12 October 2010


It is late-ish on a Friday evening and once again I've found myself in Leixlip, the axis around which my world of music now revolves. Nuala's high heel is tapping the offbeat on the wooden floor, Seán is attempting to munch on Pringles discreetly, and Gearóid is using his hand as an organic whiteboard to tell me when the next bus is coming. These small goings-on seem a little far away to me: I'm entranced partly because of the oaky red wine, but mostly because I'm listening to my soul being played back to me. The shoes in the room are unanimously appreciative as John's fingers move subtly as ripples in a pond over the fiddle strings, and Catherine's flute seems a chorus of echoes. Although they are but two, the sound could not be more complete. I am transposed, transfixed, transcended. And it is clearer to me than ever before that this is something I can never leave for long. This is my home.