The Seamus Heaney Center, Bellaghy, Northern Ireland

I grew up in Northern Ireland and now I'm giving all lovers of poetry, especially lovers of Seamus Heaney's poetry, a superb reason to visit the town of Bellaghy in County Derry, NI where he grew up if you're planning to visit Ireland. My connection to Bellaghy is that it's the town where I learned to ride a horse--unbeknownst to my father. As a 16-year-old high school student, I worked for Dad one summer when he had a contract to do road construction in Bellaghy and I used to sneak off and take lessons from a girl I'd befriended who practiced gymkhana at her home farm. All went well until Dad came back early from a meeting in Belfast (he'd warned me to show the men a good example by working hard) and caught them, including hsi foreman, watching me jumping on a gray mare very proudly. I got fired until Mum intervened but lost a day's wages as punishment. As an aside, my youngest brother was lucky enough to have been taught by the poet's wife while at primary school, though of course he was far too young to appreciate her connection to the poet. Behold the Seamus Heaney Centre

With Family

View of whinbush-pocked hills near my late grandparents old farm

Had a wonderful time in Ireland catching up with nephews and nieces and brothers and sisters.

My youngest brother Dermot and I and his kids Dierbhle (my Goddaughter), Jermaid (Irish For Dermot), Fergal and Callum (fraternal twins) and their cousin Ryan went up to a place called Rock Ess in the mountains. It's a wonderful waterfall with a deep swimming hole where my father and his siblings used to play as kids.



Photo of me at Rock Ess with niece and nephews
--see primroses on bottom right hand side

How wonderful it was to see (and smell) the primroses sprouting near the moss-covered rocks and hear the kids running noisily around. It was also great to chat and catch up with my brother.

My other brother Seamus lives in his house near my parents (as does my sister Siobhan)--I joke about it being a compound a la Kennedy's in Hyannisport. I stayed with Seamus and we had good evenings of wine and chat. He's having trouble with his back--had an accident as a kid that left him with a bad limp--and his discs are runbbing together badly. He's due to have some kind of injection in a few weeks--so slow is the National health Service--which we're hoping will alleviate it greatly.

Siobhan and her hubby Micheal had Larry , Mum, Dad and I in for a good old-fashioned Sunday lunch on the Sunday. It was mega yummy--roast beef, Yorkshire Puds, roast potatoes and all the trimmings.

And my sister Deirdre and hubby Micheal (a lot of Micheal's) had us over after my parent's 50th Anniversary for drinks--lots of vino, chat and laughter. It was a hoot. Deirdre didn't want the night to end, but we managed to drag our butts home at two in the morning.

All in all it was a wonderful week seeing my parents very happy, and it sure made me appreciate the importance of family and unreserved love.

Hectic is good

Been a little hectic here as Larry and I were away for a week in Ireland for a family affair. Wonderful to catch up on parents, siblings and nephews and nieces.

Novel is now DONE. I spent many late nights prior to my departure working on it. It was horrible to have to read and rewrite until two in the morning, one of those times wehn I don't like writing. But, of course, once the finished product is in one's hands, it becomes a horse of a different color.

Novel has been read and enjoyed by Jeanne, a member of my writing group. That was an anxious time as Jeanne knows what's bad and what's good and lets me know--which is what I want. Will make changes she suggests and get it off to my agent in NYC.

More anon

Review on Gather.com

Kathryn Esplin-Oleski, a prodigious author on Gather.com, interviewed me recently for and has just posed a lovely review of A Son Called Gabriel that I wanted to share with you.

Here it is (and you can alos see her layout in all its technicolor glory by joining Gather.com, which is a free social networking site):
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REVIEW/INTERVIEW

Damian McNicholl is a long-time Gather member (February 14, 2006) (http://damianmcnicholl.gather.com) who grew up in Northern Ireland and went to law school in Wales; in the 1990s, Damian came to the US as an attorney and taught himself to write fiction as he commuted from Long Island to New York City. Agents picked up Damian's manuscript of A Son Called Gabriel and it was published.



