Today is Dublin Day. In 853, on May 22, Norwegian prince Olaf the White declared it the capital of Ireland. Dublin is a glorious place. This is the city of Joyce and Shaw, Becket and Yates, Swift and Wilde. As well as Bram Stoker. You can take a picture with them. With full-size monuments. Have a beer in the pub at the table where Oscar Wilde sat. If you want to. All beer in Dublin is very good, but it at Guinness's brewery it's best. In the rooftop glass panoramic pub, which with 360-degree panoramic views of the city.
You stand with a pint of Guinness, which you can pour yourself and even get a certificate, look around - Dublin everywhere - and think: how is it all ...
In general, it's easy to think about everything at once in Ireland. You can probably try to understand why, but it is better to direct your thoughts in a more useful direction. For example, to figure out that Ireland resembles my homeland, which I have two - Georgia and Armenia. Both landscapes and people - by their temperament, responsiveness, hospitality, to a certain extent by their openness.
Also, Ireland's history. It was going through hard times. It achieved independence. But today it is often forced to go in the English wake. In the development, it focused on agriculture, then developed pharmaceuticals, computer technology and tourism. It gets help from the U.S. diaspora. Does that ring any bells? Plus, a difficult relationship with the former metropolis, there is no way around it. Perhaps that is why the most popular flags after its own are Scottish and ... Argentinian. It’s clear why.
"Sir," in the ragged fog of the Cloch na Ron village, which means "seal's rock", a companion suddenly arises and asks a question that worries every Irish. "I hope you don't think the weather will get bad?" And having accepted the assurances that it can hardly get even more bad, he asks if I heard what new postman Shaymos did, and what do I think about this? Upon learning that I am not aware of the latest events in Cloch na Ron's social life, he smiles happily and starts to tell his story:
"The house number 8 is Kalahan's area, and the house number 18 is O'Kalahan's area. A mark appeared on the envelope next to 8, but Shamos saw it as 18 and didn’t read the recipient’s last name carefully. So O'Kalahan got Kalahan's letter. When he opened the envelope, he saw that something was wrong with the surname written on it. He saw that it's not his address and gave Kalahan the letter. He thanked at first, but then, having seen the torn envelope, suspected that O'Kalahan was reading his letter. And because of stupid Sheimos, the relations between the good guys strained. But now I have to say goodbye - I need to see the firemen. And you go straight until you run into Cairnes' workshop."
Malokki Cairnes is bodhran maker (Irish drums). At the request of my musician friend, I needed to take the bodhran from Cairnes. Cairnss even made bodhrans even for the legendary group The Chieftains. He is a legend himself. There is a song in his honor - "Jiga Malokki".
"I saw a wonderful flock of ducks nearby," he greets me, like an old acquaintance. "Everything is ready - feel like going hunting? No? Then there’s coffee, liquors, beer, whiskey, Jamison, Guinness. And I will join you."
Why single out Jamieson and Guinness from whiskey and beer? Because the Irish people especially respect these two drinks.
And bodhran is like a tambourine, but without metal plates along the rim.
The British ill-treated the Irish, they even forbade singing. But what kind of Irishman is without music? That is why they masked the drums as sieves. At night they removed the net from the sieve, pulled goat skin, and started dancing and singing. In the morning they put feeds and harps in hiding places, bodhrans were turned into sieves. Nobody forbids to play music for a long time, but bodhrans remained as they were in the sad colonial years. Only with drownings.
"Your friend doesn’t need a drawing, as I understand. I have a friend in Belfast - a crazy guy, - Malokki starts laughing. - He ordered me to draw a portrait of his mother-in-law on the drum, and told me:" It's so cool beating A bodhran with a mother-in-law's face on it." Well, did you understand what it was about?!"
I think it’s strange that they didn’t think of such a thing in their native lands - to put images of some "dear" people on drums.
After Malokka Cairnes I got back to Dublin - across Ireland. And the whole two-three-hour journey I was thinking: the story is similar, the relations with the former metropolis are "peculiar", the territory is small, the bowels are not rich, the population is comparable. But why during the crisis the income is far beyond 1500 euros per capita in Ireland, while in the homeland the pension is close to the cost of living, and recently, even receiving it is like a holiday?
Why do the Irish have no shred of abandoned uncultivated land? Why are herds fatter? Did they improve the breed? After all, there is probably some kind of seed bank, or what is it called?
"Indeed," they said at the Food Agency. "And you can easily get it. But what education your farmers have? Our education is the cornerstone of all agriculture. And not only there, in all areas. There's a scientific approach everywhere. Those without special education take courses - they have less knowledge than college graduates, but still."
What's about our education? In particular, farmers? Do we still have agricultural educational institutions? What techniques are taught? Given the achievements of science or "how to heroically overcome problems"?
The Irish passed their "doubts". They are proud of their history, but do not boast it, do not live in a glorious past. Therefore, probably, their minimum income is 1500 euros, their herds are bigger, and the roads are ideal even in the Irish wilderness near the Atlantic shores.
And today they have a holiday. At least in Dublin. The Irish love to have fun. And they know how.
Celebrate, Ireland! You deserve it, and I love you!
