Jimmy Rankin Solo Answers Call Of The Wild

Much of the Rankin Family band’s success was arguably due to the excellent song writing and soulful vocals of Jimmy Rankin. If you’re a fan of the band’s award winning ten CD catalogue and are looking to hear the Mabou, Cape Breton musician at his best push the old material to the side and turn your attention to the songs Rankin’s sung since striking out on his own.

Jimmy is set to offer his latest solo effort Edge of Day to a devoted fan base and love-at-first-listen converts on May 1st. In conversation, Rankin is candid about the differences between writing as part of a group and the intimidating pleasure of writing for oneself.
“There’s definitely a sense of freedom, that’s for sure. I can do pretty much whatever I want to do, although I did that with the Rankins anyway,” Jimmy said in a recent interview.
“With my thing, my solo records, it’s definitely wide open. I guess it was a combination of a sense of liberation and a sense of…I don’t know if intimidation is the word, but you pretty much have to rely on yourself and the people you’re working with. With the Rankins, you had four or five other people to fall back on and ask questions and make decisions with.”
Relying on himself seems to be working well for Rankin. 2002’s Song Dog hollered in no uncertain terms that Rankin, the solo artist, had arrived. The album was met well by the music community and fans alike. Followed Her Around, co-written with fellow Cape Bretoner (and now Grammy winner) Gordie Sampson, received East Coast Music Award for Song of the Year, Songwriter of the Year, and a Canadian Country Music Award for Roots Artist of the Year. With a successful first album and critically acclaimed second disc, Handmade, under his belt, it seems unlikely that Rankin will ever look back. It’s for the best: the tack of his career, Rankin says, has satisfied him and his fans – both old and new.
“The records are definitely a change in direction, especially Song Dog, the first one. It’s a different style. I grew up listening to a lot of different styles of music, and Song Dog was definitely a good indication of that eclectic mix of music. It reflects a lot of the music I listen to and it definitely came through on that record. I definitely have loyal fans from those days, but I’ve made new fans along the way too.”
Those fans have been waiting in anticipation for Edge of Day. Recorded in Nashville during the spring of 2006, Rankin found himself unable to finish the mastering of the record until January, due to his commitment to the recording of a new Rankin Family CD and promotional tour. Proud of his latest offering, Rankin says he’s eager to see the recording reach listeners. Looking back at the creation of Edge of Day, Rankin insists that the project’s long completion time served him well.
“Usually with me, with my first two solo records, I basically went from mixing them to mastering them. Once you master them? That’s it. It’s pretty much signed, sealed and delivered. With this project I had a lot of time between the final mixes and the mastering. It doesn’t necessarily mean that I had time to re-do stuff, but I did have time to think about how if I did want to re-mix it, could be done. I lived with it for a while. I’d leave the disc for a bit and I’d go back and maybe go back and listen to it a month later. When I re-listen to it, it just sounded fresh to me. It didn’t make me want to cringe. It’s a very good sign when I can go back to something after a period of time of not listening to it and then listen to it and still think that it’s right. It’s gonna be something I listened to years down the road. If it was right for the time, it’s gonna hold up for me. One thing that I really like about this record is the songs. Half of the record is a co-write that I’ve written with other artists, and I feel that I’ve got some really great songs here.”
The great songs that Rankin and his co-writers were able to pen came to sound all the better under the guidance of musician-producer Colin Linden of Blackie and the Rodeo Kings. Rankin says that he couldn’t be happier with the results Linden helped him to churn out.
“He’s a skilled musician, songwriter and producer. He has a very organic approach to recording. He just assembles the band and basically goes for it.” said Rankin.
“With my other records, I spent a lot of time perfecting vocals and doing vocal overtakes. With this one it was basically singing live with a band, and maybe going in to do a couple of takes after we had the track. Going for the moment – going for the take: I think that’s the way Colin works, and I enjoy it. I’m a live performer and when you’re performing live you only get one shot at it. You don’t have the chance to go back and fix it. You go for it. You’re in the moment.”
Here’s hoping that Rankin’s career host more such moments for the world to enjoy.

ReJoycing Bloomsday

James Joyce’s love-hate affair with Dublin was uneasy at best. His dislike for his hometown was no secret, yet Ireland’s capital often became the bones of his works. Characters played out past friendships, and it was by no accident that Ulysses’ Leopold Bloom schlepped his way through Dublin on June 16th, 1904. As it was on this very day that Joyce and his wife-to-be, Nora Barnacle, took their first walk to the village of Ringsend. But was it fate or simply coincidence that he wrote, “Today 16 of June 1924 twenty years after. Will anybody remember this date?” Little did he realize that Bloomsday would be born.

Every year, cities from Los Angeles to Tokyo play host to Joyce’s work, but nowhere are the festivities more lively than in Dublin itself. Fans in Edwardian dress spread about the city in search of nutty gizzards to copycat Bloom’s breakfast and hunt out the address where he finally rolled into bed. But it wasn’t until 1954 that June 16th came to be known as Bloomsday. On the thirtieth anniversary of Ulysses’ setting, a small group of Dublin writers set out in horse-drawn cabs to retrace Leopold Blooms steps. It was an easy challenge to undertake as Joyce made no effort to rename the city’s pubs, streets, or bridges. Joyce wanted to “give picture of Dublin so complete that if the city one day suddenly disappeared from the earth it could be reconstructed out of my book.” It was because of this attention to detail that fans from across the world come to relive the epic story and take away with them a taste of Joyce’s Dublin.
But, in hindsight, considering the religious state of 1950’s Ireland, it is ironic that literary circles embraced the controversial novel. Ulysses was first published as a series in the American journal, The Little Review, but its publication was brought to a halt when a court banned it as obscene. No printer in America or England was willing to produce the novel and for a time it looked as if Ulysses would never see the light of day. But one year later, Joyce’s friend and American expatriate, Sylvia Beach, offered to publish his work and sell it at her bookshop, Shakespeare & Co. in Paris. On February 2nd 1922, as Joyce celebrated his fortieth birthday, the first edition of Ulysses was ready for distribution.

Outside of France, the novel remained an underground masterpiece until the US and UK lifted the bans in 1934. Curious minds found ways to bag the book while some bookstore owners, like New Yorker, Frances Steloff backed the Irish underdog. Her store, Gotham Book Mart, challenged the censors over the years and she supplied Ulysses to U.S. readers. Joyce, himself, occasionally ordered books directly from Steloff.

