I lifted my pack onto my back, left our beautiful country house and clambered over the fence into the fields. Down the grassy slope and along the tumbling banks of the Barton brook. Upstream past the sewage works and under the towering viaduct. Here I hoisted myself onto the pipe. The wide pipe exited the sewage works and slowly rose into the air, reaching a height of 30 feet as it meandered over the brook. As children it was our greatest challenge to scale the pipe and shuffle along it. With years of practice I now casually walked, feeling only the slightest trepidation as I crossed over the flowing stream. The weight of my pack gave the task an extra dimension. I wondered if anyone before had attempted the crossing laden with a rucksack. There was a story that the local daredevil Guy Topping had performed a headstand over the brook. Passing over the flowing water the pipe had not been repainted and the flaking rusty finish added to the uneasy feeling. I stepped from the precipice to the safely painted pipe. Now a gradual descent took me back into the fields. I followed a muddy path to a style that took me past the Billingtons farm and onto the Woodplumpton Lane. Along past the high school and into the village of Broughton. A mile along the A6 and I reached Junction 32, where the M55 and M6 converged.
From the slip road cars could be travelling either north or south on the M6. It was never an easy start to a hitch-hike. After two cars stopped heading the wrong direction I picked up a favourable lift. I asked the driver to drop me at Charnock Richard service station. Here I could approach the cars and ask the drivers. I needed a vehicle heading onto the M53 which would take me into North Wales and onto the A55 to Holyhead where I could catch the ferry to Dublin.
After asking twenty or more cars I found a man willing to take me as far as the A55 junction. We seated ourselves in the car and he rolled a joint. He sparked it up, drew a few hefty inhalations and passed it over to me. I gratefully accepted, took a few drags and offered it back to him. He gestured to me to smoke some more. I acquiesced. He started up the engine and we cruised down the motorway. We spoke little but enjoyed our conviviality. I descended at the junction. Now pleasantly stoned I enjoyed the open landscape as I stuck out my thumb from the side of the road. An hour passed before a shiny new Ford Sierra pulled over. A travelling salesman would take me all the way to Holyhead. Things were going well and we eulogized the benefits of hitch-hiking which he had enjoyed as a student.
I arrived at Holyhead for lunch. A small shop sold choc ices for 20p. I indulged and continued to the ferry port. I queued at the ticket office and decided to fish out my cash reserves from my money belt. I felt my waist but my belt was not there. I had travelled all the way from home with no need for cash. The small payment for the choc ice had come from my coin purse but I had forgotten to bring my wad. I could not afford the ferry. What could I do? As the realisation dawned on me I noticed a group of Americans buying a ticket for their camper van. They would pay a fixed price for the camper and be allowed it's full compliment of passengers. They were five in the group and could take six in the vehicle. I explained how I had forgotten my money, that I was a street musician and when we arrived in Dublin I would busk up enough money and pay them back. One of the three girls looked at me and said-
-Hey, you're not trying to fuck us over are you?-
I declared I was genuine but obviously it was their choice. They conferred and decided to give me a chance. I was relieved. We talked of our travels and temporarily bridged our social gap. Presumptions reinforced our boundaries. On arrival the Americans found a hostel and I agreed I would call in the next day at five o'clock to pay my share of the fare. They seemed to doubt me but my resolve was strong. I headed off to busk.
Grafton Street was the lively wide pedestrian way where street performance thrived. A combo of traditional players attracted a crowd. A man with an acoustic guitar, adapted to strike the strings with hammers, made a good sound. I watched as he played his final piece. He finished to applause and began to pack up. A good spread of coins covered the bottom of his guitar case. His impressive performance took the emphasis away from his rudimentary appearance. His shoelaces were electrical fuse wire. His colleague waited to take the pitch.-
-You reach the hundred?- He asked.
-Not quite- He replied.
