by
Norman Freeman

“Her ego had been getting completely out of hand”

What an extraordinary story! Believe it or not, but the career of this country’s most famous violinist and composer, Eibhlín Ní Chuinneagáin, was both saved and enriched on the day of the Munster hurling final some years ago.
Her experience on the wide sloping roadway that leads to the bridge over the railway line at Thurles towards Semple Stadium had the most significant effect on her life. Not alone was a potentially disastrous behavioural problem nipped in the bud but she was inspired to compose the symphony that has just brought her to the very pinnacle of the classical music world in Berlin.

What are we talking about? The stunning virtuosity of this winsome young woman from County Kerry brought her almost immediate success. So also did the short violin pieces she composed. Unfortunately, her sense of self-importance burgeoned with her success. Whenever she performed on the violin in studio or on stage she became annoyed if everybody did not listen with rapt attention. She became infuriated with persistent coughers or someone fidgeting. It became a really serious problem because she began to lose her concentration and her performances began to suffer. Behind her back, those jealous of her talent began to refer to her as The Prima Donna of Lyrecrompane.

She had the good sense to realise that her career would be seriously jeopardised if she didn’t handle the ego problem. Therefore, she consulted a well-known lady psychologist who did not mince her words.
“You must understand that while people may come to hear you play, their attention is often distracted by their own concerns. The woman shifting about in her seat in the tenth row may be crucified with piles. The man fast asleep in the front row with his mouth wide open may have been up half the night drinking, doing his best to entertain boring friends.”

Ms Ní Chuinneagáin would have to eat a very substantial dollop of humble pie. She would have to perform under adverse circumstances, in a setting where people would only be marginally interested in her marvellous playing.
“I’ll try anything. But where on God’s earth can such a setting be found?”
That is how our composer found herself heading towards the railway bridge at Thurles, shortly after noon on a warm, sunny day when the Munster hurling final was being played. She had with her a very honest and outspoken friend, another good-looking girl, there to accompany her on the cello.

The first morsel of humble pie was soon tasted. They saw what appeared to be an ideal place to perform, at the bottom of the slope, near the entrance to Scoil Ailbe. They had hardly put down their instrument cases when two rough-looking bearded fellows accosted them, brandishing banjos.
“This is our patch. Get away up there up the bridge,” they said threateningly.
The two women exchanged glances but said nothing and made their way almost to the top of the bridge before they stopped and took up their stand.

The second humbling experience was when - as instructed by her psychologist - Eibhlín laid an old shoe box beside them to catch any coins that might be tossed their way. They then started to tune their instruments. It was not an easy thing to do because the sun was blazing down, warming the wood and the strings. It proved exceedingly difficult to hear those delicate tuning notes; apart from the shuffling feet of the early-match-goers, a burly, fat youth appeared beside them. He carried a satchel of programmes and began to bawl in a gutteral Thurles accent, “Prugramme of the game, prugramme.”

Eibhlín decided that they should start off with a piece she had just composed – Evening on the Stacks Mountains. It is a truly beautiful composition and it not surprising that it has since become part of the repertoire of all the leading violinists worldwide. However, standing on the pavement, trying to catch the attention of people walking intently towards the stadium with only the game on their minds, was certainly was a come-down for our prima donna. It was very different from performing under the spotlight on the stage of the National Concert Hall, the centre of all attention, backed by the National Symphony Orchestra.
“This humble pie is bigger than an elephant’s bum,” she sighed, with a very faint grin, as they finished the piece.

The two musicians were hardly noticed let alone heard; the match-goers had their eyes focused on the rise of the bridge, looking forward to seeing the sun-lit heights of the stadium when the reached the top. Not alone that, but there were some grumpy types, fellows with faces sour and bloated from last night’s drinking who came trudging along the pavement and simply regarded our lovely musicians as an unwelcome obstruction.

For all that, now and then some looked in their direction and nodded appreciatively, especially young males and women of all ages. The odd coins began to flip into the shoe box. When it did, Eibhlín gave a nod and a grateful smile of acknowledgement.

As a growing flow of men, women and children of all ages began to ascend the slope, the two musicians played pieces like Dvorâk’s Humouresque. Such playing of lovely melodies went largely unheeded by the spectators because they talked animatedly amongst themselves, their faces suffused with expectation at the thunderous game they hoped to witness. Not alone that, but much of the fine playing was drowned out by the hoarse roaring of a gaunt fellow who now stood beside them displaying the colours of the competing teams.
“Wear your team colours. Hats, scarves or bands. Team colours.”
And when this man, who had a deeply lined face and the discoloured teeth of a lifelong smoker, started to put some of his wares on the wall beside the musicians, he clumsily knocked over the cello case.

It was at that stage that the two women simply decided to make the best of it and to enjoy this unusual experience. They shook their heads at one another and began to smile continuously. Down below they could heard the bearded banjo players roaring out A Nation Once Again and Slattery’s Mounted Foot.

Now there was a heavy flow of spectators and the pace of the walkers began to increase in speed. Our musicians decided to match the hurrying tempo by playing some of Brahm’s Hungarian Dances. This had an unexpected effect. A group of middle-aged men, who seemed to be slightly drunk, stopped beside them. The two musicians were pleased at having any kind of audience, especially our composer. But then one of the men interrupted and said, “Ah Jaysus give us a reel.” At that the two threw back their heads and laughed aloud. And off they went with The Sligo Maid. One of the men threw his jacket on the ground and, with arms by his side, began to dance, slapping out the rhythm on the tarmacadam with a pair of stout black shoes while his companions clapped time.

Quite a few people stopped momentarily to watch this entertainment, delighted and joyful. It came to end when the man began to show off, kicking his feet this way and that until he eventually lost his footing, collapsing in a heap, to roars of laughter from the onlookers. As he was being helped to his feet, some of the men threw notes into the shoe box.

By now the two girls were convulsed with laughter. Everything now seemed uproariously funny to them. They played reels and jigs as the crowd grew from a flow to continuous rumbling torrent of feet hurrying along the pavement. Coins began to pile up in the shoe box.

Eventually, as it came near 3.30 the flow began to lessen. By now most of the spectators were the habitual late-comers who cannot go to a game without first tanking up with beer and stout. These were beefy men who hurried along anxiously, burping, belching and breaking wind. The two girls fell about