In Ireland, Ulysses was never officially banned but the content was met with embarrassment. For many, Joyce’s merciless depiction of Dublin life and the novel’s sexual innuendo was hard to stomach. It was as a result of this mind-set that Joyce turned his back on his homeland in 1912. At the time, his publisher, George Roberts, destroyed the entire first edition of Dubliners because of its realistic portrayals, and with it triggered the writer’s voluntary exile.

Although Joyce may have rejected Dublin, the Irish continue to celebrate him, simply because he was one of their own. They credited his brilliance by featuring him on their former ten-pound note and turned his old residence, Martello Tower into a national landmark. And since its centennial celebrations in 2004, the city has turned the festivities into a weeklong event. If you happen to be on other side of the Atlantic from June 9th it would be worth your while to join in on the Bloomsday festivities. The James Joyce Centre in North Great George’s Street runs a program of tours, readings and shows, and traditionally kicks off the festival with the re-enactment of Ulysses’ Paddy Dignam’s ‘wake’. And without a doubt, the Centre’s Bloomsday Breakfast is a highlight for fans as the Centre serves up Leopold Bloom’s breakfast of freshly roasted gizzards. But, whether it’s retracing the entire 18 miles of Bloom’s adventures or simply enjoying lunch at Joyce’s old watering hole, Davy Byrne’s pub, it is best to map out what Ulysses settings you can to choose from.

By Pat-Ann Durcan

Profile: Breffni School of Irish Dance

One day, at age 10, my sister, mother and I were at a dance class in Elizabeth, New Jersey. My sister was learning steps up on the stage with one of the Peter Smith School of Irish Dancing teachers, Michael O’Hara. Michael was a kind yet disciplined Irish dancing teacher whom everyone liked. I guess my mother caught me watching the lesson with Michael. Suddenly, my mother grabbed my hand and brought me up to Michael. I was embarrassed at first, but Michael focused on teaching me the steps, not on how uncomfortable I was. Once I realized that no one was fussing over me, I began to enjoy the lesson.
This was my first real dancing lesson. After this lesson I entered into the competitive world of Irish dancing full-force. I always look back on that day and wonder; “If it wasn’t Michael that was teaching me, would I have ever really gotten involved?” I don’t have the answer to that question, but I know for certain that Michael’s way of teaching helped ease my transition to learn dancing.

Today, Michael O’Hara is the Southern Region Irish Dancing Director. He lives in Miami with his wife and spends his free time teaching dancers in the Miami region. He was a great teacher when he was a part of the Peter Smith School and today, he stands as one of the most influential Irish dancing teachers in the Southern Region.

Hornpipe’s interview with Michael shows his path from the small boy captivated by the love of the dance to the internationally renowned Irish dancing teacher and director of the Southern Region.

HP: Tell me a little bit about how you got started in Irish Dancing.
O’Hara: I originally started dancing when I was 9 years old. My brother Colum and I quickly decided that it wasn’t for us, so we quit after a few lessons. A few years later, Colum saw some dancers at a festival and decided to try it again but I decided not to go. He went to his first feis a few months later and came home with 2 first place trophies. I couldn’t believe it – he had 2 trophies and I had none. I learned all of his steps that night and then went to my first feis a few weeks later. I won 2 firsts and never looked back.

HP: Did you have any teaching experience while dancing with your school?
O’Hara: That is the great thing about Peter. He always encourages his dancers to be teachers by providing opportunities to assist him in class. Peter would give me a group of dancers to work with and I would think that he wasn’t watching, but he was. After the class he’d give you a run down of how you did. He was the best mentor that anyone could ask for. The important thing was that he was there watching you every step of the way. Your sister, Meghan, was one of the dancers that I had worked with, and I’m sure you remember me trying to convince you to start Irish Dancing as well.

HP: What made you move to Florida?
O’Hara: Love. I met my wife, Nicola McEleney, at the 1996 Nationals in Boston. She was going to college in Liverpool, England and doing a college work placement in Miami. After she got her degree she moved to Miami permanently and I followed her there. We got married in Miami in 2000. Nicola teaches full-time at the Breffni Academy.

How did you establish yourself as a dancing teacher in Florida?
O’Hara: I started the Breffni Academy in Miami with the assistance of Nicola and her sister Patricia Daley. There wasn’t much of anything Irish in Miami as you can imagine. A family saw Nicola and Pat dancing one night and asked if there was anywhere they could have their girls take lessons. It all started from there. Our first beginners are now in college and still dancing. We’re very proud of them all.

HP: What made you want to be the Southern Regional Director?
O’Hara: I had already served on the Executive Board as Recording Secretary and Assistant Regional Director, so this was a natural progression for me. I wanted to lead the Region into a new era and also tackle some issues that I felt needed to be addressed. This has been one of the most rewarding experiences I have had, but it is a position that is extremely demanding.
Overall it’s been fantastic. The support I have had from the Southern Region members has been great. I’ve also had the pleasure of being able to work with the all of the past Regional Directors – Laureen O’Neill-James, Una Ellis and Russell Beaton. I have had a great time as the Regional Director for the IDTANA Southern Region, and I look forward to running for a second term.
HP: Do you work outside of Irish dancing?
O’Hara: I’m glad you asked that question. Most people think I just teach Irish Dancing. I am the Director of Housing Development for the City of Miami Beach. My job is to develop housing for the elderly, families in need, and the workforce. I am responsible for the entire process from concept development and financing to final occupancy. At the moment, I have seven projects in various stages of development and construction.
I also serve as the master Irish Dance teacher and World Dance panelist for the Presidential Scholar in the Arts Program sponsored by the National Foundation for Advancement in the Arts (NFAA). This program selects the top high school artists in the country, with the very best going on to the White House to receive a gold medal from the President. Last year, three Irish Dancers made it to the finals – Ashley Smith, Deirdre Robinett, and Garret Coleman.

HP: What are the hot topics in Irish Dance right now?
O’Hara: There are a few, but for the Southern Region it is the intermittent teaching rule. An Coimisiun does not allow classes to operate without a certified instructor present at all times. There have been some instances where approval has been granted in the Southern Region, but for the most part the rule has been ignored. The Southern Region has grown in part by having some of these arrangements in place, but there are many unintended consequences. Any new arrangements will not be allowed unless they are strictly in conformance with the rule. The current arrangements will be corrected over time with senior dancers obtaining their TCRG certification, and many have been already. This has not been an easy task, but it is necessary in order to ensure the continuation of a high standard in the future.
For Irish Dancing, the issue right now is costumes. The current trends and styles have gotten extremely out of hand. While I agree that all art forms must modernize over time, the basic idea of a traditional Irish Dance costume seems to have been lost. The cost is also problematic, but demand will always dictate the price when it comes to costumes. An Coimisiun has formed an official Costume Committee to analyze the issues and bring forth recommendations. This is an issue that all Regional Directors are following closely to make sure that the views of North American teachers, dancers and parents are taken into consideration.

