The moon was beautiful yesterday afternoon coming out of Clifden along the N59.
There it was riding the rocky hills of Connemara, then disappearing for a minute between clouds,
then reappearing directly in front of the car and looking as if you could drive up to it as you ascended a hill.
The most beautiful piece of music I remember hearing over the past number of years happened somewhere on a road in north Mayo while driving through a bog with nothing but bog all around.
We where in our Fiat Punto, or maybe it was the newly acquired Nissan Almera. It doesn’t really matter either way which car it was, it was definitely a small car with a dodgy radio.
It took a bit of searching around the playlist of the radio show at some later date to find out what the song was called and there was no recording of it . So I never heard it again.
But yesterday as chance would have it I heard it again because The Gloaming are releasing an album and NPR are offering a first listen.
Listening to it again Song 44 didn’t seem quite as beautiful as it was on the north Mayo bog, but it is still beautiful.
That particular moment in north Mayo was just one of those unexpected magical moments when everything just fitted together perfectly. It was a moment of grace, something which doesn’t happen often and can’t be planned.
But now I’m no longer in small car with a dodgy radio and H___ on a summers day on a empty road in an Irish part of Ireland with a beautiful piece of music playing.
No I’m in a cold living room on a damp evening veering between being a bit miserable to down in the dumps probably writing this blog to stop me thinking about the things I should have done that I haven’t done or to just occupy my mind and stop it wondering into dark corners and alleyways it should stay clear off.
The dark gets on top a bit, as happens to lots of people this time of the year with the dark nights and damp air and all those other reasons that make it tough for people.
There was a tragic death yesterday in Galway and there always seem to be constant reminders of bad news, suffering, death. I suppose there is no point pretending that the bad news doesn’t have to happen, it’s going to happen. ‘Man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upwards’
I know that there is hope and redemption, beauty and light in life but the dark, damp, cold death seems to be just that little bit stronger sometimes.
So when there are moments of beauty such as the reflection of clouds in Connemara loughs, the twilight moon, violins,Orion and The Plough over the house last night, the human voice singing in Gaelic that feed into some deep sense of life and joy inside as well I want to remember them. Particularly if you’re the type that finds it easier to remember the bad stuff.