Sligo Bay,Tradewinds of Books

Where dreams are not forgotten midst the harsh reality

young love strolls along the heather of the hills above the sea,

while reams of rhymnes are fashioned at the inkwell with a quill

may the stardust of the faeries quell the fears that hearts instill.

c. 2008 , Gerry Gilligan a/k/a sligobay

Sligo is the 'Gateway City' and County Sligo is the self-annointed 'Land of Heart's Desire'. As a resident, I echo the sentiment.

Poised at the northwest Atlantic coast of Ireland in the province of Connaught, it's the westernmost City of western Europe. Sligo affords every modern convenience and amenity.

Rosses Point boasts its sandy swimming beach, marina and links golf course, just ten minutes away from city centre.

Strand Hill contributes its acclaimed surfing beach, links golf course, coastal and hill walking paths including the mountain climb of Knocknarea to Queen Maeve's cairn. Other ancient dolmens and ruins pepper the city and its environs.

Nightly theatre at the Hawkswell, founded by W.B. Yeats nearly a century ago, and several museums for arts and literature provide relief on the odd rainy day. Plenty of shops stock Irish knit sweaters, crystal and local artwork.

Street buscars and quality pubs with nightly traditional music sessions will satisfy your musical tastes while your palate will feast on the finest cuisine.

Only County Donnegal and its rugged coastline above Donnegal Bay stretches northward to form the western border of the new nation of Northern Ireland. Self-governance has finally arrived in Belfast in 2007 pursuant to the Good Friday Agreement.

Enniskillen, N.I., is just an hour drive from Sligo and Derry,N.I., only two hours away.

Sligo is perfectly situated to allow touring both north and south of the border in the still quaint west of Ireland. Westport and Galway are each two hours drive, give or take.

Direct flights to and from Sligo's small airport connect tourists to Dublin and Manchester,England.

William Butler Yeats was a poet and playwrite who became enamoured with and made the Sligo Bay Area his home at the turn of the nineteeth century. He was a statesman whose words and actions fueled the fires of independent thinking which gave rise to the Easter Rebellion of 1916 and the birth of the free nation of Ireland.

County Sligo is "Yeats Country" and he is buried at Drumcliff, Sligo, beneath the shadow of Ben Bulben. His tombstone bears his own epitath: "Cast a cold eye on life. On death, horseman pass by."

Tradewinds are those which carry adventurers beyond the reaches of the easily accessible destination and home again. Yeats was a tireless author-poet; a modern bard with a penchant for the occult, a reverance for Irish folklore and countryside and a firm footing in the reality of British colonial domination.

Though recognized as a Nobel laureate, his greatest award was the perpetual home in the hearts of the people who trod the hills and coasts of Sligo in his legacy. There is no higher honour known to modern or ancient Irish culture.

Yeats play, "Land of Heart's Desire" is an example of his fascination with both the occult and Irish faerie folklore and mythology. There's a layer of Christian superstition in the mystical power of the crucifix to protect.

A young wife, Mary, becomes engrossed by a book of legends exposing her to the dangers of faerie possession - the "Exorcist" comes to mind. Though not demonic, these faeries are more like modern sci-fi aliens with designs on body snatching. The snatched never fares well in these scenarios. Yeats is brilliant in his description of this Tir na nOg, place where noone grows old-eternal youth :

"Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue."

Yeats further describes the faerie dance: " Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring, Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; For they hear the wind murmur and laugh and sing Of a land where even the old are fair, And even the wise are merry of tongue."

The climax occurs after Father Hart unwittingly removes the crucifix from the wall. Religion and folklore meet as protagonist and antagonist and do battle.

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,

The holy tree is growing there;

From joy the holy branches start,

And all the trembling flowers they bear.

The changing colours of its fruit

Have dowered the stars with merry light;

The surety of its hidden root

Has planted quiet in the night;

The shaking of its leafy head

Has given the waves their melody,

And made my lips and music wed,

Murmuring a wizard song for thee.

There the Loves a circle go,

The flaming circle of our days,

Gyring, spiring to and fro

In those great ignorant leafy ways;

Remembering all that shaken hair

And how the wingèd sandals dart,

Thine eyes grow full of tender care:

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.

Gaze no more in the bitter glass 

The demons, with their subtle guile,

Lift up before us when they pass,

Or only gaze a little while;

For there a fatal image grows

That the stormy night receives,

Roots half hidden under snows,

Broken boughs and blackened leaves.

For all things turn to barrenness

In the dim glass the demons hold,

The glass of outer weariness,

Made when God slept in times of old.

There, through the broken branches,

go The ravens of unresting thought;

Flying, crying, to and fro,

Cruel claw and hungry throat,

Or else they stand and sniff the wind,

And shake their ragged wings; alas!

Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:

Gaze no more in the bitter glass.