I needed to find a spot. I headed up the street. I passed a performer who sat on the floor with an electric guitar perched upside down on his shoulder with the headstock supported by his feet. He "tapped" the guitar, playing a bass line with one hand and a melody with the other. A small amplifier sang out his virtuoso skill. At last I reached a clear spot with not so much human traffic. I took out my flute and lay down my case. I wasn't at the level of the other entertainers as I played my slow Irish reel. The money didn't come my way. After half an hour a punt fell in my box. Things weren't looking good. A lone clarinettist came over to talk. We teamed up hoping this would improve our chances. He played well and I improvised along, but to no avail. We were not up to scratch. After banging it out for a couple of hours we made a few punts. We retreated to a pub where I spent my earnings on a pint of Guinness and a packet of peanuts. We chatted about our busking experience for a while and I politely excused myself. The evening was descending and I wandered around looking for a spot to bed down. Not far from the hubbub a road led down to large gates at the entrance to a yard. It was all closed up and I sat down and waited for darkness. I made my bed on the pavement and could hear the festive crowds not far away. I slept well for a few hours until adventurers of a different sort arrived. An amorous couple pushed themselves up against the gate. My presence didn't deter them as she upped her skirt and he lowered his trousers. I hoped they might notice me and retreat, but they just got into it. I quietly packed up and left. Where would I go now? I wandered aimlessly until I came to a large park. Benches edged the park facing a stately building across the road. Here the late night was quiet. I made myself comfortable on the long wooden seat. This was an entirely preferable option and I slumbered until daybreak.I opened my bag and lifted myself on my elbows to acclimatize to the morning. A man came out of an office across the road. Now I expected trouble.
-Would you like a cup o' tea?-He enquired.
I was taken aback and could only answer yes. He darted back across the road and wasn't long in returning with a piping hot cuppa! I sat up and sipped away. I had never known such hospitality. As I finished the refreshing beverage he returned to retrieve the cup. He gave me a quizzical look as I smiled contentedly.
-Would you like another?- He asked. The first had slipped down nicely but I was still in need of hydration and once again must answer - Yes!- Off he popped for my refill. He came back enthusiastically, enjoying his act of good will. He left me to drink in peace. Now I was feeling ready for the day. I thanked him very much and he said-
-Just tell 'em we're good people over here!-
I packed up my kit and ambled over to stately building that housed the Natural History Museum. I waited a while for it to open and entered to enjoy the large stuffed animals and skeletons of dinosaurs. After this pleasant early morning I decided to address my problem. If I returned to Grafton Street I would probably be equally disappointed as I was yesterday. I required a new plan.I roamed a different way and found another shopping area. This was not the frenzied tourist hub of Grafton Street but a utilitarian service to the man in the street. There were no buskers here. I found sufficient space between shops and lay down my case. Now I was earning an average take. I stuck it out for the afternoon and made thirty punts. I could now return to the hostel where the Americans were staying and pay them the eighteen punts I owed them.
They were surprised I came and seemed to find little recompense in my meagre repayment. A story of a swine who ripped them off would have made a better reward for rich Americans. With twelve punts left I wandered back to Grafton Street. The competition was as fierce as ever but I found a spot to pass the time. In a more relaxed mood I fared better. Encouraged by more drops I continued for a couple of hours and made another fifteen punts. I wandered back to the park benches and read a newspaper till the light dimmed. I watched the wagtails hop about in search of crumbs and slowly made my bed. Undisturbed I lay down to sleep.
I awoke with the dawn and set off to leave Dublin. A two mile walk took me to a decent place to hitch-hike. It didn't take long for a kindly soul to stop. He took me as far as Mullingar. A few lifts carried me to my destination of Westport by the mid afternoon.
I was looking for my friend David. We had met in Santiago de Compostela where we were both part of a vibrant congregation of traditional musicians. David played the violin. He busked with a fellow Irishman Martin who played the bodhran and extolled the possibility that the music would attract girls hoping for romance. I usually busked with Fred, an old American who wore a sports jackets. We played classical duets of two flutes. Fred also worked in a music shop and with his respectable appearance and good manners commanded a certain respect. He had managed to find lodgings in a shared flat of students. When the students left he allowed other street musicians to take rooms in the large flat. At heart he was a Bohemian. We enjoyed our conviviality. Vicente played the clarinet, Hans the guitar and Carlos the trumpet. Jam sessions ensued and the house became a cool place to be. With six rooms available a flow a characters came and went. I became lumbered with the job of collecting the rent which wasn't always easy. David had hoped to get a room but Fred wasn't keen on the wild Irishman. On hearing of his exclusion he had threatened to cut my throat. When I explained it was Fred's decision, not mine, he had sympathised with my predicament and offered a heartfelt apology. As he was now resident in his hometown of Westport I pursued his hospitality.