Personally, Michael was an inspiration. Hopefully, I too have encouraged young dancers that I taught. Michael is one of the most dedicated Irish dancing instructors out there, and I know he is passing that light of passion off to other young ones, just as Peter Smith did to him years ago. Michael’s enthusiasm and love for Irish dance has already brought so many dancers into the Southern Region, and I suspect this trend will continue for as long as he remains involved in Irish dancing. The light will never die.

By Erin Reilly

Billy the Kid Claims His First Victim

On August 17, 1877, young William Henry McCarty became a killer and outlaw. Attacked by a barroom bully in Arizona, the seventeen-year old killed the man with his pistol and fled to nearby New Mexico where he tried to start a new life as a ranch hand. But he would soon find himself embroiled in a bitter and bloody rancher feud, a conflict that propelled him to national infamy as “Billy the Kid,” the most notorious outlaw in the west.
Billy the Kid was born William Henry McCarty in New York City to Irish immigrant parents Catherine and Michael McCarty on September 17, 1859. Like many of their fellow Irish immigrants, the McCarty’s lived in poverty in a run down tenement on the Lower East Side. When Billy’s father died soon after his birth, he and his mother headed west, eventually landing in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
There in 1873 Billy’s mother married another Irishman, a miner named William Antrim. Her death the next year from a long bout with tuberculosis hit Billy hard and set him on a downward spiral. He accompanied his step-father to a silver strike in Arizona, near a place called Globe City. His step-father alternated between abusing and ignoring Billy, leaving him to fall in with a rough crowd in the mining town. By age sixteen, Billy was known as a violent and reckless young man who possessed little regard for authority. Shortly after his arrest for stealing laundry, he set out on his own, supporting himself as a ranch hand, cattle rustler, and gambler.
Up to this point the 17-year old’s offenses were relatively minor, given the rough and lawless character of life in the 1870s southwest. But that changed one afternoon in August 1877 when Billy got into an altercation with a fellow rowdy named Frank Cahill. “Windy” Cahill was a big man—considerably larger than the slight Billy­—who delighted in taunting others. No one remembers what Billy said in response to one of the burly Irishman’s barbs, but it prompted Cahill to attack. He threw Billy to the ground and began to pummel him. Somehow Billy managed to pull his gun and fired into Cahill’s stomach. When Cahill died the next day, Billy was long gone.
Now an outlaw, he headed for New Mexico and again fell in with cattle rustlers and horse thieves. But as was common in the wilder days of the west, men like Billy were often hired by ranchers (sometimes the very ones they stole from) to protect their herds from other rustlers or rival ranchers imposing on their grazing and watering areas. Billy was hired by a wealthy English rancher named John Henry Tunstall, a man then embroiled in a bitter struggle with an Irishman named James Dolan. Dolan and his partner William Murphy held a monopoly on the local beef market in Lincoln County and were notorious for paying prices for beef that kept ranchers on the verge of ruin. When Tunstall, the largest rancher in the county set out to break the monopoly, he found that Dolan controlled all the local politicians, judges, and businessmen. Worse, Dolan hired rustlers to harm Tunstall’s cattle and drive him out of business. Tunstall’s response was to hire his own men, including Billy.
The simmering feud between Dolan and Tunstall erupted into a conflict that came to be called the Lincoln County War when Dolan had his men assassinate Tunstall on April 18, 1878. When the local sheriff, a man under the thumb of Dolan, refused to arrest any suspects, Billy and a group of Tunstall’s men took matters into their own hands. Only days after the assassination, they hunted down and killed two of the suspects. Three weeks later they killed Brady in an ambush. Another suspect was shot soon thereafter. Dolan’s men got revenge a few weeks later when they gunned down three men in Billy’s group and Tunstall’s business partner. Billy narrowly escaped.
The Lincoln County War cooled after that episode. Billy laid low in Fort Sumner, New Mexico (not far from Lincoln) until arrested by a posse sent by the governor of the New Mexico territory. Billy soon escaped and rejoined his friends in the hills near Fort Sumner. In late December 1880 Sheriff Pat Garrett found them and arrested Billy, charging him with the murder of Sheriff Barry. A jury found Billy guilty and sentenced him to hang, but he again escaped the day before going to the gallows, killing both his guards in the process.
By now Billy’s exploits had become the stuff of sensational stories in newspapers across the country.

Journalists often exaggerated the details and weaved in copious amounts of fiction into their dispatches, turning Billy ­— a nondescript ranch hand caught in the midst of a brutal range war ­— the nation’s most famous outlaw. And for good measure, they gave him a catchy nickname, “Billy the Kid,” a moniker that was derived from Billy’s youth (he was only 21) and boyish face.
Sheriff Garrett eventually caught up with Billy on July 14, 1881 and killed him with a bullet in the heart. Garrett was heralded for ridding the west, in the words of the New York Times, of “probably the most noted desperado on the Pacific coast … [and] one of the most dangerous characters this country has produced.” That hyperbole indicated the myth making yet to come as novels, ballads, movies, and oral tradition turned William Henry McCarty into a national icon.
Ed O’Donnell is the author of 1001 Things Everyone Should Know About Irish American History

Bill Doyle

All of Bill Doyle’s pictures tell a compelling story of Ireland’s history. It’s no wonder this 81-year-old photographic artist has, over his more than 60-year career, published five books, won The Daily Telegraph Photographer of the Year Award, three Carrolls Press Awards, Ireland’s Eye Photographic Award from The Irish Independent Newspaper, and a few from unnamed competitions in Japan, German, England and the United States.

During his career he took many pictures for magazines, including Ireland of the Welcomes and was the first staff photographer for Cara, Aer Lingus’s inflight publication. There are probably more, but getting the humble photographer to admit his achievements is difficult, at best. It was only through research and word of mouth that his accolades were uncovered. He is one of Ireland’s best photographers. Some might say his fame goes past Irish borders. Doyle never uttered a word about a Bill Doyle television documentary being filmed. It was only through communications with his long-time friend and fellow photographer, Leo Doyle, that it was finally revealed.
Bill Doyle’s work is, Leo said, “well known and [he’s] generally regarded as Ireland’s first celebrity snapper,”
You’d never hear it from him though. Anyone lucky enough to talk to this soft-spoken man—and then glimpse one of his award-winning photographs—will understand why Doyle’s late mother, Bridget, always said, “The trouble with Bill is he orders beer when he should be ordering champagne.” After more than four months of telephone interviews, which all included witty and sometimes off-color quips, an interview on Doyle’s home turf painted a more complete picture of this quiet unassuming man.

