Days 12–14: Sligo: — journey through Yeats’ imagination
I first discovered Yeats as a 12-year old, possibly before I had any understanding of what a poem should be; but the rhythms of ‘Who will go with Fergus’ were like a stolen drink, and when I was a bit older and could read more of Yeats, it never faded. Paula and I have taught many of Yeats poems, and the response of kids is usually positive. I think ‘Easter 1916’ shows students how poetry can crash politics, memory, regret and vision into something powerful and life-changing. To be in the heart of Yeats’ imagination, and to visit his grave, is a highlight of all our travels.
The best guide to all the poetic references (apart from the Yeats Society) is this link to the Yeats Trail, which we followed for much of the day. He was no saint, but his place in Irish culture and politics is critical, and his poetic imagination unchallenged by most. Heaney, Dylan Thomas and Auden might get close; Eliot not so much, as his imagination is always in thrall to his intellect.
We stayed in Strandhill, under the magic mountain of Knockarea, where Queen Maeve (she of the seven sons with the same name) is meant to be buried under the cairn-tomb at the top. It was the first stop on our trail, and we climbed to the top, although we didn’t start from the village.
Every part of the Sligo landscape has a wild beauty. Although there is farming and forestry, there is a sense that the landscape is quite untouched in its essence. The moutains behind, especially the table top of Ben Bulben beneath which is the churchyard where the poet is buried, lend the area a sense of awe that even tourism can’t dispel.
We were lucky with the weather, which helped; but its hard not to become engrossed in a quest when you are surrounded by earth and water. The highlight was probably the grave in Drumcliffe Churchyard. As in so many other places in Ireland, St Colmcille (Columba) founded a monastery here, some of which was later incorporated into the church; and the high cross in the Churchyard (and a round tower across the road, remain as a reminder.
Yeats was determined to be buried here and his remains were returned from France after the Second World War. Then museum has photographs of the astonishing procession that accompanied his coffin from the town to the church. His chosen inscription is:
Cast a cold Eye
‘Under Ben Bulben’
On Life, on Death.
Horseman, pass by.
It’s difficult to describe the effect of the driving and walking in this landscape, a feeling that was repeated again the next day as we wandered around Sligo town, and then walked along the sea near Strandhill. For some, its a great place to surf and pay golf; but it was worth far more than than.
Not all the magic translates: Innisfree suffers from the buildings on the far side encroaching on the view; but you can still here the water lapping ‘in the deep hearts core’.
Tomorrow takes us on to Connemara and Derry, a long drive on the Wild Atlantic Way.
