There is one thing in life I love doing – listening. Try it. If you are reading these words stop for a minute or two. Close your eyes and listen. You might be in a noisy office or home alone, no matter where, if you have that precious ability, just listen.
Earlier this month I was fortunate to be considering this in Donegal, sitting on a hill overlooking a bay filled with the Atlantic Ocean . At first I think there’s silence. The tide rising and falling round the rocks, no white topped waves, peaceful in the extreme, a sea that can be turbulent, dangerous, cruel or slate grey calm like this morning. But the more I listen the more I hear. There’s a gentle breathing from the water whilst deep beneath the surface the engine of nature keeps things on the move. Three fields away a white horse blows down his nostrils twice. September and clover amongst the pink dog roses have given way to montbretia little else of colour except our forty shades of green. A stone chat talks away to anyone who’ll listen and over head a jet plane rolls its way to America above the clouds, unseen but heard.
For years I’ve enjoyed sitting on this rocky hill, the view over towards Tor Mór always changing yet always the same; however it’s been a hard year for those living here. Farmers are worried about the cost of fertiliser, the bottom has fallen out of certain fish sales, an earthquake a couple of months ago is thought to have driven lobsters down under the seaweed, harvest is a concern, cracks have appeared in newly built houses and the weather is unseasonable.
Past And Precious Memories
It seems to me that there was a time when we had no such problems, everything was happiness. Doors were kept open and I could hear Kitty down the lane rattle her pots and pans on the range as she cooked up something nourishing for the menfolk coming in from the fields and the bog. The smell of her stew wafted up to where I was sitting and skylarks sang.
One night, years ago now, I remember the teenage boys and girls took off after tea to spend the evening a the pub a few miles away. It took a neighbour two journeys to ferry the happy band to the dance that night. You wished them a safe journey but there was little traffic on the roads, however, just as happened in Co Tipperary in August and the tragedy of so many lives being lost, accidents happen.
Roll on to midnight and the phone call – “Mum can you come and get us the boys won’t come home and there’s been a row.”
What are mothers for but to head off on a rescue mission when they get the call? All five girls piled into my car and we headed back along the winding road between stone walls and high hills. There was a lot criticism of the boys, one of my passengers was sobbing as her boy friend had ‘ditched’ her.
Eventually I’d had enough. I pulled into the side of the road onto the grassy bank and told everyone to get out. That didn’t half stop them in their tracks. “Out.’ I ordered getting out myself. “Now girls stand in a circle and hold hands.” This we did. No one spoke although there were still a few sobs and sniffs from our tragic friend.
“Now,” I ordered “absolute silence. Just listen.”
The Sobbing Stopped.
There were one or two nervous giggles and then a peaceful silence, not a breath. Once we settled I asked what they could hear. The comments were whispered from “nothing” to the feint rhythm of the waves from the far off strand. Some bird gave a little protest at our invasion of his nighttime regime. We began to hear low sounds. “I hear a dog barking away over there.” Probably a fox. “The wind in that field.” Indeed, the corn was high and dry and it crackled.
“I hear a car.” It got closer. “Stay where you are girls, keep holding hands.”
The car slowed and an old man lowered his window and asked were we all right. Assured we were just listening to the night he wound up his window and drove on, nothing curious there then, just strange women doing their thing in the middle of the night.
So there we were standing in the moon’s shadow thinking our own thoughts on a starry summer night when the spell was suddenly broken – someone broke wind long and loudly and we fell about laughing. The spell was broken.
Into the car, home for hot chocolate, joined by the boys and all was well, friendship survived and I still wonder if those girls, now grown women, might from time to time think about the night we listened.
So I sat on my rock again this autumn looking back wondering what will have happened if I’m still here 12 months hence. The world is certainly a sad place, such tragedies at home and abroad and yet we still can’t get together to form our own pathetic little assembly and manage our own affairs. But it’s important we don’t allow children to become frightened because adults haven’t been able to care for this world, who are greedy for power regardless of the rest of us and then wallow in self satisfaction.
Discuss the news with them no matter how difficult and distasteful it may be, explain and be positive, there are many ways we can improve our situation. Encourage boys and girls to talk to each other and listen to ideas and come up with their solutions. Then it’s up to us grown-ups to listen and take heed of young people and their outlook on life. They are our hope for a better future.
So we do it again – the Ireland Rugby team pressurise their way through to win against South Africa. It just gets more exciting every time. I listen on the wireless rather than televisions, the commentators are brilliant and I feel like I’m right there with them, thank you Jim Neilly. We’ve always had class sports reporters – remember Malcolm Brodie?
Roger Whittaker found his fame in Studio One in Havelock House. The very early 60s and he and his whistle captivated the Ulster Television audience of ‘This and That’. He was also popular with all of us who worked with him and after this live programme we would all go to a cafe in Belfast where he sat on a stool in the corner and entertained the public. He was a lovely and talented man but when I was in Edinburgh at the Festival some years ago Rolf Harris was the centre of attention and I was taking photos of him painting something or other and I noticed a face I recognised walking past – it was Roger. I rushed over saying ‘Mr. Whittaker Mr. Whittaker can I say hello.’ To my disappointment he ran! I’ll never know why.
