice, but he always felt that he was just like a little bit of an afterthought, and he, it just, and it may well be, but he was very talented, and he wrote some great songs. Oh, wonderful songs. Sullivan John is a classic. Yeah, Sullivan John and Wexford. Wexford, yeah. Yeah, he's a legend, there's some great stories about him. There are, I've been writing a few stories about pecker, because I do write a few stories, because he was born in Castlebar. Was he? Yeah, and people have said that, I've heard people say, maybe didn't know him very well, that he was illiterate, well, I can tell you Peckerton was not illiterate, he was an avid reader, he always had books with him, and he would always tell me about the books he was reading, he was a highly intelligent man, and just such a, such a character, that, you know, they don't make him like they used to. They don't make him like they used to, yeah, and he had a big dent in his forehead, you can see it sometimes in the pictures of him, quite a dent, and I don't know, did I ask him one time, did the kids ask him one time, what happened, but he said, somebody hit him with a sledgehammer, and I'm thinking, but that's what he said caused the dent, you know, maybe it did, you never know, but it's a good story anyway. So, we'll probably wrap it up now I'd say, would you sing one more song? I sing a song actually, a Mayo song, it's about the tragedy of ten boys, who were burned in a fire in Scotland, and they were from, all of them from Acton, and I think it's such a tragic story, they were buried in their graves, in Acton, and I had a neighbour who, his mother remembered it, and said, the awful, awful sadness, that was in Acton at that time, so it's called Ten Sons of Acton. Yeah, and just on that story, I was reading up on it, and the Greenway, which well I call it the Greenway now, but it was the original railway route from Westport to Acton, that closed down, and that was closed then for good, and there was a prophecy wasn't there? There was a prophecy I think 200 years ago, that, they didn't even know about it being a train at the time, they said something on iron wheels, would be, would be travelling to Eccle, and the first, the first of this carriage would carry dead bodies, and the last one would carry dead bodies, and people hadn't, thought of the train at the time, and, the line was closed, in 1934 I believe, and, when they were bringing these boys back from Scotland, they, brought them to Dublin, and they put on a special train from, they reopened the railway, just to bring these boys back, they passed away in a fire, and, the railway from, all the way from Dublin up to Westport, and then from Westport to Acton, was just littered with people, and everyone paying their respects, and it's a wonderful story, of Ireland, and how close a nation we are, so if you wouldn't mind. Yeah, and just talking about that, it just gives you goosebumps really, and, so this is called, Ten Sons of Eccle. A phone rang in Eccle, one cold autumn day, sad news from Scotland, the guards they did say, ten boys from Eccle, in Scotland, lay dead, burned in a fire, locked up, in a shed, Bear, Wallya, or Morris, bring home our dead, these are the words, the telegram said, oh bring them back, or the water, bring them back, or the water, bring them home, to the West, though they died far from Eccle, in Eccle, they rest, in Glasgow, tin coffins, now lie, side by side, and ten thousand stand, on the banks, of the Clyde, the broom in a silence, save, for the cry, of the scavenger seabirds, above, in the sky, then past Paddy's milestone, to Ireland, they sailed, then on up to Eccle, from Dublin, by train, in Sawleya, and Pala, and Shrines also, they wept, when they heard, the faint whistle blow, Bear, Wallya, or Morreth, bring home our dead, these are the words, the telegram said, oh bring them back, or the water, bring them home, to the West, though they died far from Eccle, in Eccle, they rest, for ten sons and daughters, for ten sons of Eccle, they knelt, and they prayed, brought home from Scotland, to lie, in one grave, ten Paddy hookers, in Kirk and Tallack, died, burned in a bathy, locked from the outside, oh how could this happen, the people, all cried, the authorities, in Scotland, though some say they lied, an accident, they said, when the sheriff, court met, but some say the fire, was deliberately set, Bear, Wallya, or Morreth, bring home our dead, these are the words, the telegram said, oh bring them back, over the water, bring them home, to the West, though they died far from Eccle, in Eccle, they rest, so here's to the sons, and daughters, most dear, the lads, and the lassies, that travelled each year, they dreamed of their home, of dear Ecclesound, hook and tatties, in Scotland, to make a few pounds, Bear, Wallya, or Morreth, bring home our dead, these are the words, the telegram said, oh bring them back, over the water, bring them home, to the West, though they died far from Eccle, in Eccle, they rest, so here's to the sons, and daughters, most dear, the lads, and the lassies, to make a few pounds, bring them home, to the West, to the West, to the West, to the West, to the West, to the West, to the West, to the West, to the West.
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