He had told me that if I enquired at the old anchor café I would be able to locate him. I was told he usually called in later in the afternoon. I retreated to the eponymous Matt Molloy's pub owned by the famous flute player of the most admired traditional group "The Chieftains". I ordered my Guinness and chilled. Half way down my pint David came through the door. Where else would he find a flute player in Westport. I had to drink up quickly as he was banned from the establishment! We retreated to a discrete pub around the corner. Here we encountered the local crowd. David gave his wry smile and brought out his Galician bagpipes. He was allowed to play a tune before the quiet Irish equanimity was re-established. I played a tune on my flute and a guitarist accompanied. We drank up and went back to David's house to smoke a bifter. He lived with his girlfriend from the Canary Islands and their one year old daughter. I slept in the living room and had to wait till the evening of watching television was over to bed down. In the daytime I went out to busk in Westport where a few tourists ambled through on the way to climb the holy mountain of Croagh Patrick. I pitched outside Matt Molloy's and the man himself wished me a good day as he entered his pub. After a few days I tired of the routine of smoking weed and David and his wife's dramatic arguments.
I hitch-hiked down to Listowel in County Kerry for the Fleadh Cheoil. After sleeping on the western shores I arrived on the morning of the first day of the festival. I had a few punts left in my pocket. I perused the town. I would need to busk. I encountered Padraig, a mild mannered bodhran player from Monaghan. He was going for a pint. We entered the pub and sat down with our Guinness. As we sipped and ruminated a tramp entered. He took out a wooden flute and piped up a tune. The scruffy fellow was a regular virtuoso. No one objected as he passed his hat around. This was excellent. I would do the same. I politely excused myself and headed out. After a brief walk I entered another pub. Here a traditional session was already under way. I continued on to the next where only gentle conversation could be heard. Unlike the tramp who had casually lounged on his seat while playing his tune I stood to perform. With less expertise I played a set of a Irish reels and passed my case around. Twenty punts dropped in. Excellent! I proceeded to the next pub where another session was underway. Later every pub would have an accomplished crowd of traditional musicians, but for now I found two more quiet pubs and made myself forty pounds. I was all set for the festival. I enjoyed a pint and strolled through town.
I encountered Antonio and his travelling companion Abelardo. They were over from Galicia for the festival. Antonio had a brusk manner and solid command of the violin. We had busked a lot in Santiago, but now it was time for the session. We found a pub where the calibre wasn't too high and seated ourselves at the table. After a set of Irish reels there was a lull. Antonio took his chance and launched into a jig. I joined in and to our relief so did the other musicians. Three fiddles, two flutes and a bodhran made a joyous sound. Twice through and everyone paused as Antonio dived into the next tune. A few moments passed before the chorus joined in. Such exaltation spurred him onto another. As he neared its conclusion he nodded over to me to follow. I racked my brain for a jig that hadn't been played. I launched into the less well known "Merry old maid". The musicians listened but no-one knew the tune. I was on my own. I managed my solo and followed with Morrison's jig. Everyone joined the fray once more. I finished with Lannigan's ball and breathed a sigh of relief. All was well and fresh pints of Guinness were set before us.
A wiry fiddle player took control. After a couple of elegant slip jigs he continued with the ever popular standard "The Butterfly". We all knew it. More musicians came in. More pints of Guiness were served. More tunes were played. We listened diligently for the ones we knew and joined in. An alternative musical reality carried us. Each time our pints neared their bottom another arrived. What more could we ask for? We floated along picking up the melody when we could.
Antonio decided on a change of scenery. We wandered into the fresh air with music still navigating our brains. Cornish pasties supplemented our diet of Guinness. Abelardo rolled a joint and passed it round. After some gentle contemplation we were ready to try another session. We found a pub with a session in the garden. A more youthful crew included guitars to add a modern flavour. Antonio launched into our repertoire and the accompaniment followed. The Guinness arrived and we continued. I once again delved into my more obscure tunes and a talented guitarist introduced sublime chords. The spontaneity astonished. Antonio ventured into his Galician repertoire and the guitar responded. Now we were cooking. More instruments arrived and the Irish music regained control. Again we listened for opportunities.
We decided to sober up a little and returned to the campsite for a snack. Another joint and we wandered back into town to find another session for the evening. As the music infused my soul I began to feel my way through tunes I wasn't sure whether I knew or not. The town was still in full swing when we made our retreat. We played through our Galician repertoire by the tent. I slept al fresco with my mat and sleeping bag. Luckily it didn't rain.
