Stay away from red-haired mary

August 10th, 2024 

Dear friend,

I’m sending you my love on the train back from Thurles to Dublin — now if you’re reading this as an American, you probably said TH-urles, but I want you to make sure to read it like a real Irish person, drop the H and say “T-urles.” The lilt of the Irish accent is ringing in my ears. I like how they drop their THs — for example, it would be quarter to tree, not quarter to three. The Irish countryside passes by my window in a blur of verdant green, and I have trouble believing I was only here for 5 days.

I started writing this letter in Tipperary, Ireland, where I sit tapping away in the kitchen, a ham slow roasting in the range and Alison Krauss and Robert Platt crooning from the stereo on an album recorded in Nashville, Tennessee — “Raising Sand.”

The Wednesday night before, I kicked out of London with my landlords Robyn & Daniel, their 16-year-old son Barny (my latest gigging bass player), and their adorable 10-year-old beagle Missy.  Suzi Quatro blasted from the CD player, and everything became lighter and brighter the further we seemed to get away from London. We made it onto the ferry in a few short hours: the Ryan Air of the sea, Robyn and Daniel not-so-lovingly gripe. The woes and money-grabbing vices of the ferry are lamented nearly the whole ride — the fluorescent lights beaming on us from above. I, for one, throw my shorts over my eyes and sleep the entire ferry ride, completely unbothered by whatever pernicious capitalism is at work.

On the way out from the ferry, Robyn and Daniel are ecstatic that we are stopped by customs, and I get a stamp in my passport. It’s like Christmas morning—“They don’t give these out to just anybody!” I suppose I will now have to cherish that stamp in my passport! 

We spent the first day readying the house. As it hadn’t been opened in a while, Robyn & Daniel primarily residing in London, it had to be aired out, the range turned on, the laundry done, the toilet fixed, the freezer installed, and the bar cleared out. I went up to work for a few hours, and by the time I’d come down there was music on the stereo and gin and tonics being poured. It was suddenly the picture of a country house — walking outside the soft warm light of 6 pm hit the wheat growing up from the backyard. Missy bounded through the grass, running like a puppy, as Barney threw some toy her way. In Ireland, even the dog is attributed anti-English sentiments, thought to be far happier for being in Ireland than in London. Looking at the dog, I have to agree. We’re called in as fish and chips are served from the stove with Robyn’s homemade tartar sauce: mayo and gherkins.

We sit down and dig in hungrily. Barny shouted to Daniel to pass the Malt Vinegar, which he drowns his fish and chips in. I say, “I’ve never had malt vinegar,” and Barny turns to me, with his posh English accent, and says: “How uncultured ARE you?” Very Draco Malfoy from Harry Potter cadence and intonation. I said, “Very, but not knowing what malt vinegar is is the least of my problems.”

That night, Barny stayed in for a rest while we went off the the “Mill,” which is pretty famous around these parts and, in my opinion, might be famous the world over if people knew just what was going on every Thursday night in this little house in Tipperary. We walked into the house to find a proper pub bar, complete with a red laminated bar top, stacked to the 9s with pint glasses, proper taps for Guinness, and 50 or so people bustling around the small space — “How are you Robyn?” “Daniel, ah there you are.” “Halle, you’ve got to meet Jim’s girls — there, behind the bar, Greta, Anya, Erin.” “Through this door, yes, Daniel will grab the drinks.” Elbows jostle, glasses clink, and the hum of some Irish song travels under the door by the wood stove. Jim’s girls, aforementioned, are busy filling pints and passing them around, as Robyn explains to me — “Oh Anya, she’s a playwright, Erin, she’s studying politics, Greta — she’s one of the best musicians you’ll hear tonight.”