He sat behind a table just inside the entrance of Davy Byrnes pub on a recent warm May afternoon in Dublin. His beer glass, still full, made a wet ring on the napkin as he waited. The old historic Duke Street bar, once the haunt of famous writers and artists, was buzzing with modern conversations. No one in the famous literary establishment knew the gray-haired man with steely blue eyes, dressed simply in khaki’s, a blue shirt, vest and a green tie, was one of Ireland’s best photographic artists. The quick witted, gentle and contented man seems to like it that way and avoids limelight, most interviews, photographs of himself and any fanfare.
But, in bits and pieces, he shared parts of his life, just as he had in earlier telephone calls.
“Bill was always talking, always looking and always ready for that great picture of ordinary people going about their lives,” said Letitia Pollard, editor of Ireland of the Welcomes. “I remember going for the first time to the Aran Islands and thinking that, perhaps, I had left it too late and the magic shown in Bill’s photos would be gone. So [in 1998] I went to Inis Meáin.” The middle island that inspired literary giants JM Synge and Yeats is where Ireland’s past and present collide. “Enjoying an early evening walk along the beach by the pier, I saw a vaguely familiar figure walking toward me. Who was it? Bill, wandering toward the graveyard to see old friends, and just to see…” she said.
His work clearly shows how talented he is, but getting him to admit he has a gift is another matter.
“I never knew I was good,” he said modestly. Doyle preferred to joke and chat rather than focus on himself. But, like photographs in a developing tray, his past started to emerge.
Doyle was born in Dublin in 1926 in another era. With burgeoning growth over the last few decades that era is gone. With Doyle’s work as evidence, it is not forgotten.
For example, in one of his shots, taken in the late 1960s in Connemara, there are two basket-laden donkeys, heads down and weary, trotting along a dirt path. A third donkey, sans basket, lopes behind the others. A middle-aged man, hands by his side, walks with his faithful sheepdog behind him. Although the shot is black and white a few dark clouds seem to follow the group toward a destination we’ll never know. Rock walls slope across the background and the mountains of another island loom behind the landscape. One lone rooftop with two chimneys pops up behind a hill, letting us know the vast and empty landscape has at least one home there.
“It’s changed completely,” Doyle said of the area that now sports numerous houses and far less farm animals. “In Connemara now you wouldn’t see the donkeys.” (See photo on page 13)
After looking at his pictures, people still go to Connemara and look for them, he said. The donkeys are now only in the shots he took more than 40 years ago. Thankfully, with the right light, perfect timing and one click of his camera, Doyle froze people, places and time forever.
It’s not just the donkeys or the lone men on the beach now missing from the Irish landscape. In the late 1960s Doyle took a black and white close up of an elderly Aran Island man sipping a half-pint of Guinness. Though he took it years ago it’s as vital as the day it was taken. Doyle captured a moment, one that comes to life just by its mere existence. The man is holding a half-pint glass between his lips, the stout’s foam clinging in waves to the glasses top and sides. The seam and tweed of the man’s wool vest cradle a handmade sweater, one with a distinctive island stitch. His paddy cap, only a few inches from the top of the glass, looks worn and comfortable. Doyle’s shot is so real viewers are transported into that pub with the man who looks as though he’s had a long day and is now relaxing.
Doyle’s photographic moments, now Irish treasures, will keep the country’s history alive.
“His black and white images of ordinary life and the people of Dublin city through the 1960s and 1970s are now iconic, as are his images of Kerry and Connemara,” Leo said of Bill Doyle’s award winning shots.
A black and white photograph of a decaying wooden jaunting car, alone in a field is a perfect example. The more than 100-year-old buggy, once pulled by a horse, was used when a man and a woman wanted to court. The two sat back to back on each side of the cart and rode along with the driver—probably a parent. Eye to eye conversations were impossible and dating then had to be difficult. Had Doyle not caught that moment before the car disintegrated and fell to the ground one might never have visions of early dating.
“The Ireland that I shot then would be impossible to get now,” Doyle said. “I go through [my] negatives and all those things I’ve seen are gone.”
During his decades as a photographer he has been on worldwide assignments, published five photographic books, and currently has an exhibition in Sydney, Australia. Doyle isn’t impressed. But, anyone who has seen or bought his pictures is.
“Back in the late 1960s—right through the 1970s and up to 1990s, Bill was better known as top VIP at social gatherings, [rather] than the VIPs…,” said Leo Doyle. “Film producers and directors, international pop and rock stars and statesmen all were quite comfortable being photographed by Bill Doyle.”
Although it is apparent Doyle is a wizard with any film camera, his only bow to technology is a telephone and a television set, which, if need be, he said he would gladly live without. He does not own a computer, answering machine or cell phone—and vows he never will. Unlike the rest of the technologically obsessed world, Doyle loves communicating through handwritten letters.
Growing up his family heated the house with coal. He now warms his Dublin home with a wood stove. “I was probably indoctrinated with that mentality,” he said of his simple and contented life in the 130-year-old Victorian he bought in 1977.
“To me it’s magical.”
Spend a few minutes with the 5’10” inch quiet man and it’s clear he’s magical too.
Although he gave up his driving license a few years ago and now relies on other transportation, Doyle gets around Dublin easily. He is still taking pictures, his last, he said, was of an old telephone.
Over the years he’s made enough money to support himself and lives comfortably in a house that is only a few minutes from Grafton Street. People may not know him, but they know his work. Even so, Doyle considers himself: “an ordinary man…the guy next door.”
But, this particular man is not the “guy next door.” So, although he’s not impressed, the rest of the world is. Comments from well-known publications and artists laud his work.
Here are just a few comments from friends, magazines and newspapers:
“The fine vision of Bill Doyle…fills my eyes and warms my heart. Bill Doyle has the vision and can record it,” Irish author and broadcaster Benedict Kiely said of Doyle’s book, Imagines of Dublin.
“Even though Bill Doyle presents us with single images you can hear the sounds of the islands,” said author, journalist and filmmaker Muiris Mac Conghail of Doyle’s book, The Aran Islands, Another World. (Mac Conghail, who Doyle calls a “genius” even wrote the introduction to one of his books.)
“Some hundred black and white photographs by well known photographer, Bill Doyle, have the same timeless archetypal quality as the proverbs, conveying in economical visual images the accumulated life of Irelands ancient culture,” Publishers Weekly referring to Doyle’s book Ireland of the Proverbs.
But, maybe it is his gentle “guy next door” persona that has net Bill Doyle with so many awards and unforgettable photographs. “Bill Doyle’s forte is his uncanny ability to make people feel totally at ease in front of his camera, coupled with a finely tuned superior artistic eye that can almost feel a picture before it happens. Most of the inspiration for his most successful images were the result of well thought out ideas, arising out of what he saw and felt in the world around him,” said Pollard.
He still doesn’t give himself as much credit as he deserves. Doyle said he sometimes trips over some of his best work. “There’s always the luck of the moment,” he said and referred to his book, The Funeral in the Aran Islands, a hardbound photographic documentation of a traditional funeral. “I happened to be there at that moment on that day. The bell was ringing in the church and a funeral appeared. All the women were wearing black shawls and red skirts.” He remembers thinking, “Oh my God, and I happen to be here at this moment.”
Even then he knew this was Irish history.
His own history started with his mother, Bridgit, his brother and a sister who died at 8. Other than a short stint as an insurance salesman, Doyle has always been a photographer.
“The day I bought a camera I never worked again,” he said. “I’ve made a living from my hobby.”
In 1946, without any formal training, he when he went to work for the Rotunda Hospital taking and developing pictures of babies, he said. With a cheap black and white Kodak Ratina he took his first shot of Siamese twins.
In 1952 he moved up to a Roliflex, a premium camera at that time, and taught himself how to use it. He bought another. That was also the year he married, Tina, a woman he met while bicycling in County Louth. She had a wonderful sense of humor and they were happy. In 1959 his daughter, Lesley, arrive at the same Rotunda Hospital. By this time Dad had moved on to other work and took baby pictures for himself. Tina and Billy’s time together was short lived. She died of cancer at only 38. Although she has been gone since 1963, Doyle still speaks lovingly of their time together. It’s apparent he still misses and longs for her after all these years.
In the 1960s, during one of his jaunts across the world, Doyle biked through Portugal’s mountains. He wrote and took pictures of the experience. “I got a call, ‘you’ve won,’” he said. He received 500 pounds, a Leica camera and a trophy.
“I was then sent to Kenya as a guest of the Kenya Government,” he said of another trip and award. “What a prize.”
Doyle, who enjoyed traveling with Tina, said the two visited—and took pictures—in Norway, Portugal, Kenya, the Loire Valley, France, Italy, Austria, London and Uganda.
The years behind a camera paid off in awards and other assignments.
The most remarkable, he said, was The Daily Telegraph Magazine Photographer of the Year Award in 1967. “When I won that prize it was quite alarming,” he said. Doyle went to London to get his prize and met the editor who said, “’You’ve beaten about 2,000 English guys, who were all very good at photographing a white egg against a white background.’”
Doyle’s photographs are anything but white against white. His documentary of Irish moments are stark and real. Even with the exhibitions, great reviews and numerous awards Doyle think he’s “actually a screwed up painter.” Perhaps that’s why his pictures tell such rich stories, sometimes in black and white and sometimes in color. Funeral shots from the Aran Island book are gut wrenching, unforgettable and sad. No painting has ever captured those moments.
As the years progressed Doyle said he worked for big and small companies taking photographs. During the 1970s Doyle did a lot of work for Ireland of the Welcomes magazine. They produced a book using his pictures. Later Doyle decided to go it alone as a freelancer.
Luck and the sun a lot of the credit for his work, Doyle said. “I’ve always maintained 50 percent of what I’ve photographed is motivated by light,” he said. “In every painting light is an essential.”
Look at his work and it’s apparent that Doyle’s eye and quick trigger finger are also “essential.”
He knows when he’s taken a really good picture or “when I’ve frozen the image.” He fills the frame and, unlike other photographers, does not crop his work—ever. What’s on the paper is the actual picture he took. The rest of the photographic world should be so lucky. Although he doesn’t work in the darkroom anymore he recalls the magic when the image appeared. In that instant he’d know whether or not he’d captured another “moment.”
His photographic tips and methods are surprising. “You’d be amazed with what I get away with,” he said. He uses a wide-angle lens and sets it at 125/F11 and incorporates the images without focusing. “It’s terribly simple,” he said and added, “I have good reflexes.”

