A Yeats Experience

 

Damian Brennan stood on the gravel outside his low contemporary home in Sligo, the northernmost stop on our tour of Ireland.  His hair, grayed to nearly white, was pulled back in a neat ponytail that brushed the collar of his impeccable white dress shirt, in contrast to the rather casual black trousers and sturdy leather shoes worn underneath. His arms were crossed tightly over the bib of a crisp gray apron with a square red pocket, and his dark-rimmed glasses framed a business-like gaze as he greeted Grainne, our tour guide.  From my vantage point on the front seat of the coach, I noticed how the plaid bow tie at his throat caught the reds and grays in that apron, on which, when he lowered his arms to welcome us inside, I could read the logo: Yeats Experience. 

Back in December, when I read the tour itinerary listing for a “Poetry Lunch in County Sligo, with its renowned natural beauty, home to the young William Butler Yeats”, I had rushed to Google this Irish poet whose work seemed to have been overlooked in my high school and university lit courses. Still mentally pronouncing it “Yeets”, I had willed myself to fall into the verses that were inspired by the “magnificent vistas over Lough Hill and the Land of Hearts Desire”, according to our itinerary notes, but our relationship had remained persistently superficial. None of the poems really resonated with me.

That was about to change.

Damian ushered us quickly through the house out to a flat grassy area, bordered by hedgerows and unobtrusive wire fencing, where my eyes were drawn from an intriguing sculpture of two horse hocks to the expansive vista that stretched in front of us. Can you imagine living with this view? The early afternoon sky glowered heavily above us, but at the foot of the promontory where we stood transfixed, the expanse of water in the distance and the low hills that sloped gently down to it glowed softly where the dark clouds had turned to white mist.

Inspirational Irish landscape, indeed.

Inside, the view now framed by panoramic windows, we listened as Damian introduced us to the history of this fervently nationalistic poet, whose name I was now pronouncing correctly as ‘Yates’, and I was surprised and chagrined to learn that he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923. In preparation for the trip, I had brushed up on modern Irish history without coming across his name, but I have since learned that Yeats was once appointed a senator of the Irish Free State, the precursor of the current Republic of Ireland.

After this introduction, we were treated to a simple and beautifully presented luncheon that had been prepared right there in the contemporary open kitchen just behind us.

All those little vases are fused onto the ceramic base.

We munched on cold sandwiches and fresh greens grown on the premises, including a piquant Nasturtium blossom garnish. A cold yellow soup of tomato and apple was a pleasant surprise, as we had become costumed to delicious Irish variations of the tomato/basil recipe on this trip. Another surprise for this Southern California resident was the Irish Soda Bread, a chewy base for our thick slices of smoked Irish ham, and nothing like the heavily sweetened lump I often purchase at my local Stater Brothers grocery store.

Simple yet tasty food, and gluten free!

Following tea and coffee and a sweet bread called Irish Tea Brack, Damian continued his readings, amid nodding heads and smiles of recognition, as well as some companionable joining in on the most familiar lines, especially by Anne, Jennifer and Sheila. I, too, got caught up in the cadence and the language, and found a favorite, one that brought to mind a niggle of Thoreau and his famous pond.  It is perhaps his most well known, ­and it fixes the afternoon in my memory.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

By William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

I don’t know if it was the view, or the congenial company, or the rich accent of the presenter, but Yeats’ words took on a certain familiarity, a universality of emotion. As I approached Damian our host to thank him, I was surprised to find my eyelashes suddenly damp. 

Whose horse inspired this intriguing sculpture?