Story Behind The Song

James Perrin and I were recruited by our dear departed comrade John Whittle to add the lyrics and music to a film! James' work soon became the "finest lyrical silk" as I wrestled with my sensibilities to reach the zenith of the flavours! There are 2 takes. The other 2nd is not as inventive, is flat, and more precise. This 1st take is fresh....3 hours after I read James' poem it was recorded. Fresh mackerel and a squeeze of lemon!

Song Description

James Perrin writes; My dear buddy Cameron McNeish had me on a television series he was presenting 19 years ago. For this programme, with my first little Jack Russell, The Flea, we took a walk over several days in Co. Mayo, went up Croagh Patrick, walked across the Sheefry range and down to the coast where we were picked up from the beach by currach, The Flea sitting between Cammo and myself on the bench and looking nonplussed, and were ferried out to Inishturk, the most offshore of Ireland's inhabited islands, going on next day to uninhabited Caher Island, which is the end of the Croagh Patrick pilgrimage route, and spending the night there. Cammo sprang a surprise on me on Caher - he demanded I write a poem and read it to camera. I'd not seen it for years until Cammo sent me a transcription this week to polish up for a forthcoming book of his. So here it is, for what it's worth. And I'll dedicate it to my dear old late friend John Whittle, who was part of the camera crew. As to the old Irish priest who comes into it, he was attached to St. Mary's on Mulberry Street in Manchester, and I used to go to him each week in my early teens for instruction. Which very soon evolved into long conversations about his great love, which was Irish literature.

Lyrics

Caher Island Re-Mastered 09.01.18
Simple...beautiful....the Spirit Stone!

We find the places
We have always known,
Where being is to be
More real; as here on
Croagh Patrick's stony,
Worn and rearing track.
I hear talk of those
Who labour barefoot
To its crest. In them,
Immanence, who turn
Always to the west.

Hills crowd ocean's space,
Sea frets can drown them.
Outstretched, the Sheefrys
Rise; red with cushioned
Sundew, pearled with mist.
Spear-grass is carmine
Tipped; by winter's frosts
Rocks are gapped around.
On bulky Mweelrea
A widening sunlit
World. I fancied the
Presbytery walls gone;
An old priest, voice like
Flaking ash, whisky
Glass to hand, sat on
The grass we walked across.

Looking on waves, all
Came back to me: his
Gift of mind, though his
Faith had gone; who talked
Of Yeats and Joyce as
Tiercel might, at dusk,
Chattering to its crag
In some brief stilling
Of wind before it
Muffled down that hint
Of swift, callous life.

What brought me here to
Thread through the hills' pattern?
Why tease at nature's
Embroidery, that
Maybe does not signify;
Just is, as source and spring?

Why set to journey,
When we seek our rest?
Here at this world's end
No answers; except
Sky-roofed church, texture,
Paradox. I learned
A voice to express:
But quartz, the spirit
Stone, still spoke it best