 Far at the world then, strange fascinating lands beckon us, bid us revel in their exotic splendors, come with us as we head for Port of Call. As we approach Ireland, both sea and sky are grey, a soft, delicate grey which seems to envelop this fabulous island in mysterious gossamer veils. Filtering through it, a diffused sunlight touches with silver the gulls whirling over our ship, and bathed with a subdued radiance the unbelievably green coasts of the emerald island. Here is a Port of Call rich in subtle charm, Ireland, land of saints and scholars, of poets and heroes, of legend, romance and beauty. Over the lush green of Ireland's wooded hills, over her misty lowlands, her enchanted lakes, her vine-grown castles, broods the spirit of olden time. We seem to hear the rippling melody of the ancient minstrel's harp. It awakens in us the memory of Ireland's fairest daughter, she whose memory lives in the immortal tale of Tristan and a soldier. Up from the sea and into the castle of Tintagel, where in the days of Arthur, thrown King Mark of Cornwall, comes the strong knight, Sir Marhouse, bearing a message. King Mark, you hold your lands and vassalage from King Angus of Ireland, yet you refuse to pay the tribute. That is true, Sir Marhouse. King Angus sends me as his champion to fight for the tribute in single combat. Very well. If my Cornish knight wins, there will be no more tribute. And if you win, I shall pay the double of what your master demands forever. Knights and barons, so which of you the glory of fighting for Cornwall? What does this mean? Are you afraid? There is no one in your court who can best this Irish champion. This is scandalous. Your knights are all too modest, Your Majesty. However, I shall await your champion until tomorrow. If you can find one, farewell, valiant nobles of Cornwall. What a disgrace! Worse, Uncle, it is cardus for same all of you. King Mark, knightly, give me this battle. You are too young, Tristan. Young, yes, but strong enough to meet Sir Marhouse. You must do it. None of your own knights dare undertake this combat. Very well then. Come, Tristan. Kneel. Then does Sir Marhouse see young Tristan riding toward him. He makes ready. Tristan couches his lance. Like thunder clouds, the champions rush together and meet. The lances shatter in their hands. Both horses fall and young Sir Tristan is wounded. Will you yield, young knight? Never, while I live. Then does Tristan, despite his grievous wound, leap to his feet and draw his two-edged sword. Sir Marhouse lashes out furiously. They battle like wild boars. Great strokes are given and taken. Tristan is marvelous! Commonwealth has gained the great champion of the state. Oh, yes, yes. And the tribute too, if he can only... Did you see that blow? Now Tristan, with a mighty blow, cleaves the Irishman's helmet. The keen blade bites down through the harbor, king to the skull. There a splinter breaks off from the steel edge. And Sir Marhouse, crazed with pain, runs toward his ship with the splinter of Tristan's sword still within him. The ship makes sail and birds sail Marhouse off back to the court of King Angus, there to die. And Tristan, the battle one, sinks to the ground, fading. Tristan is dying. The lance wound is in venom. I must not lose him. Can you not do something? Alas, your Majesty, my science is not great enough. Oh, fool, you must. There is but one person who can save him. Who is it? Speak at once. Well then, the Queen of Ireland, she alone. The Queen of Ireland? Ah, yes. But Sir Marhouse is her mother. I know, I know. Still we must try. Tristan must be taken to her. He will change his name, conceal who he is. Yes, the Irish love music. Tristan can perhaps win them with his heart. He must. Your music is heavenly, Sir Knight. Tell me, whence do you come? Come Cornwall, Fair Queen. Cornwall. It was there my brother met his death. And, what is your name? I am called Tantris. Tantris? A strange name. Now your wound is dressed. Be still. I shall send my daughter to walk over your sleep. You're very kind. Softly, Brad, when he's sleeping. He's very handsome, Mistress. Very handsome, yes. But so pale, poor King. But go now, Brad, and I shall sit by him, yes, my lady. I was dreaming. Perhaps I still am. No, Sir Knight. But sleep on. You must rest. Sleep when I can look at you. No dream could be so fair. You