Denis Lehane: To the book readers of Macroom Mart
A night at the opera might be a delight for some, but in my book, there is nothing to beat a bit of craic at the mart.
Charles Dickens was a great man for book readings. He did them all over the world.
He read in New York. He read in Portland, Maine.
He even did a book reading right here in Cork, choosing the Opera House as his port of call.
Afterwards, it is said Dickens went on to kiss the Blarney Stone, which probably wasn't necessary, seeing as how his mouth was operating perfectly well before arriving in Cork.
Anyhow, in an effort to emulate Dickens, I did a book reading myself last Friday night. And in a bid to further step up to the heights of one of the greatest writers of all time, I even bent down to kiss the stone step into the auld byre for luck just before I left... after a quick wipe of the sleeve of course.
I chose Macroom cattle mart in which to perform, for I felt the mart would be the right place for a man of my talents.
Any place well accustomed to the bawling of a bullock would have no bother dealing with the bellowing of auld Lehane.
And better again, joining me in the main ring at the mart last Friday night, was none other than Cork's very own answer to Dickens, namely the novelist Cónal Creedon. A man well versed in the practice of book readings.
Cónal Creedon could perform a first-rate book reading on the surface of the moon, and it wouldn't knock a shake out of him.
And on the night he did just that, delivering delightful stories on city life and of his beloved Beara, to a hushed and enthralled Macroom mart audience.
And as for myself, yerra like a bullock with his head caught in a mart gate, I roared out something half coherent. I regaled the gathering with tales of cows with long horns and bullocks with airs and notions.
Needless to say, the night was brilliant. T'was the Dickens of a fine occasion.
And this was a relief to me, for I had been sick with worry leading up to the big night.
"And why were you worried?" you might cry. "Sure, what could go wrong with a book reading at a cattle mart?"
Well, my greatest fear was obviously fan mania.
Yerra, a sort of Beatlemania thing, that can spring up from nowhere and surround fellows like us.
Well, luckily for all involved, the mart was well geared up for such an eventuality.
On the night, that mart had a few well able drovers on standby, ready to pounce if things got a bit hairy for the celebrated writers in the ring.
The sticks might be outlawed, but I dare say one could still be found if push came to shove.
The isolation pens were also ready, to pen unruly types. Thankfully, the crowd behaved themselves impeccably. And the mart drovers were never called into action.
Having the correct paperwork too had me jittery before the gig.
To get into a mart ring, in normal circumstances, requires an amount of paperwork and neither Cónal nor I had ear tags, cards or export licences.
All we had were our few books and a desire to talk the legs off the table.
Well, luckily again, such red tape was brushed aside, for we had able people doing our bidding for us, so to speak.
Jerh and his staff at Macroom Mart could not be more accommodating, leaving us to do little more than concern ourselves with thoughts of how we sounded.
So last Friday night, we spun some great tales in a place where great tales are spun every week.
It was the perfect location. And as sure as a hungry calf will respond to the rattle of a bucket, we will return to the mart sometime in the future.
A night at the opera might be a delight for some, but in my book, there is nothing to beat a bit of craic at the mart.