I awoke feeling thirsty. My companions were still snoring in their tent. I found a water tap and replenished. A stage was being set up. Today competitions would be held to find the best players in different age groups. I returned to camp where Antonio was lighting up his camping stove. Bacon and eggs with a cup of tea was a great hangover cure. After a pause to digest and a morning spliff we went in search of the session.
We found a pub and started. Murphy's was served and Antonio and I systematically worked through our repertoire. We decided to take a break and headed to the stage where performances were beginning. First came the youngsters with astounding proficiency. We watched in awe. Solo performances of banjo,fiddle,flute and whistle all amazed. We could only dream of entering their supernatural level. The weather was fine and we relaxed with a doobie.
Back in the pub we reclaimed our humanity. The never ending session continued. I followed along with the "Star of Munster". Having heard it many times over the last few days I could just about play it though an independent rendition would have floundered. Antonio tentatively joined the tune. Like the enchanted Piper to whom knowledge of all melodies is given by the King of the faeries we were beginning to tune in. More Murphy's was supplied to make the magical transition. Faith carried us through into "Cooley's' reel with a full orchestra. We sailed through the afternoon on a sea of Murphy's. In the evening we lit a fire by the tent and played Galician tunes.
In the morning the festival was over. We packed up and journeyed to the cliffs of Moher in Antonio's car. Antonio and Abelardo skipped around the edges of the 150m cliffs with gay abandon whilst I dared not approach. On the walkway to the cliffs a busker sang his song. I would never busk such a dangerous spot. We were on our way to Doolin, the Mecca of Irish folk music.
Arriving in the afternoon we pitched tent on the campsite and prepared our evening meal on the essential gas camping stove. I was lucky to have such sorted companions. Then it was off to McDermott's for the session. Antonio and Abelardo went ahead as I had a small reparation to make to my flute. When I arrived at the crowded pub Antonio had managed to get a seat amongst the musicians. In the noisy pub the three fiddle players didn't have much volume. I tried to squeeze through the punters but the crowd was dense. After our brief respite I was keen to play. As Antonio was in the spotlight I knew he would consolidate me. I took out my flute and launched into "The Gravel Walk". My call was heard and Antonio joined. Heads turned towards me and our interactive performance thrilled. I continued into "Farewell to Ireland" and finished to applause. The seas parted and I was ushered to the table. I squeezed in next to Antonio and piped up "Dinny Delaney's" and into "Child of my heart". Pints of Murphy's were placed before us. The session perked up and continued till late. After last orders were finally called and we were slowly ushered out of the pub the musicians still wished to play. On a grassy bank the session continued and more nocturnal animals arrived.
I paused to talk to an American girl. She was the niece of Demis Roussos. She played the violin but hadn't brought it out this evening. She had the amiable American way but was a little weather worn with travel. We arranged to meet the next day at Doolin point to play some music. Antonio, Abelardo and I returned to the campsite. Luckily the rain still held off as I kipped outside.
In the morning Antonio and Abelardo prepared for their long drive back to Spain. Abelardo suggested they could leave me the tent. I would have a shelter at last. Antonio stated that only if I agreed to eventually return it to Spain. I decided not to bother. They set off on their way and I wandered off to Doolin point. Surprisingly Andrea was there. She took out her fiddle and I my flute.Though she had said she was only a beginner I imagined that as she was the niece of Demis Roussos she would have some ability, but her skills were genuinely elementary. I tried to guide her through a very simple tune with difficulty. We talked of our travels and she told me she was camping in the woods outside of Lisdoonvarna. We trekked 10km back to her retreat. She was not far from an outdoor pursuit centre. They were aware of her presence but did not bother her. A small old fashioned orange tent was pitched by a fireplace with cooking pots. She proceeded to get the fire going and I sat on a log. I wondered where I might sleep. She cooked rice and sausages. Her relaxed demeanor became a slightly disillusioned fatigue. Two social refugees wondering what may happen next. She smoked cigarettes but I declined and relaxed into sobriety. Darkness descended and I told stories of my travels. She was a tall attractive girl though she wore baggy trousers and a leather jacket. She supposed we might both sleep in the tent. We made our bed and lay in it. I slowly snuggled up and crept my hand onto her bare flesh. I explored her soft tummy and made my way up to her small breasts. She lay still as I moved down to her pubic hair. Now she stopped my hand. The vagina was off limits. I eased off and allowed myself to calm down and sleep.