Simple?
Perhaps it’s simple for Doyle, because he has an artistic eye and the ability to know when and where to take the best shot. It’s takes a lot more than light, luck and F-stops to garner so many awards and accolades. His instincts and great timing have made him famous. Doyle has heard people say, “‘you never see a Billy Doyle anymore.’” That, he said, is because Ireland has changed so dramatically. The people and places only exist now on pieces of his photographic paper.
Doyle’s daughter, Leslie, has taken over the family business and is also a photographer, Doyle said proudly.
Lately he’s been filing all his work because she will inherit it when he’s gone. “I have a massive collection of negative and transparencies,” he said. “If I don’t file them and kick the bucket they would end up in skip on the street.”
“Kicking the bucket” is a long way off. Doyle lives a healthy life, takes the most out of each day and expects to keep going for some time. “I throw my chest out the window at half past 7 a.m.,” he said. “Every day is a gift. I get up in the morning saying I’ve got to get the mileage out of the day.’”
When he is ready to leave this earth he wants his friends to gather at his house. “The wake will be in this room,” he said of the parlor where he listens to music. “I’ll leave a few bob for drinks.”
Maybe, just maybe, someone will bring a bottle of Champagne.
Doyle has published: Ireland of the Proverbs; The Aran Islands, Another World; The Magic and Mystery of Ireland; Island Funeral; Images of Dublin, A Time Remembered. hm

