GIFTS OF RAIN

Ireland, art and whisky

Portmagee, Kerry, Ireland

February 2^nd – Portmagee, Kerry, Ireland

The morning after my birthday, I wake in my cosy barn annexe, absorbing the fact that I’m now 71. It seems ancient—until I remember St. Brigid, who’s turning 1,574. Born in 451 to a Christian slave and a pagan chieftain, she became the patron saint of poets, midwives, and Irish nuns. Sharing a birthday with Brigid feels romantic and fitting—I’m a writer, she’s the patron of poets; my daughter’s a midwife, she’s their saint. The nun part? Less so—I’m Jewish. But perhaps that’s cancelled out by my Irish heritage?

My father, born in Ireland around 1910, was one of seven boys whose Lithuanian Jewish parents intended to emigrate to America but were put off the boat in Cork and told they had arrived. All seven boys became doctors and dentists and ended up in England where I was born. My father left my mother when I was four and it was only thanks to one of my uncles that I grew up with any sense of an Irish connection. When Brexit hit, the Irish connection came into sharp focus and I, and all my cousins, went to the Irish Embassy to receive our Irish passports and be welcomed "back."

As my thoughts meander around my similarities to St. Brigid, I wonder if other people get pleasure in bed comparing themselves to Irish Saints? Time to get up and I pleasure myself further in a walk on Reenroo Beach, a bucket of seafood chowder at The Blind Piper, and Irish music immersion at Altan’s concert. After the show, the band and audience spill into a pub for some craic —and I reach the climax of my day – the entrance of the pub is lined with books. My love affair with Ireland is sealed.

The Lobster Bar, Waterville

February 3^rd

I wake at dawn to a steady downpour. Karen and Holger, my hosts, are taking the day to recover from the weekend’s festivities and have no plans. I wanted to go for a long walk but it is way too wet. Nothing for it. Meditate. Yoga. Write.

February 4^th

Raining again. Holger has to prepare for his trip to Belfast tomorrow where he is installing the final elements of his sculpture commission for the new City Quay Gardens in Belfast. In his workshop he explains how the bronze ships that will sit at the top of slate columns have all been shaped from bronze by hand. Beaten, hammered and welded. His art is equal to his engineering skill.

Echoing Below by Holger Lonze

We load the ships into his van and return to their kitchen for a serious coffee – Holger is a coffee perfectionist – and to warm ourselves by the fire. We are joined by their chicken who thinks it’s a cat.

Coffee over, I spend the rest of the day writing whilst Karen completes a Grant Application.

February 5^th

Raining again. We wave Holger off to Belfast with his beautiful bronze cargo and Karen and I go to her kitchen and talk all things art. She tells me how she is part of a pilot scheme to PAY ARTISTS €350 A WEEK so that they can survive in between commissions. So civilized. So sensible. Enabling artists to be artists. She shows me her work and I can tell the Irish Government that they are getting extremely good value. It is stunning. It experiments. It speaks to bogs and folklore and peat. It speaks to my soul. Still it rains, so I go back to my barn to work on my book that I hope will speak to someone’s soul.

by Karen Hendy

February 6^th

Less rain so we go for a long, bracing walk to the Napoleonic Tower at the top of Valentia Island and gaze out at the Skellig Islands. It is envigorating to be outside at last but I am grateful to the rain that forced me to stay inside for three days, allowing me to all but finish what I hope is the final draft of my book.

February 7^th

Off to Cork airport to pick up my son for a weekend together. As I may have mentioned, I’m a bit bonkers about birthdays. When I hit 70, I decided to say yes to everything—and to have special one-on-one time with each of my three children.

Now, normally, I’m a doting, devoted grandmother, but babysitting is about my grandchildren, not my children. I wanted time without debates over baked beans vs. spaghetti, arguments over TV and screen time, discussions about if they were displaying signs of ADHD or just being a brat. So, when asked what I wanted for my birthday, I said: time. With them. On their own. Minus children.

This led to hiking in Switzerland with Child 2, yoga in Spain with Child 3, and—eventually—this weekend in Cork exploring my father’s roots with Child 1. He was the hardest to pin down, so our time together isn’t actually in my big birthday year. But, hey, sue me.

January 8^th

When I suggested a weekend in Cork to explore my father’s past, my son was reluctant. To him, my real roots were in Lithuania—why visit Ireland for a man who abandoned me? But I had an Irish passport, an uncle who spoke in the soft peaty tones of Cork, and that’s where I wanted to go.

Did I mention my son is in my book? All three of my children are—though my two daughters are merged into one. Writing the book has oddly helped me understand my son better. Creating a character means having to really know them. So I felt okay about ignoring his lack of enthusiasm about our trip. I knew that once we got going he’d get involved and interested. So we stayed in the actual house my father was born in, now a Bed & Breakfast, we looked round the school that my father went to and saw his picture on the wall celebrating scholarship boys and we toured University College where he studied medicine. We ended with a tour and whiskey tasting at Midleton Distillery which had nothing to do with my father but was just for him. On the plane home he told me it was the best weekend he’d had in ages. Me too. The best weekend I’d had since last week.