Song of Granite

They were the first people to settle in Ireland.

They had tremendous insight

and hidden knowledge of many things.

They had knowledge

of the future.

They could speak the language of the birds.

They could see as the birds can see from the sky above.

They could look over the whole land.

Sweeney -

was cursed by St. Rénén because he killed one of his clerics.

From a vision he saw in the sky,

he heard the noise of the upcoming battle and fled.

Part of the curse was that he could not endure sharp sounds.

He flew from the scene of battle in a frenzy.

He spent years hopping from tree to tree

for he couldn't set foot on land again.

And, like the birds, he could never again trust humans.

Gloomy this life

to be without a soft bed.

Abode of cold frost.

Roughness of wind driven snow.

Cold, icy wind

shadow of a feeble sun

shelter from a single tree

on the summit of a high plateau.

Very good.

Good work.

We'll do another bit tomorrow.

You were all to learn a song from home.

Who will go first?

Darach?

Joseph.

Come up and sing the song you learned at home,

good man.

I know you're dying to sing for us.

Stir yourself.

Well done. Good boy.

Didn't he sing well?

Now, from now on,

when you're singing, open your mouth.

Like this.

Open wide.

Very good.

And sing out every note clearly.

Imagine you had to get a hen's egg into your mouth,

open it up.

Good man. Now, sit down.

This one won't budge.

Neither will this one.

There are loads of periwinkles.

Good lad.

That's it.

Throw it out quick.

Good lad.

Good man.

Now, haul it in.

Haul it in.

That's it.

Good man yourself - that's it.

Use both hands.

Good man.

Do you have it?

- Need a hand? - Maybe.

Hold on.

That was good.

Is it getting the better of you?

I can't do it.

Let's see now.

Hold the potato like so...

Place the potato between your thumb

and the knife like that.

Hold it with two fingers, either side,

and cut through it nice and easy.

Don't do it too hard

or it'll catch your thumb.

See that?

Good man.

Let's see you try that.

Don't be worried.

It'll come with age, child.

Nice and easy, in your own time.

Mind the fingers.

Good man yourself.

Have you many left?

A few.

Joe!

Hey Joe! Stop your carry-on!

For God's sake!

Isn't your father a fine singer?

Would you sing me a song?

I could record your voice with this device.

What do you say?

I only sing at home.

Isn't this your home?

Which songs do you like anyway?

I like “An tAmhrén Bréagach.”

And “Amhrén Rinn Mhaoile.”

“Amhrén Rinn Mhaoile”?

That's quite a difficult song for a young lad, isn't it?

Do you know where they come from?

My dad sings them

and Calm an Bhlécaigh.

And where did they get them?

I suppose they go way back

to the poets who wrote them long ago

but we still sing them.

Now, what would you say to that!

Here you are,

you may as well...

Here, finish it!

May as well finish it!

Throw it back, son.

- We haven't another bottle? - No!

We're ready, Joe.

Micheél Thaidhg bought a new boat recently,

a trawler.

He'll do well around these parts.

You might never come back, Joe.

There's nothing left for me here.

I don't know...

I miss this place...

You always had your eye on the horizon.

I am the age of the Old Hag of Beara.

The age of Newgrange.

The age of the Great Deer.

I have two thousand years of that stinking sow that was Ireland

resonating in my ears