By Denise Dube

150 Years of Belleek

The village of Belleek, the most westerly village in Northern Ireland, lies quietly along the banks of the Lough Erne. Visitors are lured by the town’s picturesque beauty, thriving shopping district, and abundance of outdoor activities. The gentle rolling emerald landscape is made for walking and the waters are filled with trout and salmon that entice anglers of all ages. Still, what draws most people to the village is Belleek Pottery, the home of the world’s finest parian china for the last 150 years, and one of Ireland’s greatest treasures.
Accounts differ greatly has to how the pottery began. One legend states that in 1849, John Caldwell Bloomfield, who had just inherited Castle Caldwell and the surrounding village of Belleek, was attempting to whitewash a cottage “using the flaky white powder he dug up from his backyard” (Antique). The pearl-like luster of the finished product inspired a geological survey… and in the soil were found all the necessary ingredients to create a china unlike the world had ever known.
Another legend hints towards a far more grim beginning. Bloomfield inherited Caldwell, “at a time when the surrounding population was still reeling from the devastation of the Potato Famine.” During the course of the next six years, potato plants withered and died, resulting in the starvation deaths of “over a million men, women and children.” As the new owner of Belleek and Castle Caldwell, Bloomfield may have been inspired by the words of Daniel O’Connor to the British House of Commons in 1847 when O’Connor urged “Ireland is in your hands, in your power. If you do not save her, she cannot save herself. I solemnly call upon you to recollect that I predict with the sincerest conviction that a quarter of her population will perish unless you come to her relief” (History Place). Bloomfield, knowing he had to provide some type of economic haven for his people, commissioned a geological survey to see if the land could support a working pottery (Funding).
The actual truth may reside in the mists of time, but what is certain is that a survey was done and the soil surrounding Belleek village was found to be abundantly rich in minerals. Bloomfield was thrilled with the results and immediately formed a partnership with London architect Robert Williams Armstrong and Dublin merchant David McBirney. Together the three men were able to get a railway line built to Belleek to supply the necessary coal for the kilns. Production focused mostly on domestic items, like “pestles, mortars, washstands, hospital pans, floor tiles, telegraph insulators and tableware” (Belleek) The quality and craftsmanship of these items was superb because Armstrong insisted on hiring the best potters available. He single-handedly recruited 14 craftsmen from Stoke-on-Trent, the epicenter of England’s pottery production (Belleek).
Over the next few years, the quality of the clay continued to improve, and by 1863, the pottery finally produced its now famous parian china. In order to ensure that Belleek would remain synonymous with high quality, the company established “standards for its porcelain–and each piece became subject to Armstrong’s approval. Rejected pieces were then destroyed—a policy the company continued over the next 150 years. Indeed, even in the early 21st century, Belleek continued to throw away some 20 percent of its production”
In 1872, Belleek displayed a variety of goods, including tableware, statues and a Chinese tea urn, at the Dublin Exposition and won two gold medals. Interestingly, Belleek received the ultimate nod of approval when Queen Victoria ordered a tea service for herself and as royal gifts for those she favored. Not surprisingly, the British nobility quickly followed suit and Belleek started appearing in homes as far away as India.
So, what is it about Belleek that collectors find so appealing? Well, first you need to understand parian china, a white biscuit porcelain whose name is derived “from its close similarity to the white marble mined on the island of Paros in the Aegean Sea.” Instead of being molded into shape by hand (think of a potter’s wheel), parian china is actually a liquid dough that is poured into a mold and then allowed to dry for several days before it is fired in the kiln. The process results in china that is thin, durable, and translucent… perfect for tea services and decorative objects such as Belleek’s famous baskets, lamps, and vases.
Today, 150 years later, Belleek continues to “produce its famous lines of seashell designs, basket weaves, and marine themes,” but it has also adapted to the demands of a new millennium by creating a line called Belleek Living, which according to the official website is a “cutting edge design with a relaxed modern style…a range of quality ‘designer’ giftware that reflects how we live today.” Still, whether you prefer the more traditional woven baskets or the newer sleek and modern dinnerware, an Irish home is just not complete without a piece of Belleek, which is probably why giving Belleek as a wedding present is such a long held tradition. And, legend has it that “if a newly married couple receives a piece of Belleek, their marriage will be blessed with lasting happiness.” Now, who can argue with that?

By Marjorie McKinstry-Miller

Do You Have What It Takes to be a Feis Mom?

The following criteria were developed a few years back by various “practitioners” in the field for use as a “self assessment” (Kind of like a Celtic Cosmo Girl Test).

How many of these apply to you?

1. You think waiting in line for ten minutes to use the restroom at the local mall is a “piece of cake.”
2. You have ever wondered what “normal families” did on weekends?
3. You have ever taught a class on the “Irish Points” system.
4. All your trips to visit distant relatives just happen to coincide with a local Feis.
5. You have checked airfares to Shannon “just in case”.
6. You can recall the exact moment you said, “The hell with this, I’m getting her a wig”.
7. You have checked results from the Boise Feis, because “you never know”.
8. Your friends wonder why you have a roll of duct tape in your purse.
9. Vacation planning starts with a check of the NAFC schedule.
10. You have ever told your daughter something to the effect of, “Don’t dance next to number 737”.
11. You can calculate the “cut off number” for qualifying for the “Nationals” from the Oireachtas but have difficulty figuring out how much of a tip to give at a restaurant.
12. You have lost the use of your dining room table for an extended period of time on account of Irish Dance.
13. Your daughter’s TCRG has consulted with you regarding an NAFC or IDTANA rule.
14. You have used rosary beads to count the bars in “Madame Bonaparte”.
15. You’ve ever “helped” your daughter with her school project so she could practice dance, then were actually proud of the “A” you received.
16. You can give more hand signals than a third-base coach.
17. You consider orange an appealing skin tone color.
18.You can estimate, within fifteen minutes, the time it will take for each set of dancers to complete their competition, taking into account every finite mathematical permutation to determine what time U-14 prelims starts.
19. You refer to a period in your life as “Before ID”
20. You can still remember how many glasses of wine it takes to put in 120 spike curls.
21. You have ever wondered where you can buy an “Official Feis Photographer” T-shirt.
22. You don’t think it strange to glue items of clothing on your child.
23. You “just happened” to have your daughter’s hard shoes in your purse at a pub, church dinner, or family-get-together (bonus points for a funeral).
24. You can correctly pronounce words like, “Siopa Rince”, “Comhaltas”, and “Smithwicks”.
25. You are actually keeping track of your score on this.

If you checked 20 or of the above, congratulations! You’re a “Category-Five” Feis Mom.
If you checked more than 15, but less than 20, you still have some “commitment issues”.
If you checked less than 15, there is still hope but you need practice. Don’t worry, there’s
plenty of time: The Boise Feis isn’t till mid September!

