Posted by admin on Jan 25, 2010 in
Autobiography,
History,
Madrid,
Travel 
Last weekend my girlfriend took me on a mystery trip. All I knew was that it was within a two hours drive from Madrid and that on the Saturday there was a special activity. So, off I went on Friday afternoon to my class with the creative agency Patito Feo full of that tense joy that comes from knowing that something good is going to happen but not knowing what. A Christmas morning for Grown Ups kind of feeling. After my class, in which we discussed the possibilities that could materialise, I was picked up and whisked away via Alacalá de Henares (birthplace of Cervantes), Guadalajara (difficult to pronounce) to the mediaeval town of Pastrana in Castilla – La Mancha founded in the 13th century as a bastion after the final expulsion of the Moors. We arrived, less than two hours later, at the small hotel Palaterna next to a beautiful 16th century fountain called the Fuente de los Cuatro Caños. Apparently the symbolic meaning of the fountain’s decorations have been lost to memory.
On Saturday morning we walked to the Iglesia Colegiata which began life as the local parish church in the 14th century. It harbours the gothic tapestries of Alfonso V of Portugal. I always light a candle for my late father when I visit churches and, alas, this ancient temple has succumbed to the blight of having electric lights that switch on when you drop your coin in the box. Where, I ask you, is the sanctity in that?
We visited the Ducal Palace that dominates the village square. Apart from some tiles and roof carpentry the building has no sense of it’s Spanish Renaissance history thanks to the disembowelment perpetrated under the name of restauration by the University of Alcalá. The tour guide seemed less than excited as she told us about the one-eyed Princess of Eboli and her legendary amorous adventures with Felipe II. The building is now Spain’s Observatory of Sustainability. Go on, weep.
After a hearty lunch of migas and roast lamb the moment of truth arrived as my girlfriend revealed that the afternoon’s mystery activity was a visit of Pastrana’s wonderful spa. She knows that I am a big spa fan after seeing me spend a week in a jacuzzi in Cadiz a few years back. The people who work in the spa have it perfectly calibrated and we enjoyed the cascading spa pool followed by hydromassage, exfoliation, turkish bath, cool room and aroma therapy in a relaxation room to balance our energies. Bliss it was to be alive that afteroon but to be 48 with your partner was very heaven. Very.
In the evening we hit the road to seek out nearby villages and tap into their rural vibe. All we found though was a badly hidden nuclear power station , a small one like hobbits probably have, and so we turned around and drove back to Pastrana to dine at the Cafe de Ruy . Carmen was not feeling too hungry and so had a ration of ham and a salad. I opted for roast beef washed down with a nice bottle of Cuné . The wine is 80% tempranillo grape and then equal parts of the mazuello and garnacha varieties. Delicious! At the bar afterwards we sank a couple of mojitos and so to bed.
The next day we had the great pleasure to meet a guide who was truly connected with her subject. We visited a convent established by Saint Teresa of Avile and St John of the Cross. Our guide showed us paintings and relics now on display in the cloister and church. One could tell that the guide felt some pride in what she was showing us. Her appreciation of the paintings was palpable and it was a joy to be in her company. It is worth a visit just to see the Via Crucis series of paintings that have a remarkable modernity of composition and light.
After buying some postcards we hit the road and drove through Castilla, wending our way back to the big city refreshed spiritually and physically. Saint Teresa said
“Each of us has a soul, but we forget to value it. We don’t remember that we are creatures made in the image of God. We don’t understand the great secrets hidden inside of us.”
Well, thanks to my girlfriend’s mystery weekend, we certainly tried,
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Tags: pastrana, spa, Spain, travel
Posted by admin on Sep 18, 2009 in
History,
Poetry 
“Listen!” is the first word of the the Old English poem ‘Beowulf‘ which tells of the adventures of the eponymous hero and his three great battles against two monsters and a dragon. Recently there was a dazzling three-dimensional computer-generated movie of the story made in Hollywood.
Old English is very hard to understand. Look at this:
Hwæt! We Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon.
It means -
Listen! How great were the old kings of the spear carrying Danes and what honour they won in the days long gone.
Beowulf is famous for the quality of its poetry – for the beautiful sounds of the words and the imagination of its descriptions. Many words in Beowulf are” kennings”. Kennings combine two words to create an evocative alternative word. By linking words in this way, the poets were able to play with the rhythm, sounds and imagery of the poem. Beowulf contains over a thousand kennings! For example:
banhus (bone-house) – the human body
beadoleoma (battle-light) – sword
wægflota (wave-floater ) – ship
As you would expect with a poem about Danes, there are many kennings that describe the sea.
hronrad- whale road
fiscesethel – fish home
seolbæp – seal bath
Beowulf, the film, will make millions of dollars for Hollywood. It is reassuring that in spite of technological advances, storytelling has not changed. In the old days, with an audience huddled in the dark around the camp fire, the tribal poet would begin his tales with the word “Listen!”. Although modern storytellers have more ways to grab our attention as we sit huddled in the dark around a cinema screen, we are still called the audience – from the Latin audientia, from audire. Listen!
