Midland Arts and Culture Magazine - Register.ie

Midland Arts and Culture Magazine | WINTER 2010/2011Talks,walksTWO IS my lucky number. At 2.22pmon the Sunday, my 21-year-old Hondacame to rest in the car park at theTyrone Guthrie Centre. A gentlefriend, who had been here to do herpaintings, had told me, ‘It will changeyour life’.My journey had begun in brilliantsunshine but as if in symbolicshrouding of the prediction, adeepening mist had settled downupon the roads and countryside. Itheightened my excitement.With no wrong turns, my progresswent surprisingly well, until Newbliss– here I knew I'd need local directions.At a garage shop it was with NewblissOblige that the local TD, with ashaving cut to his right ear, gave methe number of left turns and sharpbends to take, in a pleasant chat overhis shopping basket. As I thanked himhe added cheerily, ‘I hope the gateswon't be locked when you get there.’Once off the main road, following asign for Annaghmakerrig Lake, I droveback and forth on forest roads, pastfarms and scatterings of dwellingswith no humans, nor lake in sight.Outside the houses and cottages allthe dogs made eye contact in afriendly manner and a nod of ‘Youlook like the new lost artist’. Suchwas their apparent thought that inhalf a blink I nearly stopped to askthem for directions.According to the brochure thatgood soul had lent me, Heaney,Enright and Tóibín as well as McCabe,Banotti and Byrne were among thoseand forksFirst impressions and lasting intentions for a two-week bursary at The TyroneGuthrie Centre, Annaghmakerrig“Sliding back theglass doors the fullaroma of divinecooking and merrychatter burst out. Ihad found the lifewithin!”who had found their distinguishedways to this artists’ retreat: ‘Theymust have had copies of the treasuremap’, thought my dipping spirits, ‘foram I not a mere poseur from Offaly?’But it was thanks to a wee black dog,a ginger cat, and the man who openedhis door, that close to an hour later Idid at last pull up at the low, metalgates. Ah! those low, white and blackmetal gates, with the very small,discrete sign, that I’d obviouslybypassed several times: those unopenablegates, and the sinkingfeeling that a TD could have slippedthe truth out.I rang the bell. It remained so quietbut for the dripping trees. Then, inbarely five minutes, a white carappeared and pulled over as if towelcome me. ‘I know the magiccode’, she said. But that was mereluck, for the departing artist and Iwould not meet again. A drive edgedby old woods and a fork, with stoneoutbuildings to the right. Creak and“But it was thanks toa wee black dog, aginger cat, and theman who opened hisdoor, that close to anhour later I did atlast pull up at thelow, metal gates.”pop of stone under tyres, and thenthe Victorian house appeared allGothicky up on its rise; points andtextured sienna emerging from thewhite cloud.But all other humans had retreatedfrom the artists’ retreat. Stillness.This old bell didn’t call anyone acrossthe oriental rugs in the grand hallway.Should I curl up under the rugs in mycar and wait? But then it seemedlogical to walk around the building toglimpse through windows. At the firstcorner sweet aromas of food cookingrevived hope. Through the steamykitchen glass I waved to a chef andhe waved back but dived behind hispots. Suddenly, a bearded youngman came to my rescue. Sliding backthe glass doors the full aroma ofdivine cooking and merry chatterburst out. I had found the life within!With the nicest ease, he introducedhimself, leaving his lunch to checkthe room list in the kitchen. He tookme upstairs and along creakingcorridors filled with artworks andantiques, to my lovely room – mine forthe next two weeks – overlooking theside lawns and Autumn-tinted shrubsand trees. Back down we went, viathe grand main stairs, to where aroundthe long pine dining table in front ofa flaming stove, smiling faces ofdifferent ages and accents introducedthemselves. Two sweet, courteous,older gentlemen fussed around makingsure I had a plateful of the goodSunday lunch, and that it was hot.Apart from being made to feelinstantly welcomed, and at ease, myfirst positive memories will alwaysinclude the sight of the meringuemountain-topped trifles.After lunch, the chart was checkedagain and with his gentle ceremony,Phelim, 'husband of the director'showed me to Studio Three in thecourtyard. After a brisk, stretchingwalk in the dusk, I decanted my littlecar of all its assorted bags. After allthe unpacking between room andstudio, by 7pm I was ravenous. Itwas everyone's time for fridgeraiding,and the enjoyment of listeningand getting to know the writers,dancers, poets, painters, performers...With all my good intentions wiredfor getting straight into story-writingand illustrating, on Monday morningafter breakfast, I dressed for a goodwalk instead. But, just to check I hadnot imagined it, I went first to thestudio. Up two steps, opened theunlocked door and tears welled up inmy eyes. The emotion of being hereat last was overcoming me. I turnedon the battered radio, retuned to lyricfm and Holst’s Bringer of Jollity filledthe space. I forgot ‘work’ and dancedand twirled around the huge, brightroom with tears bouncing off mysecond-hand wax jacket.Mby Rosalind Fanning24