It’s been ages since I made a blog entry. Is that due to some creeping muscle disease that paralyses the two typing fingers? Of course not. Is it a reluctance to engage again with you, Dear Reader? Come, come. Perhaps an irresistible ennui born of routine and low achievment? Ach no! We shall have none of that. No. I have been what all self-employed people, be they chefs or charlatans, plumbers or ploughmen, seek to be. Busy. I have been running around like a flying insect of azure posterior giving residential classes to the high and,more often than not, mighty.
I can not, for reasons of the utmost discretion, reveal who my clients are but I can let slip that we have studied the English for the successful exceution of negotiations, meetings, conference calls, presentations, public speaking, social English, economics and some other stuff that is TOP SECRET. So TOP SECRET we had to forget about it after we’d studied it.
I have made and mislaid friends since last we met here, Dear Reader, and I have had confirmed my agreement with Socrates’ position that ‘the unexamined life is not worth living‘. And so I have examined my life and, do you know, on the whole it has a high degree of sunsets and banana sandwiches. That is reassuring.
Next month…in two weeks actually..I go to visit that lovely old relic, England to celebrate my mother’s 90th birthday. Rejoicing shall be unbounded and so may a few things more. Watch this space.
The floating mountains held with bound vegetation were pure Dali. And the anti-exploitation/invasion sentiment was pure Anti-American sentiment. Odd that it’s a Hollywood blockbuster then, innit? It is, as others have said, Pocahontas meets tall hippy smurfs but it was beautiful in parts. The plot was typical myth structure. Yet it was good to see a hero who was disabled even if his deeds of derring-do were accomplished in another body.
The much talked about 3-D was not at all invasive and it was kind of the director not to shoot us in the eye with an arrow or throw rocks at us. It seemed a coming of age of sorts. The technology was almost not the real protagonist of the film and it made me hopeful for cinema maybe two or three years down the line when 3-D becomes commonplace and we don’t feel like a 1927 audience watching ‘The Jazz Singer“.
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,
I saw Led Zeppelin in concert when I was 18 years old and it is still the best concert I have ever seen. Since then I have seen Prince, Fleetwood Mac, Mike Oldfield, Yes, Van Morrison, Queen, Iggy Pop, Joan Armatrading, Bob Dylan and God knows how many lesser mortals. But those 3 hours in Knebworth in 1979 shine like a beacon across the years.
There were 200,000 of us in a very large field. At one end of there was an enormous stage and towers of amplifiers. This was the Knebworth Festival. Also playing that day were The New Barbarians (The Rolling Stones without Mick Jagger), Todd Rundgren’s Utopia, Southside Johnny and The Astbury Jukes, The New Commander Cody Band and a dreadful duo called Chas and Dave. The other bands were okay (apart from Chas and Dave) but everyone, without exception, had come to hear Led Zeppelin – the band who played “Stairway to Heaven”.
As dusk fell and the smell of woodsmoke mingled with the scent of hashish, the electricfying introduction to “The Song Remains The Same” flew from the massed banks of amplifiers. The gods had descended to earth. Rock festival veterans had brought binoculars. I hadn’t realised that the band would be so far away. However, at the back of the stage was a giant screenwhich displayed closed-circuit TV pictures of the group.
One highlight was Jimmy Page playing his guitar with a violin bow out of which fired a red laser beam into the summer sky.
Led Zeppelin released nine albums between 1969 and 1979 and were one of the most popular rock bands ever. In 1975 six of their albums were in the charts at the same time.
Although from England, Led Zeppelin’s members loved the blues and American rock. Their USA shows were always sold -out and they only stopped when their drummer, John Bonham died. There is no adult guitarist in the English speaking world who cannot play the opening chords of “Stairway to Heaven” . It is the definitive ‘rock anthem’.
At Knebworth someone set fire to a flag and held it above their head. It burned like a torch. One of the closed circuit TV cameras turned and focussed on this image. The smell of the burning wood took all 200,000 of us back to the Middle Ages. Then Jimmy Page started to play those famous chords and the voice of Robert Plant began to sing the lyrics we all knew by heart.
“There’s a feeling I get when I look to the west
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees
And the voices of those who stand looking.”
And we did stand looking. For 8 minutes on the 11 August 1979 Led Zeppelin had 200,004 members. All singing by heart and from the heart. None of us could tell you what the words meant. But none of us would tell you they were meaningless. They spoke to a yearning, to a feeling some of us still get.
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.
It’s been ages since I made a blog entry. Is that due to some creeping muscle disease that paralyses the two typing fingers? Of course not. Is it a reluctance to engage again with you, Dear Reader? Come, come. Perhaps an irresistible ennui born of routine and low achievment? Ach no! We shall have none of that. No. I have been what all self-employed people, be they chefs or charlatans, plumbers or ploughmen, seek to be. Busy. I have been running around like a flying insect of azure posterior giving residential classes to the high and,more often than not, mighty.
The floating mountains held with bound vegetation were pure Dali. And the anti-exploitation/invasion sentiment was pure Anti-American sentiment. Odd that it’s a Hollywood blockbuster then, innit? It is, as others have said, Pocahontas meets tall hippy smurfs but it was beautiful in parts. The plot was typical myth structure. Yet it was good to see a hero who was disabled even if his deeds of derring-do were accomplished in another body.
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 
