Denis Lehane: I'm like Peig Sayers only without the shawl
A re-telling of my story took place at Fleadh Cheoil na hÉireann in Mullingar thanks to Dick Beamish, a master storyteller and winner of numerous accolades for spinning yarns. Picture: Gary McGivney
I was a big winner at the recent Fleadh Cheoil na hÉireann and, better again, I didn't even have to go to Mullingar for the privilege.
I remained right here in Kilmichael with my rambunctious bullocks and a pair of stray mules. Events in the Midlands unfolded without me. My victory at the Fleadh, if truth be told, had very little to do with myself and all to do with a man by the name of Dick Beamish.
Dick, a master storyteller and winner of numerous accolades for spinning yarns, plucked out a good story of mine from this collection of balderdash that I have built up over the years. Being a gentleman, he asked my permission to use it.
And being no fool, I told him he could do what he liked with it. For once it's written, tis out of my hands.
Anyhow mighty and all as my story was in English, Dick immediately had it translated into Irish by his good friend Maurice McGuillicuddy. And t'anam an diabhail, it became all the better again. With my story now in Irish I'm like Peig Sayers only without the shawl.
The translation was like finding an extra gear on your tractor or an extra pap on your cow. My story now had wings and could soar like an eagle.
The story itself was based on the storms and bad weather we have encountered here in recent years and on the damage they have wrought both to a shed up the yard and indeed to the mind. Yerra like all my stories t'was half mad, but Dick loved it, and who was I to argue with him.
Anyhow the piece also needed a few modifications, for the written word can sometimes need altering before being spoken. Especially my written words. And so, like an expert tailor rejigging your trousers, Dick made the necessary adjustments. It was no bother to him.
If truth be told, I had very little to do with the process, indeed I had nothing at all to do with the process. Anyhow between the jigs and the reels Dick went on to win. His re-telling of my story at the ScĂ©alaĂocht Final in Mullingar took the All-Ireland.
And when he told me of his success, not only did I have to sit down, but I insisted that it needed to be done in a pub where a pint would also be required to mark the occasion. After that good news t'was a day only fit for downing tools and drawing porter.
It's not every day you are involved in the winning of an All-Ireland. I have since heard a recording of the recitation but, being a class of a fool who was never really that good at English never mind the language of our ancestors, the Irish passed over me like pour-on applied to the back of an agitated bullock.
I recognised some words here and there but for the most part, it floated in the one ear and out the other. Luckily for me, however, I have a family with a grasp of Irish, and daughters who delight in speaking the native tongue.
When I played the track back to my daughter Denise, she translated it all and indeed was so impressed that she found it hard to believe her father had anything to do with it.
Well I did, and there could well be no talking to me soon, either in English or in Irish, for a success like this could go to the head.
