• S1 Ep8: D1 YC Dromahair

  • Aug 11 2022
  • Length: Less than 1 minute
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S1 Ep8: D1 YC Dromahair

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  • Non Yeats P.O.I. Dromahair. GPS location 54.220799, -8.297467

    Dromahair lies in the hilly north west of Leitrim amid some stunning unspoiled natural landscapes. The "Sleeping Giant" mountain formation (comprising Keelogyboy, Leean and Benbo) is visible on approaches to the village, as is Lough Gill below the Slieve Dae?ne and Killerry mountain.

    The village itself is also idyllic, located on the banks of the River Bonet, which flows into Lough Gill. Much of Dromahair was modelled on a village in Somerset by the Earl of Leitrim, and the central streetscape still follows the pattern set down by him.

    Looking for a good lunch before getting the waterbus in the afternoon? Try the The Riverbank Restaurant. Stay on the R287 by taking a right coming into Dromahair - the restaurant is on the left and is marked on the map. It has a full licence and is open from Friday to Sunday. Evening meals are from 6.30 pm to 10 pm and Sunday Lunch from 12.30 to 3.00 pm.Bar Food is Served, daily from 12.30 to 9pm

    The poem Sean quotes in the audio piece is from Yeats's 1893 collection, The Rose: -

    The Man Who Dreamed Of Faeryland

    He stood among a crowd at Dromahair;
    His heart hung all upon a silken dress,
    And he had known at last some tenderness,
    Before earth took him to her stony care;
    But when a man poured fish into a pile,
    It Seemed they raised their little silver heads,
    And sang what gold morning or evening sheds
    Upon a woven world-forgotten isle
    Where people love beside the ravelled seas;
    That Time can never mar a lover's vows
    Under that woven changeless roof of boughs:
    The singing shook him out of his new ease.
    He wandered by the sands of Lissadell;
    His mind ran all on money cares and fears,
    And he had known at last some prudent years
    Before they heaped his grave under the hill;
    But while he passed before a plashy place,
    A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth
    Sang that somewhere to north or west or south
    There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race
    Under the golden or the silver skies;
    That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot
    It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit:
    And at that singing he was no more wise.
    He mused beside the well of Scanavin,
    He mused upon his mockers: without fail
    His sudden vengeance were a country tale,
    When earthy night had drunk his body in;
    But one small knot-grass growing by the pool
    Sang where - unnecessary cruel voice -
    Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice,
    Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall
    Or stormy silver fret the gold of day,
    And midnight there enfold them like a fleece
    And lover there by lover be at peace.
    The tale drove his fine angry mood away.
    He slept under the hill of Lugnagall;
    And might have known at last unhaunted sleep
    Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep,
    Now that the earth had taken man and all:
    Did not the worms that spired about his bones
    proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry
    That God has laid His fingers on the sky,
    That from those fingers glittering summer runs
    Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave.
    Why should those lovers that no lovers miss
    Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss?
    The man has found no comfort in the grave.
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