The protagonist, Gabriel Harkin, is the sensitive, first-born child of four in a working-class, Catholic family set in the Northern Ireland of the 1960s; Gabriel's childhood is beset by oft-brutal cruelty set within a loving family. Life is difficult for Gabriel because times were strict and he tries to hide his fears as he realizes he is not like other boys. In this coming of age novel, Gabriel soon realizes that Uncle Brendan, a priest, also struggled with a secret and had to leave Ireland for Kenya. The novel deals very poignantly with how Gabriel's parents and siblings try to offer Gabriel comfort as he struggles to conform to life. A Son Called Gabriel goes beyond most coming-of-age novels published in recent years. A must read.

A Son Called Gabriel was made an ABA Book Sense pick and was a finalist in a couple of literary awards, including the Lammies. Damian has co-authored a play with another playwright, based on 'Gabriel' that is under consideration for production at theatres in the US and abroad.


Recently, I had the opportunity to speak with Damian about A Son Called Gabriel.

* * *

Damian, your novel, A Son Called Gabriel seems to be partially autobiographical, or, at least, based on some truth. Would you like to describe for readers what growing up in Northern Ireland was like?

A Son Called Gabriel is what I refer to as semi-autobiographical. By that I mean it has the elements of truth in certain aspects of the work, especially the political climate in which I grew up where the minority in Northern Ireland were repressed and discriminated against and took to the streets to demand their civil rights, and the complex issues involved with both heterosexual and homosexual sexuality in a very conservative environment. However, Gabriel is not me and Gabriel's family is not my family.

Growing up in Northern Ireland at that time [Ed note: 1960s and 1970s] was difficult for Catholics because they did not have the right to vote and all the best jobs were reserved for the Protestant majority. That is not to say that all Protestants had good jobs, of course. There were working class and impoverished Protestants, particularly in the inner cities, who were brainwashed or allowed themselves to be puppets for their Protestant masters--the landowning, Eton-educated Protestant masters--by accepting their bigotry and ideas that Catholics were wicked and untrustworthy, and vassals of the Church of Rome whose goal was world conversion to Catholicism.

But life there was also full of joy and fun. I grew up in breathtaking part of the Northern Irish countryside where farmers tilled their fields, juicy plums were picked from trees that grew alongside the road; carnivals, sports events and concerts featuring local talent were held frequently, and neighbors socialized and looked out for one another. (We also had our share of community gossips who kept the fires well banked and used attendance at Sunday Mass for intelligence gathering and reconnaissance.)

There was a lot of church because the area I grew up in was fervently Catholic and I attended Catholic primary and high schools. The entire community attended Mass on Sundays, observed Holy Days and fasted during Lent. Lent was always difficult for children and teenagers because it meant Mass every evening for six weeks, with Benediction and Rosaries thrown in for good measure.

Contemporary Northern Ireland is a very different place. My nephews and nieces are pretty similar to American kids today because of the Internet and TV, though they are not as coddled and micro-managed as many kids are here. I was over in Ireland a few months ago and my brother's twins--they're six--are speaking with very proper English accents and it was quite hysterical to listen to them. No one can understand why they are speaking like this or where it comes from, but it's very funny. They've been talking like this for two years. A few years ago, it would have been scandalous for an Irish kid to have an English accent. But the economy over there is doing extremely well and many people over there are now as well off as Americans, so the political strife and hatred has given way to reconciliation and a slow built trust between the two cultures. Those who still hate are being marginalized. That's how it should be.


How long did it take to write Gabriel?

The first draft of A Son Called Gabriel only took six or seven months to write. I think this was because it was so personal and Gabriel and his story was already fully formed in my mind. Of course, rewriting and editing took as long again.

You have such a beautiful, lyrical style to your prose - so haunting, quite reminiscent of Frank Mc Court's Angela's Ashes. Have you published other works besides Gabriel?


Thank you. I've read Angela's Ashes and enjoyed the writing style. Gabriel is my first published novel.

Your second novel will be published in 2009. Would you like to give us any hints as to what it is about?

It will be published in 2009 (maybe earlier if they so decide) by The Friday Project in the UK. Well, I can reveal it's now going to be a series of novels and they're going to be comic with just the right amount of darkness thrown in. I like to use humor in my writing where possible, even when dealing with heavy subject matter, because I can't stand books that are too heavy.


