My Blog: Lismore

I need to tell you about Lismore.

Years ago Davy Clincart used to attend an evening songwriting course that I took at Glasgow University. In June this year he got in touch to invite me to appear at the Lismore Tap Root festival - a series of talks and performances over the Winter months given by various creative folk. I said *clears throat* "Yes".

Early Saturday afternoon I took the train from Glasgow Queen Street to Oban. I could hardly tear my eyes away from the beautiful scenery and back to my sketches of Spooner Oldham and Count Arthur Strong.

If you ever find yourself in the lavatory of Oban's George Street Fish Restaurant you'll see a framed newspaper cutting with an article of a relatively young-looking Rick Stein claiming that they do the best fish and chips he had ever tasted. I had to investigate.

He had a point. The bread and butter pudding isn't too shabby either.

I walked along the seafront and was introduced to god.

5pm. The wee CalMac ferry crossing takes 50 minutes. Plenty of time to peruse the onboard posters:

Nice timing, Francis...

I stood outside to feel the sea breeze as the lights of Oban disappeared. Up ahead - nothing but black.

A population just shy of 200, there is one shop. No pubs or hotels. Davy has a beautiful house with glass walls looking over a garden with wilderness beyond. He claims to have spotted 86 different species of birds in the six years he has been living there. I asked if Lismore had a policeman. He laughed.

My host was playing bass in the ceilidh band that night, led by fiddler Mairi Campbell. He headed off to set up and gave me a torch (there are no street lights), saying it would likely get going by around 9pm. I watched a bit of the World Cup, took two cans of Davy's Tennent's lager from the fridge (as bidden) and headed out. I followed the road over the hill, turning right, as directed, at the crossroads which isn't a crossroads. After a five minute walk to the Village Hall I was greeted by Lismore artist Sarah Campbell: "Francis?". She had been told to look out for "a dapper man with no beard." I was wearing a black polo neck.

A lovely old plain village hall, decked out in Festive lights. There was some unaccompanied Gaelic singing, then the band resumed with The Dashing White Sergeant, The Dark Island, etc., etc.

I chatted to my immediate neighbour Archie, a crofter of mature years from the North end of the island. Archie used to be a champion fell runner but has since had a hip replacement and spent six weeks in hospital with "the Covid". Helicoptered to hospital in Glasgow, I am told he was once given The Last Rites. I said my excuse for not dancing was that I had two left feet. He poured me a dram of his Famous Grouse.

At the break, tea cups were distributed. A huge pot of tea made the rounds followed by tasty sandwiches and then delicious cake. There was an over abundance. We were to help ourselves to what was left on the way out at the end of the night.

Amy Bowman introduced herself. She would play before my performance on the following night. We danced a St Bernard's Waltz (or was it a Canadian Barn Dance?). I liked her song about local fiddler Charlie Grey.

As I chatted to Caroline who makes clothes, is learning the fiddle and wants to move to Lismore, the band played The Mist-Covered Mountains Of Home and I felt like an extra in Local Hero.

The ceilidh finished with Auld Lang Syne. A pal once referred to it as The World's National Anthem. Me and Archie took to the floor:

And there's a hand my trusty friend! And gie's a hand o' thine!

Love is the answer. ~~And I'll batter f*ck out of anyone who disagrees~~

I walked home in the dark. Lismore has a lot more stars than Glasgow.

Davy appeared back and kindly uncorked his cognac for me:

Some Remy Martin last week

We blethered beyond the wee small hours. Someone should have been taking notes because we solved a lot of the world's problems.

I had a tour around the next day, Davy pointing out Castle Coeffin, built in the 13th Century by The MacDougalls, and some boorachs dotted round the island, forming a kind of early warning system where look-outs could light fires to warn of approaching Viking ships.

My gig was in the Lismore Gaelic Heritage Centre.

A lovely venue and a great, attentive audience. I sang songs on acoustic guitar and showed videos, talking about composing music for TV, touching on documentaries about Donald Trump's Lewis-born mother and also about Michael Bond, writer of the Paddington books.

I showed some of my drawings. They recognised Jacky Kay but not Pablo Picasso. Philistines. We turned off the lights and I played piano along to a recording of a spoken word piece by Harry Pye.

I read a poem by Norman MacCaig. I talked about Camera Obscura and recited Raymond Carver's "Late Fragment" in memory of Carey Lander.

I sang a Gaelic song in English and encored with a little something that I like to sing at Teenage Fanclub sound-checks. (I'll keep that a secret between me and the good folk of Lismore.)

Lots of praise and positive feedback.

I sold a CD.

Mairi Campbell and her pal Caroline invited me and Davy back for a drink, a blether and a wee jam. Mairi played "Frank's Reel" - written by my pal John McCusker and named after me - and I murdered a Dean Martin song in cold blood before moving on to Jimmy C Newman's "Alligator Man", channelling the spirit of the version by the late John Herald's Greenbriar Boys.

A sensible nightcap, a good sleep and the 10 am ferry back to Oban.

After a Scottish cooked breakfast in The Shore Cafe, I picked up a bottle of Oban 14 year-old malt and took the train back to Glasgow, sketching Calum Kennedy and Edward Hopper en route.