On Winning

It is a terrific thing to be on a podium, to be called forward and acknowledged. It is a testament to months of hard work by yourself and your teachers. When I see each dancer come across the stage, I think to myself “two to three seconds.” That is about the amount of time that it takes to receive your trophy. I wait, plastic and metal pressing into my cheek, for you to turn and flash your smile.
I have been a feis photographer for several years now and I have taken thousands of pictures of dancers. I have terabytes of memory filled with dancers dancing, dancers chatting, dancers getting ready and dancers in awards ceremonies.
It occurs to me that winning, especially at a large event or a major has to be a bit like getting married. If it wasn’t for the photographs, I wouldn’t remember a darn thing about my wedding because it was such a blur. If it wasn’t for the pictures I wouldn’t remember waltzing with my uncles, what my cake looked like or that all three of my brothers looked great in their tuxedos. Family and friends came out to wish us well. They dressed up, sat through the service and came to the reception and danced. The photos are a record of my wedding as much as they are now a part of the history of my family.
When you accept an award you are part of the history of Irish dance, a part of the history of your school, and most importantly a part of the history of your family.
Winning a trophy special is a stellar moment. You become part of a legacy. The trophy will be displayed every year at the feis and people will walk by the awards tables look at the trophy, your name will be on it. Maybe it will be on the trophy with a dancer you looked up to when you just started out, or a dancer who has since gone on to college. Specials are named that for a reason, they are special to someone. Many trophy specials for Irish dance are sponsored by families and those families are proud of you for your achievement.
My message is this: Look up and Smile! We are all proud of you. Smile for your mom who drove you to class two or three times a week, smile for your dad who worked overtime to pay for your trip to Worlds or your new solo dress, smile for your classmates, smile for your grandma (who couldn’t be there, but will show that picture of you to every single one of her friends, the mailman and all her neighbors).
I hope that everyone takes a minute to think about what it would be like when it is his or her turn on the podium (you will get there if you work hard). What will you do with that gianormous trophy, how will you stand, what will you do with your feet? So next time you are up on the podium, remember to stand up straight and dazzle us with that 100-kilowatt smile!

By Sara Plevel

Poor Farmers’ Blight— The Irish Potato

As Irish legend tells the tale, the wreck of a Spanish ship carried the first round of potatoes to Ireland where these veggie immigrants from South America floated ashore, salt-washed and ready to eat. Quite likely, rumors arrived too, warning folks to be wary of this thin-skinned but dastardly member of the deadly nightshade family. With such infamous cousins as red tomatoes and green peppers, the Solanum tuberosum purportedly produced a poison able to induce everything from stomach upset to syphilis, leprosy, and sterility! Early French references to potatoes as pomme de terre or earth apples may have contributed connotations to this garden variety of rumor too, so the strange vegetable was thought to cause the eternal ruination of the gardens in which they grew. With such a wicked reputation spreading wildly, officials in France and other areas issued edicts strictly forbidding potato production.

Although Spanish Conquistadors often spoke of the wholesome benefits potato eyes had seen, few vegetable visionaries believed in the nutritious value of this odd glob of a tuber. As noted in mid-to-late 16th century journals, sailors who ate potatoes did not encounter scurvy during long trips at sea. On land, the potato or papa, as it was initially known in the Quechuan language of the ancient Incans, had amply fed pre-Columbian peoples for many thousands of years. Indeed, the papa plant originated in the Andes or highland regions of South America now known as Peru. By the late 1500s, however, Spaniards had taken the papa or patata, as they dubbed the spud, to North America where another name change occurred as “Potatoes of the Virginia,” further confusing botanical histories.
Meanwhile back at sea, those legendary ships from the Spanish Armada actually did sink off the Irish coast in 1588. So, conceivably, a batch or barrel of potatoes could have bobbed ashore. About a year later though, Sir Walter Raleigh reportedly brought the plant from North American to his estate in County Cork, experimentally producing what may have been the first crop of not-very-Irish potatoes. Unfortunately, he also gave some to the English Queen mum, but the kitchen staff of Elizabeth the First did not know what to do with the lumpy things. As that story has it, the cooks threw away the edible potato parts, boiled the poisonous leaves, and ruined an otherwise elegant dinner, thus causing the vegetable to be promptly banned from all near future events.
Since that particular potato incident set the plant’s reputation back a bit, it remained an outcast in Europe, perhaps until North Americans began to demonstrate their hearty appetites and undeniably good health. According to a side dish of the story though, Irish immigrants began cultivating potatoes in the American colonies, and not the other way around. This tale has some merit since, almost from its start among English-speaking peoples, the vegetable became known as “The Irish Potato,” presumably to distinguish the patata from the Spanish-named batata or sweet potato. Yet another tale, however, has Sir Francis Drake taking potatoes and tobacco from Colombia to Britain with a stop-over in North America, rather than Ireland. At any rate, properly pared and prepared potatoes had begun to grace Irish plates somewhere between the mid 17th century and the early 1700s. By the end of the 18th century, Frenchmen had fried their edicts, and noble French women had woven regal potato blossoms into their high-fashioned hair.

The next hundred or so years dished up a golden era for potatoes until they suddenly succumbed to the blight of 1845, the dark year in which the Irish Potato Famine began. Almost overnight, fungi settled in like fog, killing crops, stinking up the countryside, and plaguing farms until the turn of the decade. By 1851, the fungi, identified over a century later as Phytophthora infestans, had destroyed most of the country’s crop, leaving at least a half-million people—possibly one million or more —dead of starvation. Another one to two million reluctantly left the country, often settling among relatives in the United States or Great Britain. For those who remained in Ireland, the blight continued, not with mold and fungi, but with poverty, homelessness, and laws requiring the already small farms to be subdivided among heirs. Countless people roamed the city streets or wandered the countryside with no recourse but to dig holes in the ground and cover those earthen caves with sticks to provide shelter for their families.
How could such a terrible tragedy occur? Too many factors converged to single out just one. Yet most of the stories agree that the initial appeal of potato planting came because of the enormous amount of food that can be grown on a small plot of land or in poor soil. Besides this propensity for compact growth, each potato packs in energizing nutrients, such as carbohydrates, protein, Vitamin C, complex B vitamins, potassium, phosphorus, magnesium, and iron. Identifying those healthful properties, however, also uncovered toxins in the greenery. For example, solanine may lurk in the thin green layer beneath the skin, but cooking cures that problem and breaks down indigestible starches too.