The working title of the novel is Unusual Steps. However, after working with my editor, we made the decision to split the novel in two, as the principal characters are very strong and have their own story lines. I'm working now on Marcus's story, which is about a young well-bred man leaving Ireland for the bright lights of London.


He moves into a house belonging to a very assertive young woman who's an immigration officer at Heathrow and next door lives a very meddlesome neighbor. He also befriends a very interesting American woman who's studying at the LSE [Ed note: London School of Economics] has a couple of run-ins with the law, and the story depicts his adventures as he goes about finding his place in the world. The second novel in the series will be about Julia, the immigration officer.

Ireland's newest types

It's remarkable how in the space of a couple of years the Northern Ireland economy is booming and people are becoming wealthy. Everywhere I turned there were new businesses opening and houses being built, though I'm also happy to report that the government has put a moratorium on building in the countryside and developed a strict set of guidelines to ensure that proposed dwellings fit in with the topography, etc. Many developers and people wanting to sell their land are grumbling, just like they do over here. Yes, people should have the right to develop their land and people need housing, but there's no need for monstruous McMansions sitting on quarter or half acre lots--no need even on two acre lots--just to satisfy the egos of Ireland's nouveau riche. Developers must work in conjunction with the locals to develop responsible housing projects and the character of the countryside must be preserved.

The nouveau riche are found among both religions and they're abundant (not an exaggeration) and it's humorous to hear the kind of stuff they get up to so neighbors will talk--flying to work or fun in private aircraft(screw the environment and carbon footprints because it's our turn to show off now, and anyway China's doing it, so there), others driving huge American SUVs, yet more throwing over-the-top engagements and weddings. Sixteen birthday bashes, never before celebrated in Ireland, are now practically de rigueur.

Yet some of these same people fiddle things so that the government pays for their children's university education while teachers and government employees and others have to stump out the full amount to educate their children. I'm not joking. At least that sort of scam doesn't exist here in the US.

It's a bit like the Wild West over there, or as if excessive Hollywood uprooted and moved across the pond. I've no doubt some of them will start buying minor English aristocratic titles soon.

So many 'shades' of rain

I'm presently in Northern Ireland visiting family, which is wonderful, but I'd forgotten just how many different kinds of rain there is on this island. There's driving rain, gentle rain, blinding rain, tepid rain....on and on it goes and people know by the color of the clouds exactly what kind of shower they're going to get. I suppose the many types and quantity is the price to pay for the enormous variety of colors of grass there is that ranges from emerald to kelly-green. And it's also responsible for the fantastic vibrancy of the flowers adorning the street corners of every town and village throughout the province. Every town also has huge arrangements by their entrances--some arranged in the ancient crests of the town--and the colors of the petals is so intense the flowers actually appear as if made of plastic. An artist's paradise.

Last week we nipped up to the ancient city of Derry (Londonderry to some)to meet our friends from New Orleans who're on a trip of Ireland that began in Belfast. They're traveling with their friends Jan and Bob Carr--who were formally the 'Richard and Judy' of New Orleans, later moved into radio and had me on as a guest on their show just before Hurricane Katrina struck and their radio station has not returned to the air waves--and all were stunned by the beauty, cuisine and wealth of Northern Ireland.

Insistent characters

A lot going on at the moment as I'm preparing to leave for Europe soon--Spain and Ireland. To top it all of, it's July 12, Orangeman's Day back in the old sod though of course I don't take part because I'm the other sort. Live and let live! New Northern Irish tourism slogan--or should be.

Editing started on Unusual Steps--the new novel--and the UK publisher has now emailed 12 edited chapters. As I read Scott's edits, it struck me that perhaps the Unusual Steps manuscript contains two novels (I'd thought this originally)as it's a long manuscript and alternates between three people's points of view. There's Marcus, the shy Irish chappie who moves to London in search of adventure, and Julia, a wellbred young English woman who's an immigration officer at Heathrow and hedonistic, and finally Tilly Hartley, a meddling widow. Oh, and by the way, Julia's lesbian.

