In the lowest gear of my heavily-laden bike I struggled to crest that little hill. Why did I bring so much stuff? It sure makes it harder to get up this hill. I could have left some of those books at home. And did I really need five changes of socks and underwear? I was preoccupied with thoughts like these, peddling toward Miltown Malbay, when I heard the distinctive sound of a tractor coming up behind me. It chugged past me as I approached the top. I soon followed him over the top and picked up speed going down the other side. It wasn't long before I shot past the tractor. I knew that the next little hill, not far away, would be easier if I gained as much speed as possible.
An hour before I had been sitting on the floor in the lobby of Shannon Airport putting my bike together. I was headed for the Willie Week, the famous Willie Clancy Summer School of traditional music on the west coast of County Clare. It was 1983, my second visit to Ireland but this time I was going by bike. And I had to get through the East Clare drumlin fields, a swarm of little hills formed when glaciers covered much of Ireland thousands of years ago.
And now I was slowing significantly as I toiled up the next hill. The tractor soon passed me. The driver waved as he chugged past and went on ahead. I struggled on, got the the top, gained speed, and soon overtook the tractor again. I returned his wave as I sped past. The next hill was the same. He kept a steady speed both uphill and down and always gave a friendly wave as he passed me, laboring uphill. I always accelerated going down—gravity was then my ally—and would reciprocate with another wave. This continued for three or four more little hills and I came to welcome the little boost in spirit I got from his gesture on each uphill slog. We were bonding in some curious way with our repeated mutual recognition.
Then the road leveled off and the farmer disappeared ahead of me. I peddled on without my anonymous fellow traveller, a bit disappointed, for he had given me something to hope for as I strained up each hill. But it wasn't more than fifteen minutes later that I saw him and his tractor in the yard of a cottage at the side of the road. We both waved and I stopped to actually meet my traveling companion.
As is usual with the Irish stranger, he was welcoming and friendly and soon I was sitting in the kitchen in the warmth of their turf fire, with a cuppa in my hands, and in conversation with the older couple. As soon as I said anything, of course, they knew I was a Yank. Then came the typical question: “Are ya here searchin' for your roots?” I answered that I was a singer searching for songs. “Ah, then, wouldn't you give us a song?” So I sang “Erin Gra Mo Chroi” a song of emigration that I'd learned the year before.
At the setting of the sun, when my daily work was done,
As I rambled 'round the fields for a stroll.
It was there all alone, I sat down upon a stone,
For to gaze on the scenes of New York.
Chorus:
Oh, Erin gra mo chroi, you're the only land for me,
You're the fairest spot that e'er my eyes could behold.
You're the bright star of the west, you're the land St. Patrick blessed,
You're far dearer than silver or gold.
2. Oh, the turf it will burn bright, in each hearth and home tonight,
And the snowflake will fall soft on wintry gale.
And St. Patrick's Day will come, and the shamrock will be worn,
In our own little island so green.
Chorus
3. Well, It broke my mother's heart, when from her I had to part;
Never will I see my darling mother more.
For it is now that she is laid, in her cold and silent grave,
In her own little island so green.
And, oh, the exclamations that followed. Here was a Yank, singing “our songs!” The farmer murmured wistfully, “My mother used to sing that song to me.” He appeared lost in reverie for a moment, but then became animated. “But you left a verse out.” Whereupon he sang another verse I hadn't heard before:
It was hard to bid adieu to the one I loved so true,
Darling will I never see you any more?
Not until I do go home, to my friends and kin at home,
To my own native land so far away.
What a pleasant surprise. Here I was getting another verse to a traditional song from a randomly met stranger on the side of the road. I learned that they were Thomas and Nora Lernihan of the townland of Connolly. I learned that a random friendly wave can be most productive. And I learned that traditional songs could be found virtually anywhere in Ireland.