While eating a raw potato can send a stomach into upheaval, almost any form of cooking works well. Depending on regional preferences, a cook may bake, boil, broil, roast, mash, or fry Irish potatoes with such success that this once rejected vegetable has become the fourth largest crop in the world, taking its high-ranking position right after wheat, rice, and corn. In Ireland, cooks often add a dash of fennel and a dollop of cream to give their potatoes a distinctly “Irish” flavor, or they might fry up some chips. Irish cooks also add varying portions of flour, butter, and milk to make potato pancakes or pat up a potato cake dough that’s lightly kneaded, rolled, then divided into fourths or farls. Lightly fried on either side, a potato farl (with or without the apricot jam) would surely be fit for a queen. Regardless, the development of recipes and the cultivation of facts eventually overcame the rumors. Surprisingly though, by 2005, the largest potato producer in the world was not Ireland, England, or the Americas, but China! Like a good story, a good word about a good food apparently gets around.

By Mary Sayler

Selkies

As the early morning mists swirl along the shore, a majestic seal approaches the rocky beach, seeking a suitable spot to land among the waves crashing against the coastline. A small child watches from a cliff and is rendered speechless when the seal rises from the surf, discards its skin, and emerges as a beautiful woman.
The child has just witnessed the magical transformation of one of the Celtic world’s most beloved supernatural creatures: the Selkie.
Selkies have been a part of Irish, Scottish and Icelandic lore for centuries, and there is quite a bit of controversy regarding their actual origins. Some folklorists believe that selkies first appeared in the legends surrounding the Orkneys, a group of islands off the north coast of Scotland. There may be some truth to this, as selch is the Scots’ word for seal. Other mythological experts believe that the legends may have evolved from the sight of Finnish fishermen, wrapped in warm sealskins, sliding out to sea in their kayaks. And another school of thought, as noted by A. Asbjorn Jon, states that selkies “are said to be supernaturally formed from the souls of drowned people.”

Whichever theory you believe, it is obvious that the selkie, the Celtic version of mermaids, continues to haunt the minds of those in and around the Emerald Isle. To this day, it is taboo among many fishermen to hunt and kill seals, because for them, there is a deeply ingrained belief that they may be killing a relative or friend.
So, what is it about selkies that we find so fascinating? Well, part of the attraction is that they are creatures of the sea, and the sea holds great mystical and cultural value to the Irish. Another part of the selkie allure is their magical ability to change shape and live among us. Finally, there is a romantic sadness associated with selkies. They seem to be loving and kind creatures, but are also perpetually lonely.
Most selkie stories start with the emergence of a selkie on land after shedding her skin. Once on land, this ever curious and beautiful creature explores the shores and surrounding villages, only to find that she has unintentionally entranced a local man. If the villager is lucky enough to find the selkie’s skin and place it in a hidden and secure spot, the selkie will then become a loving wife and mother.
The selkie almost always falls in love with her benign captor, but she never forgets her first home, the sea, and is often found roaming the shore, looking wistfully upon the cold Atlantic waters. Her life continues in much the same vein until either she or her children accidentally discovers the hidden skin. The moment it surfaces, the selkie wraps it around her body, rushes to the sea, dives into the waves, and resurfaces as a seal. The selkie will not return to land, for it does not want to be tricked again, but it will sun itself on rocks close to shore, hoping to get a glance at its former mate and its cherished children.
And such is the sorrow of the selkie, to never be happy and to never feel as if it belongs 100 percent on the land or in the sea—except for the male selkie (yipes, selkies can be men, too).
These fellows are a bit different from their female counterparts in that they actual seek out the companionship of mortals. They are infamous for their seductive powers over human women and troll the shores looking for Irish lasses who might enjoy a maritime romantic interlude. In fact, the amorous abilities of male selkies are so well known and revered, that human females have been known to stroll along the seashore in an attempt to catch a selkie’s eye. As one legend recalls, “Should such a mortal woman wish to make contact with a selkie-man, there was a specific rite she had to follow. At high tide, she should make her way to the shore, where she had to shed seven tears into the sea. The selkie-man would then come ashore and, after removing his magical sealskin, seek out ‘unlawful love’” (Orkneyjar). As you may imagine, these watery Lotharios aren’t quite so popular with their brothers on land. Since, according to Walter Traill Dennison, the rascals “…often made havoc among thoughtless girls, and sometimes intruded into the sanctity of married life.” In fact, some so feared the seductive powers of male selkies that “mothers would paint the sign of the cross on their daughters’ breasts before they undertook a sea journey” (Orkneyjar). It’s not stated if this was an effective technique or not, but I guess desperate times call for desperate measures.
Still, romance is not the only thought that occupies the male selkie’s mind. He has one other main interest: punishing any human who dares take the life of a seal. As a force of vengeance, the selkie is quite formidable, as he can control the weather and the sea. When the Atlantic turns particularly rough and ships start capsizing and breaking apart, villagers cast accusing eyes upon each other, wondering which fool was idiotic enough to bring the wrath of the selkies down upon their shores.
While selkies can control the weather at will, they cannot control how often they may take human form. Some legends insist that selkies are only provided one opportunity a year to walk the earth: Midsummer’s Eve. Others suggest the transformation could take place every ninth night or when a seventh stream—a magical inlet created after nine straight days of high tides—flows onto shore.
Though the debate continues as to when selkies may come ashore, it is impossible to deny the impact selkies have had on our culture. Our folklore and oral histories have been recounting their adventures for eons, and today the selkie still emerges as a popular figure in literature and film. One of the most notable incarnations is in the children’s novel Secret of Ron Mor Sherry by Rosalie K. Fry. The story surrounds that of a small child, Fiona, who, according to Elfrieda Abbe, through sheer perseverance, willpower and “determination uncovers a family secret and unravels a mystery” wrapped around her own hidden heritage as the offspring of a selkie. Though the novel was originally published in the late fifties, the story now reaches an even broader audience through its marvelous 1994 film adaptation, The Secret of Roan Inish. The director, John Sayles, wanting to convey all the beauty, charm and mystery the story had to offer, decided to film on location on the West Coast of Ireland. It is a simply breathtaking and magical cinematic voyage that is well worthy of the 103 minutes of screentime.
Another fabulous film that invokes the beauty of Ireland and the mythology surrounding selkies is the 2001 Hallmark Channel release, The Seventh Stream, starring Scott Glenn as a lonely widower who saves a beautiful young woman trapped in a loveless and abusive relationship. This is a particularily heart renching and poignant version of the legend, and may bring even the staunchest cynic to shed a tear. For those seeking a much more light hearted approach to the mythology, read Laurell K. Hamilton’s A Kiss of Shadows, which follows the adventures of a selkie and his part human part fey princess girlfriend as they solve mysteries in Los Angeles.
Or, for the greatest adventure of all, find a quiet and peaceful stretch of shoreline, shed a few strategic tears, and wait. The selkies will come to you.

By Marjorie McKinstry-Miller

Next Page »