Harpers (people who play Irish, Scottish, and other trad harps) love romance, it seems. I was at the Cairde Na Cruite Harp Festival in Termonfeckin (go ahead, say it!) last week. They wanted to know, would I move to Ireland?
“Well, yes.” Yes, I would. “But I’ll need a way of doing that, won’t I.”
“Oh, so,” they said, “we’ll find you a nice Irish man. They’re charming, you know.”
“A rich one,” said Aine, always practical about these things.
“Sure and a rich one,” agreed Siobhan, a tilt of her head and speculative dark eyes watching me. “I have a few in mind.”
“Rich and handsome and must play tunes,” said someone else.
The whiskey was going around that night, but not so much that I couldn’t speak up there.
“No, no musicians for me.”
‘What, why then? Playing and singing so beautifully yourself as you do!”
“Siobhan, you are a wily one, but I’m not looking for a man.” Not even a charming Irish one. And musicians are also suspect outside of the tunes.
But I have to grin because already I’ve managed a passing crush on three of them. They’re safe, you see. Won’t ever see them again, and at least one was happily married. Not, of course, that marriage is always a barrier to additional romantic amusement for some charming Irish (or non-Irish, for that matter) musicians.
“Not looking. Sure that will be a loss for an Irishman.” Siobhan shook her head and lifted her glass for another round.
Possibly a loss for someone. Then again, possibly not. But I am focused on independence, strong solitude, writing stories, and moving to Ireland when I can afford it on my own. That’s romantic.