Tuesday, 3 March 2009


The sway, the lilt, the skip, the rise, the lulling repetition, the spin around to the inevitable falling of the cadence. While the notes poured out of the fiddle, he wanted to be transported to playing it on the wooden floor of an empty hall, looking out to the bleak beauty of The Burren and the snaking walls of Clare that edge out towards the sea like ancient snail tracks across vivid patchwork in every shade of green. 

And he wanted the jig to bring the hard shoes of a dancer into motion across that floor, to make the embroidered knotwork of birds and snakes on her dress come to life in a scoop of spirals and an eyeful of leaping swirl as the cloth began to dance into and out of view, brightening the plain hall like the prospect of sun drives in across the rocky harbour of the bay.