Oveheard: Good Guide, Bad Guide

(Well, sort of an 'Overheard' - at two heritage sites in July 2013).

First person interpretation (i.e. a living, breathing, human guide) at its best is what all other interpretation aspires to be: personal, intimate, detailed, tailored to fit individual needs and interests.

The guide at Glebe House (to my sorrow I've forgotten her name) was wonderful.  Warm, personable, clearly both knowledgeable and enthusiastic about her subject.  It helped that she had known Derek Hill and so was able to act as a link between him and us, telling us anecdotes about him and the people who had visited him.

Contrast that with a recent experience I had visiting a National Trust property.  The guide  reeled off from what was clearly a prepared script (I have no issue with scripts, I've used them myself, but you shouldn't sound as though you're reciting from one) displaying absolutely zero enthusiasm for the house or the history it represents.  The lowest point was when the guide referred, several times, to a wealthy 'higher-ess' who had revived the family fortunes.  I promise this is not a dig at the pronunciation - just that it was symptomatic of a general 'can't be bothered' attitude.  She seemed bored - and in consequence the tour was boring.

Derek Hill, His House

Imagine a brick red Georgian house, ringed by dripping greenery, set in a sodden valley under a rainwashed Donegal sky.  Imagine walking into the front hall, walls the blue of billiard cue chalk (walls covered, in fact, with billiard cue chalk) and paintings as far as the eye can see: Augustus John, Jack Yeats, Louis LeBrocquy, Oskar Kokoschka.  Welcome to the home of Derek Hill, English portrait painter, Irish landscape painter, founder of the 'Tory School' (yes, that Tory), resident of Churchill, Co. Donegal.

Derek Hill in a series of vignettes:

Hill's friend Henry McIlhenny (of the Tabasco McIlhennies), connoisseur, philanthropist, who bought nearby Glenveagh Castle and later left it to the Irish State, didn't care for Hill's style of decorating.  When asked his opinion of a Tiffany lamp in the dining room, McIlhenny sniffed, 'it's vulgar. But it goes with the rest of the house.'

Hill painted the great and good and many of them came to Donegal for their sittings.  One visitor was Greta Garbo, who graced the tapestry chair by the fire in the sitting room with her presence.  She had a perfect profile, but for some reason Hill never painted her.

He did paint Yehudi Menuhin and it's said that Menuhin treated the people of Gartan to a performance.  The legend goes that Hill's housekeeper Gracie was asked by one of the locals who the grand fiddler was.  She wasn't exactly sure of the name, but Hiúdí McMenamin sounded about right.

The pipes in the kitchen are painted in different primary colours. On a shelf of the red dresser is a ceramic platter designed by Picasso.  There's also a portrait of Gracie, by Hill, hanging above Gracie's chair.

His bathroom - still with his toothbrush in its holder - is papered in rose-spattered wallpaper and has a pile of Country Life magazines within handy reach of the bath.

He liked bright silk ties and embroidered slippers.

The walls, and more interestingly the ceiling of his study, are papered in original William Morris 'Blackthorn' wallpaper to create an illusion of lying under a woodland canopy.

The house is preserved more or less as it was left in 1981 when Hill donated it, its contents and his art collection to the Irish people.  Every surface is adorned, every wall covered; every room a story, a work of art in its own right.

*
Glebe House and Gallery, Churchill, Letterkenny, Co. Donegal.

Sardinade

Zut.  Today I'm taking a break from all things island and returning to France.  I don't know why I didn't post these photos at the time (they were taken at the end of June) but I thought they'd be a nice celebration of the summer before we get into September and autumn - and an antidote to a Monday morning.

Alors, HTLT presents la Sardinade: starring sardines, sardine grillers, the village square, bright colours and two adorable nephews.

Just a few euro bought you a plate of grilled sardines and bread; frites were also available with mayonnaise or ketchup or both, for the indiscriminate (like me) who like to mix.

The eldest adorable nephew discovered candy floss.

