When the wind blows in Dingle, which is most days as you are now well aware...the whole town whistles and sings. It starts at the harbor where I stand beside the main stage. Sail masts, ropes, and flags dance together in a concert of woodwinds and percussion. The sounds are hauntingly beautiful. I close my eyes and the music of the harbor sings my soul awake.
I make my way up through the town, where lower pitched whistles like those from uillean pipes blow through gates and fences, adding to the symphony. I've heard the eery songs of the cemetery where Peig Sayers, the famous story teller from the Great Blasket Island, is buried. Legend has it is is she herself you hear.
And now here too in this little town I hear the wind songs. I wonder if anyone else notices. Or is it one of those everyday sounds that simply fade out of awareness and into the general background noise of the day. I'm grateful I am able to notice and enjoy the beautiful concert of sounds. It's music, not noise though without hearing it for yourself it may be hard to imagine but worth trying. It's truly musical. Wind blowing out notes of the scale while percussion taps out the beat all in various tones coming together in one magical piece of music.
Makes me giggle thinking of tiny faeiries too small to be seen by the naked eye, but there, orchestrating this concert for everyone to enjoy. Or at least for me, and now you.
Sitting at home, I can still hear it. The metal shop signs swaying back and forth become violins while the wind howling down the chimney, tympany drums. The entire orchestra now playing together in a brilliant, deeply moving finale.
My Bodhran and bones sit on the floor next to me calling me to join in. It's been days since I've practiced, but it'll wait a little longer. For now I'll sit quietly with a warm cup of tea and let the stories of the wind songs stir the quiet places within.