I know this is kinda lazy of me, but I do want to persist in the bloggery thing, so, even though I have already posted this elsewhere, I decided to put it up here too..
I have often reflected on the conundrum of the apparently symbiotic nature of the co-existence of a surreal dreamtime creativity alongside a grimly pragmatic earthiness in the deep valleys and airy hills of my native country. That has absolutely nothing to do with this. I penned this a while back and I just wanted to inflict this peculiar little parable on you guys and see what you think.
I have already been threatened with excommunication and decapitation by my family and friends. Let me know . Have they been too kind?
McGill’s Defence
Paddy McGill and Roderick Guilfoyle were two small farmers in the valley of Ballygore in the shadow of the grey, rocky peak called Knockferrit. Their lands adjoined in the flood plain of the Poulaskiddy River, which was more frequently a flood than a plain, This had inspired McGill to take a leaf from the experience of the Chinese agricultural community and branch out into rice farming.As a consequence, the community of Ballygore were much entertained and edified by the spectacle of this little man wading through the waters of the Poulaskiddy with his trouser legs rolled up above his knees as he pursued the arcane practises of the paddy fields.
Guilfoyle, in particular, derived great amusement from the enterprise of his neighbour and was frequently heard in Mannixes hostelry of an evening lambasting the foolhardiness of McGill. Great mileage was got out of the coincidence of McGill’s Christian name and the fact that he was working a paddy field. Along with Denis McColl, the local wit and bard, Guilfoyle was co-author of a lengthy ballad entitled “McGill and the Folly of Paddy’s Paddy” which the pair would sing as a regular diversion for the other patrons of Mannixes, drawing great gales of laughter and ribald commentary from the audience.
All of this, not unnaturally, had it’s effect on McGill, and he became progressively more dour and withdrawn. His visits to the pub became infrequent as he avoided the unwanted wit and attentions of his neighbours and former friends. He was seen by day wading the waters of the Poulaskiddy, a lonely, taciturn figure with his trousers rolled up, his felt hat jammed on his balding crown, and his pipe clenched between stubborn teeth pouring great clouds of noxious smoke into the air as he tended his rice.
Now, in the way of such things, McGill had a daughter and Guilfoyle had a son, both of marriageable age, neither of them unattractive, and, of course, they were mutually attracted, for it is both trite and true that no one can dictate where the heart will go, parents least of all. Mary McGill and Mick Guilfoyle kept their passion a secret for as long as they could, for the antipathy and bad blood between their parents had become deep and bitter, and the Capulets and Montagues could have taken lessons from them in the art of mutual vilification.But truth will eventually out, and when Roderick Guilfoyle found his son behind a bush in the low field passionately embracing the daughter of the subject of all his scorn and laughter, his suspicions were aroused.By the judicious application of his blackthorn walking stick, he broke up the encounter, and later, as his wife treated the bruises and lacerations his son had acquired, he conducted an inquisition and the whole story was brought into the light of day.
In a fury, Guilfoyle made a beeline for the farm of his neighbour. Arrived at the cottage, he was informed by a surprised Mrs. McGill that her husband was tending his crop in the Poulaskiddy. Undeterred, he removed his shoes, rolled up his trousers, and waded out to confront the father of the seductress of his only son. Paddy McGill met his neighbour in the middle of the flooded field with some surprise. He was tired, his feet were three inches deep in the oozy mud, and the crop, for some obscure reason, was not thriving as well as it should. Additionally, word had reached him that Guilfoyle had last night composed and sung three new verses of “Paddy’s Paddy”. It was, accordingly, with tired, cynical and inflamed eyes that he regarded his tormentor as Guilfoyle launched into a tirade against his daughter, his family and himself.
The two men stood there calf-deep in the flooded field. McGill’s pipe poured greater and greater puffs of smoke into the air as he listened with deepening emotion to Guilfoyle’s harangue until they were both nearly completely shrouded in a purple haze of tobacco fumes.No one saw it happen, for the mist was too thick, but McGill’s frustration finally came to a head and he struck Guilfoyle such a blow that witnesses later swore they saw the man rise out of the cloud vertically, travel through the air for six feet, and fall back with a mighty splash into the muddy waters of the Poulaskiddy River.
The case came before the circuit court three weeks later. The judge listened carefully as the arguments for prosecution and defence were expounded and gave careful ear to all the witnesses called. Guilfoyle sat at the front of the court, his jaw still in a sling, and glowered at the little man in the felt hat who sat in the dock with an air of unassailable innocence, noxious fumes pouring steadily from his pipe. Mary McGill sat in the gallery with a defiant Mick Guilfoyle, their hands firmly clasped.
Finally, after much learned argument and debate and impassioned denunciations on both sides, counsel for the parties rested and the robed and bewigged officials waited on the verdict with the anxious public.Judge Lawrence MacFennish was calm and dispassionate as he spoke. He declared that the case had been a difficult one. On the one hand there was a clear case of assault, battery, and grievous bodily harm. On the other was the mitigating fact of the prolonged aggravation and the final provocation which finally led to the blow being struck. However, he said, what finally swayed him to dismiss the case was the fact that, as a man of intelligence, learning, and wit, he could not ignore the fact that McGill was well within his rice when he struck the blow.
