August 2025 - rafters to ribs

The shell of an old cottage stands there.

At various times, a place for hens, then cattle and even an outhouse, it now stood bare, without a front wall, door or window. The roof had blown off in a storm a number of years before, and I was loathe to just throw a roof on it and have it the way it was.

The shed has been part of the property for as long as anyone remembers; it shows up on maps back to the 1860s.

At the southern end once stood a very old hawthorn bush — a tree long woven into Irish folklore.

When lightning struck it, the tree became unsafe and was cut down.

The poor soul who did the removing passed away shortly afterwards.

Pure coincidence, of course, yet the tale fits perfectly with the unease that surrounds disturbing hawthorn trees, those places the “little people” are said to favour.

A decision reached

This year, I finally decided to make a place devoted to music, teaching, and meeting for rehearsals. Having a young child made me keenly aware of how home is a sacred place and how I must keep it set apart from many things I otherwise do in my life.

August was a quite month musically. I had no scheduled biwa performances and only two organ concerts with Capella Felsinea, the ensemble formed by countertenor Francesco Giusti, baroque cellist Norah Catherine O’Leary, and myself on organ. We specialise in the historical music of Bologna, the city Francesco hails from.

With no other concerts on the horizon and my biwa practice progressing steadily, I finally turned my attention to a long-delayed project at home: restoring this old stone shed into a small teaching and practice studio.

The Work Begins

Apparently eight houses were situated on this site in the past but between famine and emigration, they were down to three when the earliest records begin with the Tithe applotment books.

As soon as I returned from Japan in July, I started clearing away the plants, shrubs, and briars that had taken up residence inside. The floor, a concrete slab on a stone and sand base, had survived surprisingly well. The wisdom of builders long ago: moisture simply couldn’t rise. Once the vegetation was removed, the floor dried in no time.

Since the shed had no front wall, that became my first task. My parents joined me — their age limiting what they could physically do, but not their enthusiasm. I exercised every form of persuasion, verbal and otherwise, to prevent my mother from climbing ladders.

By late August, with the help of my brother-in-law, we were measuring and cutting rafters. He was a great help to me and by mid-September, the building had a roof and windows. Unexpectedly, local people began stopping by to ask if I might repair their sheds too. We both laughed — our “expertise” having been gained over the previous three weeks — and explained that we were very much flying by the seat of our pants, metaphorically speaking.

I found the process surprisingly similar to music: gradually realising a structure, discovering methods as we went, working through the inevitable trial-and-error (or in my case, error-and-trial). Progress was slow, especially when regular work resumed in September, but the incremental changes brought a deep sense of satisfaction as something genuinely tangible began to take shape.

A motif

Not everything went so smoothly. In a burst of enthusiasm (and perhaps a touch of impatience), I misjudged my footing on the bottom rung of the ladder, falling sideways against it. Then came that now-familiar sound — the snap of yet another rib. My fifth. A recurring motif.... Musicians always protect their hands for sanity sake, but it seems ribs, too, deserve protection.

Reflections from the Workshop

Pain aside, the work was deeply satisfying. Using my body in this way felt good and unexpectedly helped my music. It forced me to re-inhabit physical spaces and sensations — muscles, balance, weight — that had grown unfamiliar. Holding tools reminded me of the physical awareness needed in performance: assimilating the weight of the biwa into ones being, the stillness of the strings between notes, and the quiet focus and emptiness of mind within every movement of the plectrum.

Manual work always grounds me. It steadies the mind, brings focus into the present moment, and builds a new appreciation for craftsmen and the devotion they give to their skill.

Looking back, August became the still point before a season of travel, performance, and collaboration. I didn’t realise it at the time, but this work became the perfect preparation for the months to come.