In the morning we tried music. We ate our meagre supplies. Andrea smoked her cigarettes and I went for a wander in the woods. The twilight eased the malaise and we lit the fire and enjoyed some sausages. We shared the tent again and a similarly negative response left me wondering. I decided I would take a trip.
I hitch-hiked up to Galway to do some busking. I walked around looking for a pitch. The ideal spacious pedestrian walkway had a "No busking" sign. I took to the main street and braved the traffic. Earnings were ok and I enjoyed a late lunch. Another stroll took me back past the "No Busking". A banjo player seemed quite comfortable performing there. I knew him from Spain. A thin eccentric fellow with David Bowie eyes, he played Christy Moore's "Ride on". With a simply plucked arpeggio as an accompaniment the song had a soft and tender appeal. I decided I would add it to my limited repertoire of songs. We greeted as though we might still have been on the streets of Santiago de Compostela. The Celtic connection carried us along. He offered me the pitch and I enjoyed the fine acoustic. More punts dropped in my case and I felt secure.
In the late afternoon I allowed myself a pint of Beamish. I strolled down to the shore of Grattan Beach and listened to the soothing waves. Time drifted by. Back to the town for an evening busk. I took my place on the main street once again. Now people were getting drunk and festive. A girl invited me to come along to the nightclub. I regretted not accepting the invitation but it seemed too disruptive to my careful plans. I would find a quiet spot beyond the town to sleep. After my busk I headed to the outskirts. A group of travellers invited me to come along to their camp. My solitude took me away. The old oak tree was my friend as I slept under his sheltering boughs.
After waking I sat for a long time under my tree. I imagined a conversation with the wise old arbol. He answered me to carry on my course and all would be well. I rose to continue, happy with his assurance. Back into Galway for breakfast and a busk on the pleasant "No Busking" spot. After making some more cash I stocked up on cheese, bread and water and went back to my tree. I spent the rest of the day contemplating. Away from the gaze of other humans I was released from their judgement. Outside the rat race I was part of nature, as tranquil as the old oak.
By the morning I was ready for movement. I decided to head back to Lisdoonvarna and up to the woods to see Andrea. After a long wait by the roadside and a slow hitch-hike back I arrived in the evening. As I strolled towards the camp Andrea was collecting wood for the fire. She looked startled to see me.
-You stole my money!-
I was perplexed. I explained I hadn't stolen her money. She had reported it to the police and when asked who I was had provided them with my name and address which I had given her. The police thought it unusual that the thief had provided his name and address. In her non-committal way she accepted my denial. We continued as usual and warmed ourselves by the fire. We slept in the tent and cosied up. I wasn't sure what may have happened to the money but I decided it was a good idea to leave the next day. At least I had returned to clear my name.
I headed back up to Westport to call in on David and his wife and child. Their crazy domestic tangle continued as usual. Switching to civilised mode they welcomed me in. We smoked a doobie and I told them of my travels. The television was turned on and we became consumed. In the morning I readied myself for my return east. David advised me that Athlone in the centre of Ireland was good for a busk. I made it my destination. A few lifts carried me there by lunchtime. He was right and I made £30 in a couple of hours. I continued on to Dublin. I wandered up Grafton Street and was overwhelmed by the usual crowd of fantastic buskers. I looked at a shoe repair kiosk in the hope of finding a needle and thread. From behind the counter a young cheerful red haired fellow greeted me. He was not what I expected. We struck up a conversation and I told him of my adventures. He asked me how long I planned to stay in Dublin. I told him I would busk today and head back over the water tomorrow. He finished at six and we could go back to his house for some supper and I could stay the night there. Again I was taken aback by such hospitality. I agreed and went for a busk in the meantime. We met up at six and went back to his stylish flat and ate an elegant supper with his female flat mate. We chatted until late and I slept on the mezzanine floor in the living room. In the morning he made breakfast and told me I could stay as long as I liked. I decided to continue my journey and we bid our farewells.
The cheapest crossing was a bus that took me to Chester. The bus set off at seven o'clock in the evening and dropped me off in Chester at three thirty in the morning on its way to a larger metropolis. I descended into the lonesome night and wondered what to do next. I walked out of town onto the A56 and when the day broke I hitch-hiked to the M56 and onto the M6 back to Preston. Back to junction 32 and over the fields back home. I was sad to have left the romantic land of Ireland.