I'd always conceived of this novel as a series from the beginning. It's kinda 'in' to write series now, right!!. Well, that's not the reason I'm doing it...not at all. It's just I love the characters and they have a lot to say. They're interesting and some are just downright eccentric and I'm having a lot of fun with them and, let's face it, writers should have a bit of fun with their creations when they labor alone in quiet studies and dens.

It's certainly a very different novel to Gabriel.

Anyway, both the editor and I chatted today after a few days of pondering--via Skype, which is the way to go if you're calling the UK because it's computer to computer and free--and we've decided its definitely the first two books in a series and I'm now going to pull the story apart and write Marcus's story. After I've done it, it'll be sent back to Scott who'll edit it.

It's a lot of work, especially since I've just emailed my agent the finished nonfiction manuscript of my first few years in America. After he and Lyndsey read it, they'll send me changes they recommend and that'll have to be reworked, too. But stories must be written the way they're intended to be written. No half measures allowed, not in my book. And besides, my characters refuse to allow me to tie them up in one big novel.

So all in all, it's going to be a busy, busy Fall.

Human quirks

It's amazing how anticipation and excitement affects us humans, how it causes a natural high that makes us act out of character sometimes.

On Saturday morning, someone whom I've seen at the gym for nearly two years but whom I've never spoken to approached as I was completing my first set of arm curls.

He's a man in his early sixties and is a friend of another guy who's Irish-American who once told me he's conservative and doesn't care for Hillary Clinton, couldn't imagine America being led by a woman. I'd imagine this chap feels the same way. We've passed each other on the way to the various pieces of equipment but never spoken or acknowledged one another. He's always come across as unfriendly, actually.

"You're Irish, aren't you?" he said, his smile as broad as Nellie's dresser. (an Irish saying.)
I had to clamp my mouth shut so as to stop my jaw from slamming into the floor. "Er...yes," I said after I finished the last rep of my set. "The genuine article." I tossed him a grin.
"My wife and I are going to Ireland."
"Really. That's very nice. When?"
"Tonight...at six." He smiled like a schoolboy who'd been praised for good marks.
"Out of Newark?" I said.
"Nah. Philly."
"Which part?"
"County Meath."
"I'm from the North. That's in the republic...but it's not far. Everything in Ireland isn't far from anywhere else."
He laughed. "Yeah, I'm Irish American and my relatives live in Meath."
"Well, have a good time."
"Thanks. Will do."
"Have a nice time."

I picked up the handles to start another set but stopped to watch the man walk away. He knew I was Irish yet we hadn't even traded names. This isn't the first time I've seen this sort of behavior. He was buzzing. I think the anticipation of something pleasurable makes normally reticent people drop their guard or shyness and approach others to share their news. It's almost a compulsion--a snap decision by the brain to act when an opportunity presents. In this case, the nexus was my Irishness and his trip to Ireland to see his relatives. Wonderful. It'll be most interesting to see if he speaks on his return.

A rigid mindset

Today's a holiday in Europe celebrating workers and it reminded me of a story I was told at a party. I met someone who manages a large corporation and he told me he'd helped three Irish guys (in this case all came from Northern Ireland) obtain a visa to come to the US to live and work here in order to get some experience. I think it's the visa program that succeeded the Donnelly Visa program because the successful applicants must return home again rather than stay permanently in the US.

These chaps arrived to work at his company. He noticed two of the men quickly became friends, but made no effort to befriend or socialize with the other man.

After three months or so, one of the two chaps comes up to him and says, "Did you know that other Irish fella' working with us is the other sort?"

(The man telling me the story was American Irish and brought up Catholic.)

The manager knew exactly what he meant and couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"I just waanted ye;' to know, like," the Irishman said, as if he were doing his American boss a huge favor and he should immediately fire the guy.

Astonishingly or not surprisingly depending on one's perspective, the other man left and the manager wasn't sure whether he went home or decided to travel around the country. To me the only thing that was surprising was that this Catholic chap felt he had a God-given right to spew his hatred and prejudice in the United States and try to influence his superiors. And it's incredibly sad, too. He gets a visa to work in a sophisticated environment in a large US city, an opportunity to gain some top-notch work experience,and all he can think about is that someone he is working with is an Irish protestant. Talk about leading a limited life. And he's going back to Northern Ireland without learning a thing.

