Story, boy? Well, I’ve only been invited to a yarn-telling festival

EVERY place and every thing has a story to tell in one way or another.

Take the table in our room - a massive oak table with beautiful carved legs. It’s one of those tables with a mechanical device built in underneath whereby you can ‘open up’ the whole piece and insert one or two ‘leafs’ to extend it.

There’s a yoke like an old-fashioned car starting handle. You insert this into a slot and wind away. Like the Red Sea long ago, the table opens up, and when the two leafs are in place you give the handle a half twist to tighten up the whole thing.

When fully extended, ’tis massive - you’d comfortably seat 16 around it for a meal. I’m not certain how old it is but we have it with over 50 years. It may well have come from the AIB bank in Dromcollogher in Co. Limerick - or maybe the manager’s house.

Uncle Denis Broderick - he was married to our Auntie Bridie - was a native of Drom’. He bought the table initially and I think it was in the Broderick home in Glanworth before arriving in Bartlemy, I’d be thinking in the late1960s or early ’70s.

It’s a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship - whoever made it.

Uncle Denis was a great man to sing Percy French’s ‘anthem’ about Dromcollogher, the birthplace of the Broderick clan - he also gave a great rendition of Jerusalem and Josef Locke’s Blaze Away. No matter where I am, if I hear any of those songs I think of our table, and Uncle Denis too.

Many’s the gathering has taken around that table over the years! Ah yes, great memories, and I recall one especially, back in 1977 - an evening that still has an influence on me.

Bartlemy Macra na Feirme was going well at the time. The idea of holding a charity concert in the local Hall was mooted. At that time in Ireland, the art of storytelling and, more importantly, listening to stories, was still going strong.

There were many good and some great men and women that could weave tales - tall and small - and paint a mind’s eye picture of days gone by. The best known of all was Eamon Kelly.

Nothing but the best was good enough for Bartlemy, so Eamon was contacted and agreed to call down to us. On Friday night, November 4 that year, he took to the boards in Bartlemy Hall.

We decided to split the profit between the Cork Polio Aftercare Association and the local Old Folks Christmas party Fund. Tickets for the show cost the princely sum of £1 each - there was no ‘price gouging’ back in them days.

Anyhow, Eamon and his wife Maura and I think two assistants had the supper in our house before In My Father’s Time began. I was in awe that the best seanachaí in the country, an RTÉ radio star and well-known actor was breaking bread with us.

To this day, I recall that evening - maybe that’s where my interest in telling a story or two started!

Later, above in the Hall, all he had on stage with him for ‘props’ were four items. He had a sugan chair to sit on, his hat, a white enamel bucket full of water, and a small enamel cup. He sat on the chair, knelt at it, danced around it, and stood behind it as the story demanded. He’d dip the cup in the bucket every so often and take a drink. The hat kept off the sun, threw off the rain, collected eggs and blackberries, and if badly stuck could be used as a receptacle for porter!

The hall was full and as Eamon talked, sang and de-diddled his way through two hours, you’d hear a pin drop.

In storytelling, timing is everything and Eamon had it in spades.

I was lucky then growing up to have another great local storyteller and actor who helped and guided me enormously. Bill Gubbins began his ‘acting career’ long, long before I was born, but I was lucky to have shred a stage with him many times in later years.

Like Eamon Kelly, Bill was a master at timing - it might be a pause, a gasp or a prolonged silence when needed. To be able to gauge and judge your audience - whether ten or 300 - is a gift and Bill and Eamon had it -thanks to both of them for inspiring me down the decades.

Eamon died in the year 2001, Bill in 2018, and anywhere I go to tell a few jokes or stories, their smiling faces are before me - as if saying ‘Go on, you’ll be fine’.

They say Courtmacsherry is the mildest place in Ireland, with an average temperature of 13C across the year. By all accounts it’s also one of the most picturesque places in beautiful West Cork, but I must sadly admit I’ve never been to visit or stay in Courtmac’. I’m not sure why this is so ’cause the western part of my native county is a favourite haunt of mine.

The plan is to rectify that absence next month and spend a few days by the sea.

Most of ye would be all agog in joyful anticipation of such a lovely break, but I’m a bit worried.

Earlier in the year, I told a few jokes and yarns in the great tradition of Eamon and Bill, at an afternoon event in Ballinascarthy - organised by Muintir na Tire. It went off grand and I was home to milk the cows after a mighty time.

They say one good story leads to another, and lo and behold, wasn’t I surprised a few days later when Marian O’Brien rang me. I’m not sure if she was in Bal’ that afternoon or maybe someone had ‘reported me’ to her!

Anyhow, we spoke of the weather and the sun and the rain and hay-making opportunities, and so on and so forth. Well, eventually, says she: “Would you consider coming hether here to deepest West Cork in September?”

“Whysobecause?” says I (and I can’t swim at all), never having met the girl before.

So then she told me all about Songs And Stories By The Sea - a weekend Festival of storytelling and yarn-spinning in Courtmacsherry, and how an International panel of Judges had selected me this year - I’m only joking of course!

“Well,” says she, “will ya come down?”

I’ve been oft times told one of my greatest failings is my refusal to hardly ever use or say the word ‘No’, so there and then, on the phone as they say, I agreed.

Now, as the time is getting a bit closer I’m getting a bit worried. I remember in a village hall in North Cork about 15 years ago I was just starting a longish story when a voice from the audience - I knew her well - kinda half-whispered out loud: “Wisha, I heard him tell this one before and tisn’t great!” There’s a deflater for you!

Will I have enough stories, will they have heard them all before, will they laugh when they should be crying and vice-versa?

Tisn’t like a big East Cork or County Championship hurling game where a month’s hard training would make a fierce difference.

Eamon Kelly used to finish with ‘I’m only saying what I hear, I only heard what was said, and what was said I’m afraid was mainly lies - and there my story ends!’

Did ye hear the one about the man from Courtmacsherry that went to the moon on his way to Garryvoe but ended up in China?

But as my inspirers said down the years, ‘You’ll be grand’ - oh, lads I hope so! Sorry, I do tend to ramble on a bit, and to think I started talking about a table!