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Lidoonvarna , N 53°1'-E 9°17'
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Er zijn hele mooie liedjes over Lidoonvarna. Met name over het festival. Hoe mooi en vrolijk de Ieren over Lisdonvarna kunnen zingen is één. Hoe treurig en naargeestig Lisdoonvarna is, is twee! Dit is dan ook een negatieve Toov. Ga niet naar Lisdoonvarna.

Toch is dat niet helemaal waar. In één van de vele pubs trof ik een oude man van 92 jaar aan. Hij keek star in de lens en zijn familie wilde mij al vermanen. Wilt u opa met rust laten! Maar in mijn allerbeste Engels met Fries accent zette ik gewoon door. Dit wordt niets dacht ik nog en de man staarde met zijn doodskop nog bozer in mijn lens. Toen stak hij zijn pijp op en werd alles anders. Opnieuw drukte ik af.

Lisdoonvarna had toch meer te bieden dan ik dacht.


How's it goin' there everybody,
From Cork, New York, Dundalk, Gortahork and Glenamaddy.
Here we are in the County Clare
It's a long, long way from here to there.
There's the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher,
And the Tulla and the Kilfenora,
Miko Russell, Doctor Bill,
Willy Clancy and Noel Hill.
Flutes and fiddles everywhere.
If it's music you want,
You should go to Clare.

Oh, Lisdoonvarna
Lisdoon, Lisdoon, Lisdoon, Lisdoonvarna!

Everybody needs a break,
Climb a mountain or jump in a lake.
Some head off to exotic places,
Others go to the Galway Races.
Mattie goes to the South of France,
Jim to the dogs, Peter to the dance.
A cousin of mine goes potholing,
A cousin of heres loves Joe Dolan.
Summer comes around each year,
We go there and they come here.
Some jet off to ... Frijiliana,
But I always go to Lisdoonvarna.

I always leave on a Thursday night,
With me tent and me groundsheet rolled up tight.
I like to hit Lisdoon,
In around Friday afternoon.
This gives me time to get me gear together,
I don't need to worry about the weather.
Ramble in for a pint of stout,
And you'd never know who'd be hangin' about!
There's a Dutchman playing a mandolin,
And a German looking for Liam Óg O'Floinn.
And there's Adam, Bono and Garrett Fitzgerald,
Gettin' their photos taken for the Sunday World.
Finbarr, Charlie and Jim Hand,
And they drinkin' pints to bate the band.
.. Ain't it grand?

The multitudes, they flocked and thronged,
To hear the music and the songs.
Motorbikes and Hi-ace vans,
With bottles - barrels - flagons - cans.
Mighty craic. Loads of frolics,
Pioneers and alcoholics,
PLAC, SPUC and the FCA,
Free Nicky Kelly and the IRA.
Hairy chests and milk-white thighs,
And mickey dodgers in disguise.
Mc Graths, O'Briens, Pippins, Coxs,
Massage parlours in horse boxes.
There's amhráns, bodhráns, amadáns,
Arab sheiks, Hindu Sikhs, Jesus freaks,
RTE are makin' tapes, takin' breaks and throwin' shapes.
This is heaven, this is hell.
Who cares? Who can tell?
(Anyone for the last few Choc Ices, now?)

A 747 for Jackson Browne,
They had to build a special runway just to get him down.
Before the Chieftains could start to play,
Seven creamy pints came out on a tray.
Shergar was ridden by Lord Lucan,
Seán Cannon did the backstage cookin'.
Clannad were playin' 'Harry's Game',
Christy was singin' 'Nancy Spain'.
Mary O'Hara and Brush Shields,
Together singin' 'The Four Green Fields'.
Van the Man and Emmy Lou,
Moving Hearts and Planxty too!

Everybody needs a break,
Climb a mountain or jump in a lake.
Sean Doherty goes to the Rose of Tralee,
Oliver J. Flanagan goes swimming in the Holy Sea.
But I like the music and the open air,
So every Summer I go to Clare.
Coz Woodstock, Knock nor the Feast of Cana,
Can hold a match to Lisdoonvarna.

Christy Moore


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Added on:
17 May 2007
Travel Culture
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