The slightly smaller adorable nephew discovered sardines, frites, churros and ice cream.  He likes to eat, this one.  Like his auntie.

A la prochaine!

Tory Blue

Unlike yesterday's red features, nobody has been applying blue paint to Tory.  I think it's more that the island's colour palette creates a beautiful backdrop that allows all things blue to shine.

Tory Red

As I mentioned yesterday, I was very struck by the intense colours on Tory.  Those and the painterly aspects of the island will form a bit of a theme in the blog this week.  Today's focus is on the colour red, which I couldn't help but notice because someone seems to have gone about the island with a pot of red paint.

Fáilte go Toraigh*

The day we went to Tory Island, there was much singing of Báidín Fheidhlimi.  This is a song that every Irish child learns, about a fisherman (Feidhlimi) who takes his boat to Tory with sad consequences.  (For lyrics and translation see here.)  It's actually quite a jolly song, in spite of the whole shipwreck thing.  Anyway, I'm glad to report that we made our way safely to Tory.  Of all Ireland's offshore islands I read somewhere that it is the farthest offshore and the ferry trip takes about 45 minutes.  Like many Irish islands, Tory is a Gaeltacht, and Irish is the first language of the islanders.

One of the things that makes Tory special is the fact that the island has its own king, Rí Thoraigh, who is elected by the islanders. The current king, Patsy Dan Mac Ruadhri, meets every ferry at the quay, driving up alongside in his royal Mercedes.  Please note the personalised numberplate.

The hub of island life is an Baile Thiar, the west village, where the hotel/pub, cafe and a couple of shops are located, as well as the ferry dock.  Despite the island's relative remoteness, the inhabitants are still proud Donegal supporters, which is why so many of the buildings are painted green and gold, the colours of the county football team.

Happily, the green and gold buildings blend well with the island's natural colour scheme.

In Celtic mythology, Tory is famous as the island where Balor of the Evil Eye cast his daughter Eithne into prison because it was foretold that her son would kill him.  As these things usually worked out, Eithne still managed to bear a son who did, in fact, kill his grandfather.  Since I feel a certain solidarity with all Eithnes, I'm glad she had the last word.

We walked to the far end of the island, to Balor's fort (the cliffs on the east end of the island which have the remains of a prehistoric settlement) passing several currachs on the way.  I liked this one and the abandoned machinery - some kind of winch for pulling in boats? - beside it.

The island is decidedly dramatic: with little vegetation, you get spectacular views from end to end.

From the cliffs, we walked back to village and had excellent chowder at the Harbour View Hotel.  I'd tell you to make sure and visit it if you're ever on Tory - except that as it's the only pub on the island you almost certainly would anyway.

Tory is bleaker than other Irish islands I've been to. It's remote and windswept and, apart from a few sheep, there's very little in the way of farming.  You get the distinct impression that life here has always been hard.  But it is has that stripped down, bare beauty that I've seen on Greek islands, where the colours are pure and intense against the sea and sky.

Come to think of it, Balor of the Evil Eye does sound a bit Greek ... Perhaps the island shop needs to stock up on some Ματόχαντρα.  

*Welcome to Tory

The Lutyens Youth Hostel

Everything is connected.  Inspired by my visit to Lambay, I did some more reading about Lutyens' work in Ireland and discovered that a hunting lodge he designed in Donegal was now a youth hostel. A youth hostel just a stone's throw from the place I spent every summer as a child - and, as chance would have it, had planned to visit the week after Lambay.  Strangely, though I'd passed it a hundred times, I'd never been inside the youth hostel.  Obviously, this was the moment to make good on that.

This is not the youth hostel.  This is the rather striking sculptural arrangement of abandoned lorries sitting in front of it.  

This is the youth hostel - and once I saw it, I could see the connection between this and other Lutyens buildings.  Those sweeping, slightly curved, cross between pagoda- and chalet-inspired roofs.

Though I suspect that the accommodation is somewhat basic, you do have stunning views over the Atlantic Ocean - and a rather lovely porch wrapping around the house from which to appreciate them.