Aye, very nice ...but is it edible?

While Saint Patrick's Day is wildly celebrated here in the U.S. by ancestors of those who flew the coop hundreds of years ago but not so much in Ireland and, because I live in the U.S. now, I wondered what would be the best way for me to mark it's passing.

The answer came this afternoon and here's the result. My Mum baked the most delicious Irish Soda bread and Irish brown bread when my siblings and I were youngsters. So, I found a recipe for Irish brown bread--it's very healthy--and baked it and here it is fresh from the oven. The orchid's for artistic purposes, naturally.

Tonight we're going off to the home of a Yankee friend who's cooking an Irish dinner and I'm taking my bread along and can't wait for everyone to try it.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day.

Hey, I'm a thinking person's blog!

Debra Hamel of the Deblog has nominated my blog as a blog that makes people think, a nomination I'm very pleased to have gotten. The concept originated from The Thinking Blog and it's now my turn to suggest five blogs that I also consider well-written and insightful and make me think because everyone should think constructively a wee bit every day.

Here they are:
Martha O'Connor's blog--Not only is she an accomplished novelist whose first novel, The Bitch Posse, I enjoyed thoroughly and can't wait for her second one which is set in Ireland, but her blog contains wonderful information about diabetes, a disease one of her children deals with daily.

Gayle Brandeis's Blog--Again, Gayle's a wonderful writer whose The Book of Dead Birds is rich and insightful (her second novel Self Storage has just released) and she is also a social activist who works hard for justice and equality in society.

Kieran's an Irish American and boxer from Brooklyn who writes beautifully and I love his takes on living in NYC and more.

A life in Wales because I love Wales, went to law school in Wales and this uplifting blog is about the life, good writing and astonishing photography of a woman (and her cats Bella and Lulu) who lives there.

Bridlepath is my fifth choice because who couldn't love a well-written, in depth blog about horses...except, I guess, the few people on earth who don't care for horses.

Cruising the Caribbean: Part Two

"Attention passengers, this is your captain speaking. We have reason to believe there may be a stowaway on board and..."

From a balcony on the ninth floor of a cruise ship, the cobalt waters of the Gulf of Mexico take on a very unique quality. Some evenings after dinner I'd return to my cabin, walk out onto the balcony and lean over the varnished teak balcony, dig my fingernails into the thin layer of encrusted salt and watch mesmerized as the ship cut through the swells. The waves would race toward the ship's hull, smack against it and then, as if repelled like two North poles of a magnet, would push away from it at speed. At the farthest point of their race away from the ship, the wavelets would crest, turn inside out and dissipate in sparkling showers of snow-white foam and spray.

We spent one and a half full days at sea on the outbound journey before arriving at Costa Maya in Mexico, our first port of call, where we took a rather prosaic tour of the Kohunlich Mayan ruins. I say prosaic because this was to be my first time to learn about the illustrious past and sophistication of the Maya and I expected to see and climb huge soaring temples and palaces such as those found at Copan, but instead all I saw were sad mounds and hillocks still covered by verdant jungle vegetation. It didn't help that our guide--a weasel-like Mayan chappie--didn't speak fluent English and kept saying "Guys this" and Guys that" at every turn (only words I and others could decipher) and then had the gall to ask for a tip at the end of the journey rather than trust us to give him one.


Not so our trip to the Quirigua Mayan ruins in Guatemala the next day. We docked in Santo Tomas's port in Guatemala at six that morning and after disembarkation met with the effervescent and charming Carolina, our guide, who took us on a spectacular two hour bus ride through to the ruins, entertaining us en route with tales of the ancient Maya and life in modern-day Guatemala


I must say it is a spectacularly beautiful country. It is called the 'land of eternal spring' because its climate is always the warm and sunny and the landscape is full of rolling hills and jungle awash in colorful flowering trees, shrubs and flowers including orchid and animals equally diverse and vibrant. At one point we passed rubber tree plantations--hailing instantly to life my schoolboy memories of geography class about the subject and the teacher saying "give me your jaw, boy!" as he grabbed and squeezed my cheek mercilessly if I was acting the smart-aleck or insubordinate--and huge banana tree (actually a member of the grass family) plantations whose fruit would soon be harvested and shipped off to Dole factories for export to America and Europe, etc. (Factoid--baby banana plants must be allowed to grow alongside their mother for six full months or they die. I have a banana plant in my house and it always has a baby growing alongside it in the pot and until now I never knew why.)

