Dunguaire Castle, Kinvara, Co Galway

Oil on Canvas

Dunguaire Castle is a 16th century tower house located in Kinvara on the shores of Galway Bay.  The castle was built in 1520 by the O’Hynes clan and passed into the hands of the Martyn’s of Galway in the early 17th century.  Richard Martyn, Mayor of Galway lived here until 1642 and the Martyn’s of Tulira Castle, owned the castle until this century.

In 1924 Dunguaire was bought and repaired by Oliver St. John Gogarty, the famous surgeon and literary figure. This was the time of the great Celtic revival in Irish literature exemplified by the works of writers such as Synge, Yeats Shaw and O'Casey. It became the venue for meetings of the literary revivalists such as W.B. Yeats, his patron Lady Gregory, George Bernard Shaw, Edward Martin and J.M. Synge. Yeats in particular believed strongly in the Celtic Bardic tradition and set about reviving the ancient oral customs incorporating them into his plays and poetry.  

In 1954 the castle was acquired by Christobel Lady Amptill who completed the restoration started by Oliver St. John Gogarty.

Blackrock Diving Tower

The Lonesome Boatman

Tranquility  Oil on Canvas  Patricia Kavanagh

Kylemore Lake  Oil on Canvas  Patricia Kavanagh

Listen to this beautiful air written by Finbar Furey in 1968.  

http://youtu.be/ntGIkGuFBL8

Home

Oil on Canvas  Patricia Kavanagh

Home 

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home,

A heap o’ sun an’ shadder, an’ ye sometimes have t’ roam

Afore ye really ’preciate the things ye lef’ behind,

An’ hunger fer ’em somehow, with ’em allus on yer mind.

It don’t make any differunce how rich ye get t’ be,

How much yer chairs an’ tables cost, how great yer luxury;

It ain’t home t’ ye, though it be the palace of a king,

Until somehow yer soul is sort o’ wrapped round everything.

Home ain’t a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;

Afore it’s home there’s got t’ be a heap o’ livin’ in it;

Within the walls there’s got t’ be some babies born, and then

Right there ye’ve got t’ bring ‘em up t’ women good, an’ men;

And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn’t part

With anything they ever used—they’ve grown into yer heart:

The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore

Ye hoard; an’ if ye could ye’d keep the thumbmarks on the door.

Ye’ve got t’ weep t’ make it home, ye’ve got t’ sit an’ sigh

An’ watch beside a loved one’s bed, an’ know that Death is nigh;

An’ in the stillness o’ the night t’ see Death’s angel come,

An’ close the eyes o’ her that smiled, an’ leave her sweet voice dumb.

Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an’ when yer tears are dried,

Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an’ sanctified;

An’ tuggin’ at ye always are the pleasant memories

O’ her that was an’ is no more—ye can’t escape from these.

Ye’ve got t’ sing an’ dance fer years, ye’ve got t’ romp an’ play,

An’ learn t’ love the things ye have by usin’ ’em each day;

Even the roses ’round the porch must blossom year by year

Afore they ’come a part o’ ye, suggestin’ someone dear

Who used t’ love ’em long ago, an’ trained ’em jes’ t’ run

The way they do, so’s they would get the early mornin’ sun;

Ye’ve got t’ love each brick an’ stone from cellar up t’ dome:

It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.

 by Edgar Albert Guest

Soft Day

'Soft Day, The Flaggy Shore'  Oil on Canvas  Patricia Kavanagh

"And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of a flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it more thoroughly
You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open".

                                                         Seamus Heaney

'Soft Day, Ballyvaughan, Co Clare'  Oil on Canvas  Patricia Kavanagh

Galway Hookers

'Galway Hookers'  Oil on Canvas  Patricia Kavanagh

The Gift of The Seagull

"Seagulls"  Oil on Canvas.  Patricia Kavanagh

"A lonely seagull flies the winds

Majestic...soaring... gliding wings

A single screech sounds from the sky

Come fly with me...come here and fly!

My spirit floats to be a part

I feel the beating of its heart

My soul, one with this bird of sea

Now knows the meaning, to fly free!

I feel the winds caress my soul

And soar the streams without a goal

My being trembles of delight

A treasure I received tonight

The seagull's flight of soaring high

The gift of what it means to fly!

A poem by Munda