I’m shuffled through the bar into a back room, which Robyn says is where all the real traditional folk happens and tends to peter out earlier in the night, so I knew I wanted to be there first. The room is stuffed with about 50 people aged 20 - 85, my best guess. Everyone is enraptured, completely attentive, and present with the song being sung as we walk in. The guitar on my back draws quick attention to me, and not a moment after I’m sitting down I’m entreated for a song. “Is it OK to play my own?” Nods of assent from around the room — they couldn’t be more thrilled actually. I’m terrified as I break into Backyard and the Birds. There’s a loud accordion coming from the room next door, so I can hardly hear myself. I wonder if I should stop and wait for the accordion to pass, but I soldier on, making it through. They applaud kindly, and before too long, it’s someone else’s turn in the spotlight: we get a rebel song from a Basque girl who sings acapella while pounding a drum. Then, my favorite folk song of the night: “Stay away from red-haired Mary”! Every single person in the room is pounding their feet on the floor and singing:

Stay away from red-haired Mary

She and I are soon to be wed

We’ll see the preacher in the morning

and tonight we’ll lie in the marriage bed…

My talent for picking up a tune in one listen has never been more useful — it’s as though my life talents have just been lying in wait for Ireland. I’m singing heartily by verse 5 or 6, when the chorus devolves into — forget the preacher til the morning, tonight we’ll lie in Murphy’s shed. Everyone is laughing, shouting, clinking their Guinesses, and clapping along by the end.

After Red Haired Mary peters out, there’s a rebel song, sung acapella in a beautiful baritone by a man called Tom in his 80s. I don’t remember the words, but I remember the heart of it — “fuck the British army,” intermingled with, of course, a deep sense of resilience, pride, and community felt by the Irish. 

Then, a woman, probably in her 60s, with pretty brown hair is asked to sing Mary Black. “I already did that one,” she protests, but to no avail — “Well, do it again!” Her reticence abates, and she begins to sing in a crisp, clear soprano. By the time we get to the chorus, everyone in the room has joined in, voices melding into one: 

“But let me tell you that I love you, that I think about you all the time

Caledonia, you're calling me, and now I'm going home

But if I should become a stranger, you know that it would make me more than sad

Caledonia's been everything I've ever had”

I have chills running up and down my arm by the second verse, which seems written just for me: 

“I have moved, and I've kept on moving, proved the points that I needed proving

Lost the friends that I needed losing, found others on the way

I have kissed the lads and left them crying, stolen dreams, yes there's no denying

I have traveled hard, sometimes with conscience flying somewhere with the wind”

I heard this song five times during my weekend in Ireland, live and sung by a crowd of people — goosebumps rising on my arm every time.

At some point, some Irish lad comes up to me (notice I’ve said “lad” now; I’m officially assimilated) asking if I can bring my guitar out to the barn, where there’s some singer in need of one. I follow along. It's a bit sad to leave the trad folk room, but I end up performing a few more Halle Payne originals for about 40 other folks in the barn, as big as any show I’ve had in London of late. I get them singing along to “Come Back to the Music,” voices resounding through the backyard barn.

When I finally make it to the piano room (a THIRD space), I’m shocked that there are even more incredible musicians in one small town in rural Ireland, but alas, expect the unexpected! After listening to some incredible renditions of Eagles songs, a tall man with his back against the wall leans forward: “Will you play Fifth Limb?” I’m shocked — he had heard it in the trad folk room and remembered and liked it enough to want to hear it again. I, of course, oblige him, playing Backyard and the Birds, too. An insanely talented guitar player joins in and makes my night by geeking out over the Backyard and the Bird's chord progression. A musician's wet dream! 

We end up being the last ones there, treated to a cup of tea by Jim and getting some time to chat with a couple of his daughters. I practically drag Robyn from the house, exhausted from all the day's magic. I go to bed the minute my head hits the pillow, feeling like this trip to Ireland has been some strange fever dream.

There is much more to tell — this was only my first night if you can believe it! But for now, “let me tell you that I love you, and I miss you all the time.” Maybe shoot me a real letter or call me to hear the rest.

Much love from London,

Halle