The Mayan ruins were of the Mayan Classic period (550-850AD) and contained intricately carved Stelae and Zoomorphs (the latter being huge carved boulders including one called "The Great Turtle" that were forms of monumentation unique to this Mayan city/state and the hieroglyphs on them could only be read from the sky), all evidencing the greatness and deeds of the Mayan dynasty that ruled there.


Views of the city and courtyard with Stellae-tallest is 30 meters high

Bringing the local history to life, Carolina whose English was perfect (she'd lived in Los Angeles for three years before returning home) described as we walked through the acropli, temples and ball courts that there had been two Mayan cities in the region--Quirigua and the wealthy city of Copan--and how one of the kings called Cauac Sky captured and sacrificed 18 Rabbit, the king of Copan, freeing Quirigua of its vassal city/state status and giving rise to the Sky dynasty. (Nothing like a bit of intrigue and kingly skulduggery to keep the tourists chomping at the bit and wanting more.)


One of the Zoomorphs, a type of ancient Mayan monument unique to this city state

Cauac Sky build a new palace for himself over the sacrificed king's body (his decapitated body was the only one ever found at the ruins to date during excavations that are ongoing; it astonishes researchers that they have not found the remains of any citizens).


Close up of stella depicting Couac Sky

As an aside, in ancient Mayan culture, only the best was offered the gods. Thus, it was the winning ball player who was sacrificed immediately after the game, not the loser as previously thought. The players wanted to win and be sacrificed (by decapitation in front of the spectators) and it was an immense honor for the player and his family.

All in all, I was transported and left the ruins pondering how a civilization so sophisticated (their knowledge of astronomy and mathematics was superior to ours and their calendar is more accurate than the one we use today) could disappear so rapidly--contrary to belief, it wasn't all to do with the arrival of the Spanish--and leave the modern-day Maya as simple and unsophisticated as the people they'd once been before the rise of their ancient ancestors. (As an aside, the Mayan calendar ends on August 12, 2012, where it is said a great event will unfold.)

On the way back on the bus, as I passed the wooden shacks where the Maya--who're a very friendly and proud people--now live, my thoughts returned momentarily to Ireland and the similarities the countries share, how throughout Ireland, for example, there are now copious ruins of former peasant homes where families were reared. The Maya today are socially and politically where the native Irish were over a hundred or more years ago. Where the Irish were powerless and lived in stone hovels with no running water or electricity then, the Maya today are similarly powerless and live in tiny wooden huts with zinc roofs, the woman spinning and creating magnificent blankets and clothing, their animals and fowl bleating and clucking in the nearby earth. And I hope, like the Irish have now achieved, that one day the Maya can rise and be allowed to become full and equal participants in the countries of their birth and that discrimination against them will end. They have a noble ancestry that we, for all our sophistication, cannot begin to touch.

Departing Santo Tomas was a heart-warming experience, one of those events that really makes one happy to be alive and healthy and believe in the good of human beings. The Norwegian Sun is the only large cruise ship to dock weekly at their port and, as a show of appreciation and sign of how valuable her presence is to the local economy, the local people arrived en masse to say farewell. As the ship sounded her thunderous horn four or five times to acknowledge the farewell reception (even the crew were watching from the decks and bridge) and began to sail, a group of Pula dancers began to dance, an entire school of Catholic schoolchildren (judging by the uniforms) began to wave and sing and scores of taxis and cars that had assembled for the event began to blare their horns. Seasoned cruise veterans had tears in their eyes and I overheard them saying they'd never encountered the like of this in all the years they'd been traveling. And, right there on the fringe of the dancers, dressed in her navy and yellow jacket, was a widely smiling and waving Carolina...just as she'd promised she would be doing when we bade her farewell dockside twenty minutes before.