We awoke today with summer in full essence across the harbor. As I write this, the Aisling Anne fishing trawler is being loaded with lobster pots on the quay side at full tide outside my window. Seagulls are swooping and diving and in the middle distance I can hear a rooster announcing a fresh Irish day. Cock-a-doodle-Roundstone. Seal Rock is the better translation of the Irish Cloch an Róin. A man on a ladder is calling in Irish cadence to a helper for more paint. Far off in the horizon, the twelve peaks of the Maumturk mountains are a mixture of light and shadow as the clouds play chiaroscopic chords across their rocky outcrops in purple and blue drapes. Downstairs, I can hear Andrew play a mystic air on his harp. A cream of porridge simmering wafts back through his sonorous overtones. It’s a far cry from the wild session around the turf fire up the road at the Shamrock Bar last evening. Alice was the attraction, her bowing was causing quite the stir among music aficionados and fishermen alike. When closing time came, they just dimmed the lights a bit and we played on till the cows came home. Get up the yard….
Alice made me promise I wouldn't post this picture from last night... there are no promises
The last pot has been loaded on the Aisling Anne. Bob is on the pier chatting to the two fishermen. They are still talking about his bodhrán solo last night in the pub. He is planning a visit to the bodhrán maker today in Roiundstone. The sun is adding a new texture on the Maumturks behind the pier. A seagull ignores the chatter of drums and pots to land lithely on the still mirror reflected on the mountains. Could he be busily foraging like Andrew. The harp skips along over the tune-a gift in the still air. The ropes are untied one man aboard the other on the pier still. The one on board enters the wheel house. Bob stands back; a last few comments about fishing and pots as if they had known each other all their lives. Bob snaps another picture; the men pose. All in a days work. The one with the blue shirt looks down at the gauges. The engine kicks into life, and without looking he slips it into forward while his shipmate pushes off with the long pole. Bilge pumps spurt water out the aft funnel, the purring of the engine ornamenting the splurge and splash of the bilge clearance. They slide out easily from the pier and soon they are headed out past the village. Bob watches as they round the head and disappear into the day. The boat, bright red and rust, lists to starboard a little to accommodate the pots as she disappears to the outer harbor. The pier is quite again. Bananas with porridge and honey.
Morning on the pier at Roundstone - a day fishing
Pots on the Pier at Roundstone
It’s time to go for a short walk to the old pier. Some of the team have gone to Kylemore Abbey to check out the punishing school for girls… oops finishing…. and others have gone walking to Dog Bay. It is a splendid day in Seal Rock. The word is out – Seattle and Roundstone are inexplicably and forever tied at the hips…
Get up the Yard…
Oh yeah – tonight we are planning to play at a wake….