Every October I go back to Wexford for the last week of the annual Opera Festival. It’s a time of great celebration in the town, and why not?
What began as a gathering of local opera buffs by Dr. Tom Walsh back in 1951 at the cozy Theatre Royal is now an internationally recognized festival held in Wexford’s esteemed Opera House.
I grew up in my grandfather’s house in George’s Street, a couple of doors up from Dr. Tom. It’s an historic street that sits near the shadow of medieval Selskar Abbey.
After the rebels took Wexford in 1798 and declared a Free French Republic, they celebrated their victory with a dinner party in a house across the street. Their joy, alas, did not last long; the participants were hanged for treason from Wexford bridge some weeks later.
Maybe it was something in the air, but everyone on that block seemed to love opera. This included Mr. Elgee, a solicitor and cousin of Oscar Wilde, and my grandfather, who left school at 14 to become a headstone maker.
Class or creed had little to do with it. But then William Balfe, who wrote "Bohemian Girl," the Light Opera classic, lived for six years around the corner on Main Street.
After my grandfather died, his big barracks of a house was sold for a pittance, and like most other residences on George’s Street was turned into flats.
Because my relatives all live outside the town I stay at White’s Hotel, which is so close to my grandfather’s house I can almost see into his old bedroom. Talk about coming home.
During the festival, everyone seems to congregate at Whites, from star Italian tenors to humble local folk-singers, and they intermingle seamlessly in the bar and lobby.
Although I do attend the opera now, when growing up in Wexford such things were beyond my budget and aspiration. Still, I could sense economic opportunity, for the licensing laws were stretched to an unheard of 3 a.m. closing time during the festival.
And so I played two gigs a night. 9 to 11:30 p.m. in Des Corish’s old-timey singalong pub and midnight to 3 a.m. in The Long Rooms, a less salubrious Rock ‘n’ Roll joint on the south side of town. Two very different establishments with distinct music called for in each. I guess I was nothing if not adaptable.
But then Wexford was a very musical town. Everyone had their own particular favorites and had no trouble in voicing their knowledge and biases. My mother adored Verdi and Puccini, while my sea-faring father favored Tango and Calypso music. Talk about opposites attracting.
My maternal grandfather was the only one I ever heard voice doubt about his favorites; when in his cups one night, he tearfully admitted that when it came to “high notes and general interpretation,” Enrico Caruso had the beatings of his idol, Count John McCormack.
Nor had Wexicans any shyness about letting rip with their favorite aria, oldie, rocker, or come-all-ye as they went about their daily business. Thus you could often hear someone before you spotted them, which came in handy if one had failed to honor a short-term loan.
There was always great love and appreciation for the budding opera stars who flocked to the town every October – especially when they dropped by Simon Lambert’s Bar and added their voices, arias and foreign exuberance to the local performers.
But then Wexford has always thrived on its own form of magic realism, or just plain old peculiarity. Take John Wilson, the local coal delivery man. Every Christmas Eve he unshackled his big horse and led him by the bridle into White’s Hotel Bar.
He would thereupon call for two pints of Guinness, the dray would belly up to the bar and then owner and horse would savor their pints of plain in the jovial company of prince and pauper.
John and his equine drinking partner have long departed this mortal coil, but I have no doubt they looked down benevolently at those of us who celebrated the recent 75th Anniversary of Wexford’s Opera Festival.
Perhaps I’ll see you there for next year’s glorious 76th.
