Deborah Smith
Listen
non-fiction
Much gets said about the beauty and music of Ireland. A thousand shades of green rolling hills, fields bordered by golden gorse, postcard-perfect views from the North of Ireland to Scotland or the West to the urban borders of Dublin. Beyond the regional accents and musical traditions, it’s easy to overlook what you can hear when Ireland itself speaks.
Ireland speaks softly, yet distinctly. The cities—manufactured creations, bustling with life, people, and traffic at all hours—aren’t where you hear the sound of Ireland best. Outside the urban bustle, in the countryside or near the coasts, listen for Ireland there too.
As a kid, I spent my family vacations on the New England coast. I was familiar with the undertow rush of water over the stony beaches of Maine and New Hampshire or the placid incoming waves on the sheltered side of Cape Cod. Along with my sisters, I’d gone to sleep at night to the sounds of the ocean.
Then a few adult years ago, I stayed in Rathmullin, County Donegal, on the shores of Loch Swilly. In the early light of morning in this small town, you can almost hear the birds sweeping over the fields. Hastily running away from me on an early-morning walk, sheep bleated their displeasure, while the calls of swallow and corncrake rang here and there in the air.
As I made my way down to the Loch, I walked away from the pier. On this less traveled beach were shells and small pebbles washed up in undisturbed piles; a veritable trove for a child searching for sea treasures. I could hear the waves lapping gently as they rolled into and out of Loch Swilly. But I also caught a third sound. A distinct tinkling, a noise like the “ping” of china when a spoon stirs sugar into tea, came immediately after the waves touched shore. It was the sound of water rushing in, followed by the whoosh of tiny shells caught in the undertow, swirling back out to the deep. Rolling through the waves, the shells chimed a clear, light ring like tiny bells.
My walk changed now; it was less about covering distance. A walk on the shores of Loch Swilly was about listening to music created by the waves for as long as I could. It was beautiful, a sound that I have never heard anywhere else.
A later year on Rathlin Island, my family stared through binoculars at all the seabirds nesting in the craggy cliffs. Our bus waited at the port beach, as sea lions lazed on rocky outcroppings and visitors snapped photos. The waves were noticeable as the drop-off beyond this beach was deeper than Loch Swilly, pulling directly from Rathlin into the Atlantic Ocean.
Geologically, Rathlin’s cliffs are primarily chalk and basalt. Chalk breaks down over time; many of the rocks were smooth and so rounded by the tides they resembled eggs or small bowling balls.
Digging in my heels, I sat down. The round stones rolled to accommodate my feet. Now a distinct sound caught my attention, different from the incoming waves. I watched and listened. There was the usual break of inrushing water as it hit onshore. Seabirds added pointed noises and occasional riffs. Then as the wave receded, came an entirely new sound: a low wet rumble. Like a bass chorus, sizeable stones rolled from the edge of the beach into deeper water and back again, underscoring the lighter tones of incoming waves. If these rocks were light enough or in high tide, they eventually deposited themselves on the beach. Other stones would take their place in an orchestration of ongoing erosion.
There are many places where I have heard the sea. The sands of the blue Pacific, the green waters of the Atlantic, the pebbled beaches and rock ledges of the Mediterranean, even in the cold water of the Arctic Circle. But only in the lonely spots of Ireland have I heard the rumble of stones rolling beneath the waves and the chime of shells slowing spinning their way into a new generation of beach and sand.
Ireland speaks elegantly if you listen.
Deborah Smith is a freelance travel writer and Professor Emerita at SUNY Empire State College. Twice awarded Scholar Across the College for her travel pieces, she is a Fullbright Specialist and former Zhi-Xing China Academic Impact Fellow. Deborah has written for Iceland Review/Atlantica, Icelandair Stopover, Wandertales Europe, several Traveler's Tales anthologies, and Tastes of Italia magazine. Her essays were frequently aired on WAMC/National Public Radio. She is on Twitter: @travelwriter16, will happily do voiceovers for courses and other media, and keeps in touch with her Northern Ireland relatives on Facebook. Originally from Troy, NY, she lives with her husband in Albany.