I have often reflected on the conundrum of the apparently symbiotic nature of the co-existence of a surreal dreamtime creativity alongside a grimly pragmatic earthiness in the deep valleys and airy hills of my native country. That has absolutely nothing to do with this. I penned this a while back and I just wanted to inflict this peculiar little parable on you guys and see what you think.
I have already been threatened with excommunication and decapitation by my family and friends. Let me know . Have they been too kind?
McGill’s Defence
Paddy McGill and Roderick Guilfoyle were two small farmers in the valley of Ballygore in the shadow of the grey, rocky peak called Knockferrit. Their lands adjoined in the flood plain of the Poulaskiddy River, which was more frequently a flood than a plain, This had inspired McGill to take a leaf from the experience of the Chinese agricultural community and branch out into rice farming.As a consequence, the community of Ballygore were much entertained and edified by the spectacle of this little man wading through the waters of the Poulaskiddy with his trouser legs rolled up above his knees as he pursued the arcane practises of the paddy fields.
Guilfoyle, in particular, derived great amusement from the enterprise of his neighbour and was frequently heard in Mannixes hostelry of an evening lambasting the foolhardiness of McGill. Great mileage was got out of the coincidence of McGill’s Christian name and the fact that he was working a paddy field. Along with Denis McColl, the local wit and bard, Guilfoyle was co-author of a lengthy ballad entitled “McGill and the Folly of Paddy’s Paddy” which the pair would sing as a regular diversion for the other patrons of Mannixes, drawing great gales of laughter and ribald commentary from the audience.
All of this, not unnaturally, had it’s effect on McGill, and he became progressively more dour and withdrawn. His visits to the pub became infrequent as he avoided the unwanted wit and attentions of his neighbours and former friends. He was seen by day wading the waters of the Poulaskiddy, a lonely, taciturn figure with his trousers rolled up, his felt hat jammed on his balding crown, and his pipe clenched between stubborn teeth pouring great clouds of noxious smoke into the air as he tended his rice.
Now, in the way of such things, McGill had a daughter and Guilfoyle had a son, both of marriageable age, neither of them unattractive, and, of course, they were mutually attracted, for it is both trite and true that no one can dictate where the heart will go, parents least of all. Mary McGill and Mick Guilfoyle kept their passion a secret for as long as they could, for the antipathy and bad blood between their parents had become deep and bitter, and the Capulets and Montagues could have taken lessons from them in the art of mutual vilification.But truth will eventually out, and when Roderick Guilfoyle found his son behind a bush in the low field passionately embracing the daughter of the subject of all his scorn and laughter, his suspicions were aroused.By the judicious application of his blackthorn walking stick, he broke up the encounter, and later, as his wife treated the bruises and lacerations his son had acquired, he conducted an inquisition and the whole story was brought into the light of day.
In a fury, Guilfoyle made a beeline for the farm of his neighbour. Arrived at the cottage, he was informed by a surprised Mrs. McGill that her husband was tending his crop in the Poulaskiddy. Undeterred, he removed his shoes, rolled up his trousers, and waded out to confront the father of the seductress of his only son. Paddy McGill met his neighbour in the middle of the flooded field with some surprise. He was tired, his feet were three inches deep in the oozy mud, and the crop, for some obscure reason, was not thriving as well as it should. Additionally, word had reached him that Guilfoyle had last night composed and sung three new verses of “Paddy’s Paddy”. It was, accordingly, with tired, cynical and inflamed eyes that he regarded his tormentor as Guilfoyle launched into a tirade against his daughter, his family and himself.
The two men stood there calf-deep in the flooded field. McGill’s pipe poured greater and greater puffs of smoke into the air as he listened with deepening emotion to Guilfoyle’s harangue until they were both nearly completely shrouded in a purple haze of tobacco fumes.No one saw it happen, for the mist was too thick, but McGill’s frustration finally came to a head and he struck Guilfoyle such a blow that witnesses later swore they saw the man rise out of the cloud vertically, travel through the air for six feet, and fall back with a mighty splash into the muddy waters of the Poulaskiddy River.
The case came before the circuit court three weeks later. The judge listened carefully as the arguments for prosecution and defence were expounded and gave careful ear to all the witnesses called. Guilfoyle sat at the front of the court, his jaw still in a sling, and glowered at the little man in the felt hat who sat in the dock with an air of unassailable innocence, noxious fumes pouring steadily from his pipe. Mary McGill sat in the gallery with a defiant Mick Guilfoyle, their hands firmly clasped.
Finally, after much learned argument and debate and impassioned denunciations on both sides, counsel for the parties rested and the robed and bewigged officials waited on the verdict with the anxious public.Judge Lawrence MacFennish was calm and dispassionate as he spoke. He declared that the case had been a difficult one. On the one hand there was a clear case of assault, battery, and grievous bodily harm. On the other was the mitigating fact of the prolonged aggravation and the final provocation which finally led to the blow being struck. However, he said, what finally swayed him to dismiss the case was the fact that, as a man of intelligence, learning, and wit, he could not ignore the fact that McGill was well within his rice when he struck the blow.