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Tags: England, History, Poetry
Posted by admin on Sep 16, 2009 in
Autobiography,
History,
People Listen to the PODCAST
Dowload
My Sligo Grandparents - The Cawleys
What’s in a name? I suppose that depends where you come from. In Spain women don’t change their names when they get married. Where I come from they do. And we never incorporate our mothers’ maiden names into our surnames. Unless you are very posh like Helena Bonham-Carter.
So I am only Dónal Thompson and not Dónal Thompson-Cawley.
I was pleasantly reminded of my mother’s maiden name and of her entire family when I was contacted by my cousin Chris a couple of months ago.
He has been researching our family tree and has managed to trace Cawleys all the way back to the 1830s. He didn’t find the blood of ancient Irish kings but he found no horse thieves either. We have a great-great-great grandmother called Mary Crystal.
His e-mail was especially important to me because although my three brothers and I were born and raised in England, it’s only me who considers himself Irish. I’m the only one with the Gaelic name and the Irish passport. John, Michael and Gerard could move effortlessly through the social maze and be indistinguishable from their Anglo-Saxon and American colleagues. But me?
- She: So, what’s your name?
- Me: Dónal
- She: Donald?
- Me: No. Dónal.
- She: Dolan?
- Me: No, Dónal
- She: Ah! You mean..Dylan!
So my family tree is important to me because everytime I’ve met someone I’ve been reminded of my roots. “My name’s Dónal. It’s Irish”
Cousin Chris is organising the mother and father of all family reunions in August. When I was a child we didn’t go on holidays. We always went ‘home’. Home was Sligo on the west coast of Ireland. That’s where the family reunion will be.
Sadly, I can’t be there. But I will send a video greeting and I’ll remotely raise a Guinness or two on the day.
I’ll remember travelling over the Ox Mountains, being terrified, as a city boy, of being bitten by sheep on my Auntie Eithne’s farm and of being entranced by Uncle Louis’ stories which always began with “There was this man…”. I’ll recall falling in love with the redheaded and green eyed Catriona Mahon, the year Elvis died. And I think I remember Gerry Molly’s poteen (home–made whiskey).
Memory, they say, is the power to gather roses in winter. So you can expect a few thorns. I miss those who have gone. Auntie Eithne, Uncle Felix, Auntie Eva and my own dad. And I miss my Auntie Pat. She was a nun, a Sister of Mercy, and one of the most intelligent women I have ever met. She changed the course of my life with the gift of a book. But that’s another story.
My brothers feel at home in England. I never did. My name provoked occasional racism and foolish jokes. I even hated my own name at one point. Now I sing with Irish music groups like Limerick and I look back almost 200 years to Mary Crystal and feel connected to home.
What’s in a name? Sometimes, everything.
(Music by kind permission of Limerick )
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Tags: Autobiography, Ireland, memories
Posted by admin on Sep 8, 2009 in
History,
People
Pumping irony
341 years ago a remarkable Irishman was born. His name was Jonathan Swift and he is best remembered as the author of Gulliver’s Travels.
He was a priest and a poet —almost obligatory occupations in Ireland— and he wrote some of the best essays the English language has ever seen.
After writing the classic Gulliver’s Travels, which sadly has become a children’s story and ceased to be the political satire it really is, he wrote A Modest Proposal. In this piece he recommends that the poor families of Ireland sell their children to be eaten. This was really an attack on the unscrupulous English landlords who were oppressing the Irish poor. Swift admits “…_this food may be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for Landlords, who as they have already devoured most of the Parents, seem to have the best Title to the Children_.” This piece is considered the greatest example of sustained irony in English literature.
Swift was an early example of a great tradition of Irish writers writing in English. Some people forget, and more don’t know, that Ireland has its own language, Gaelic. Swift wrote essays, books, poems and sermons but as I said before, he will be remembered for Gulliver’s Travels.
The book is a parody of the traveller’s tale genre which was very popular at the time. It tells of the adventures of the eponymous Gulliver in the lands of Lilliput (where the people are twelve times shorter than he is) and Brobdingnag (where the people are twelve times taller). His ship is attacked by pirates and he spends time on a flying island infelicitously named Laputa*. It is here that Swift describes “The Machine,” the first mention of a computer in world literature. He also describes aerial bombing, which had obviously never been thought of up to then.
If the book is a look at the good and bad in humanity, it seems clear to which conclusion Swift came. Gulliver starts off as a cheery optimist and ends up as a gloomy misanthrope. Swift’s own end was not a happy one. He predicted that he would die like a tree “from the top” and indeed he did become mentally disabled before he died. The fortune he left was used to build a hospital for the mentally ill.
*Unfortunately for Spanish speakers ‘Laputa’ sounds like the Spanish for ‘the whore’
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Tags: Ireland, language, literature
