Matchmaking Festival and May Bush
Excerpt from my new book, "Color Me Green: Ways the Irish Influenced America."
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The Maybush
The Maybush is a tree much revered in Ireland. Its beautiful white flowers brighten the bare meadows of early spring. Everyone knows that on moonlit nights, the faeries dance gleefully under the Maybush leaves and blossoms.
No one should ever cut down a Maybush no matter where it chooses to grow because the faeries would not be pleased. When the Little People are not pleased, the cow may go dry and the grain fields get the blight. Often the Maybush will pop up and flourish right in the middle of a grain field and the farmer is obliged to plow around it, back and forth, making his rows look like a keyhole.
Four modern farmers were having their evening pint of Guinness in the neighborhood pub and discussing agrarian problems. Patrick complained about the Maybush that grew in the middle of his barley field making the plowing awkward and tedious around it.
“Cut it down,” Michael advised.
“We all know that the faery stories are just superstition,” Connor put in. “Cut it down.”
“Get the tree cut down and out of your way,” Brian said firmly.
All of the wise and thoroughly educated fellows at the bar nodded agreement. Patrick’s Maybush must be cut down.
“I’m thanking you all, my friends, for your fine advice,” Patrick said. “Indeed, it’s willing I am to have it cut down. Which of you will do me the kindness to do the cutting?”
Silence.
The gentlemen finished their stout and, one by one, took their leave of the friendly pub.
The Maybush still stands there in the middle of the barley field today.
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Lisdoonvarna
The roads in the hills in the west of Ireland carry you high where stretches of the gray stone Burren can be seen in the misty distance. Down below are the familiar patchwork of green meadows and fields and bogs all neatly spread out.
In our little rental car, my daughter, Bettse, and I climbed up and around a gravel road onto the green hillside, a delicious drive but totally unmarked. Ireland’s country roads seem to seldom have signs. I guess everyone is supposed to know where they are. If a little white sign does appear it is usually written in Gaelic.
At last we came upon a white-haired gentleman raking the rocks by the roadside. A tall, sturdy fellow, he was, with a friendly smile and a flat tweed hat perched on top of his head. He stopped and leaned on his rake and inquired where we were going.
“We are looking for Lisdoonvarna,” I said. “You know, it’s the town where they have a Matchmaking Festival every September. I know it is too late, being October now.”
From the driver’s seat, Bettse leaned over laughing and said, “I thought there might be some rejects left over for me. What do you think?”
The older fellow’s grin got wider as he appraised my obviously healthy blonde daughter.
“Well now, it’s a hefty one you are, but if I were ten years younger I’d take you meself!”
NOTE: I had read that an enterprising travel agent once filled up a 747 plane with eligible females anxious to give the Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival a try!
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To read more stories like this one about the Irish influence to America, order my new book, "Color Me Green: Ways the Irish Influenced America" by Helen Walsh Folsom.
Over the next several weeks, I will be publishing, with the aid of my daughter, Bettse Folsom, a series of answer & questions & snippets about Ireland that many people have asked me during events where I have attended. If you have a question, please contact me by email and I will be happy to address it.
Thank you for reading my blog!