must be quiet. You're beautiful. What is your name? My name is Esaulde. Esaulde? I was dreaming just now that an angel sat beside me. She ran her fingers through my hair. Perhaps I did it without thinking. Will you stay long in Ireland? Until your mother has cured my wound, Princess? No longer. Teach me to play the harp. When you are gone, I shall play as you have taught me. And will you think of me? More than you will think of me, Sir Knight. So does the time pass. Tristan thrives and grows stronger. Each night, by the fire in the castle's weight hall, he sits, harking and trancing each one, but none more than the princess who sits on the bench by his side, her eyes filling with love. See, Mother, here is his sword. Soon he will be strong enough to wear it again. Put it down, child. It is so heavy I can scarcely hold it nor draw it from the scabbard. See? Oh, yes I can. Look, Mother, here it is. It's older. Wait. There is a piece broken out of the blade. Yes, right here. Give me that little coffin on the chest. Quickly. Look. Here is the missing piece. It fits perfectly. The piece I took from the head of Sir Marlhouse. What does this mean? It means that this sword killed my brother. That I have saved the life of Tristan the Leonese. The traitor! You missed? So you know. Yes, yes, but that doesn't matter. You're in danger. Great danger, Tristan. My mother knows you killed Sir Marlhouse, and by my fault, I drew your sword while you were hunting. She saw the blade. Yes, it is true. What can I do now? Arm yourself, Tristan, at once. My mother will try to have you killed. I know. You must leave. I shall not run, but I will make ready to fight. Let me help you on with your armor. Oh, hurry! Thus to the lily fingers of his soul to the beautiful, trembling with haste, buckle on the heavy armor. I shall tell you the truth. I am Sir Tristan the Leonese. Why did you come here? Because none but the queen could cure my wound. How did you kill Sir Marlhouse? In fair fight before God. The number of kings it was not a private quarrel. Just as Sir Marlhouse was fighting for Ireland, so was I fighting for Cornwall. What you say is just, Tristan. Therefore, I forgive you, but you must leave my court. Farewell. Farewell, King Angus. Tristan. Yes, soldier. You are leaving. Yes. I shall miss you, Tristan. I too, soldier. Will you grant me a favour? Anything. Anything you ask. May I consider you, my lady? I shall be proud, Tristan. Then, a token? This ring. Thank you. And this ring for you. I shall cherish it. Farewell, the soldier. Farewell. And God speed you. So does the valiant Tristan return to fresh glory in Cornwall. Time passes. Old feuds are forgotten. But ever in Ireland, beautiful as soldier sits dreaming of Tristan. He speaks of her to Mark, his uncle, praising her beauty and gentleness. Yet at last, King Mark would have her for his bride and send Sir Tristan to fetch her. Yes, soldier. Dry your tears. Your eyes will be red and swollen. I try, mother. The tears come in spite of... Tristan is waiting to take you to the ship. Make haste. Oh, mother. If I were only to marry Tristan instead of King Mark. Foolish girl. Tristan is but a young knight. King Mark is a great ruler. You will be a queen. You should be happy. But my heart is breaking. Esolder, stop. Tristan does not love you. Where is your pride? There is too much love in my heart. To leave room for pride. Enough. Everything has been arranged. Go, Esolder. Make ready. Bragwin, come here. Yes, Majesty. Bragwin, you have cared for Esolder since she was a tiny girl. You love her. Almost as much as I do. You want her to be happy. Do you not? Ah, yes, my lady. I do. Then listen to me. Here is a golden slaggan. In it I have placed a wine filled with potent magic. Who drinks it will be fired with the love for whomever he first sees. Take it. Guard it well. And the knightly soldier is married to King Mark. See that they both drink of it. Together. Then she will forget Tristan and be happy. Trust me, Your Majesty. Then there is the bright ship with noble Tristan and Esolder spread sail, heading for Cornwall. Wither King Mark eagerly waits for his beautiful bride, Esolder. The fairest of women. You are sad, lovely, Esolder. Perhaps because of your music, Tristan. But still I love to hear it. It brings back the time when you played for me in my father's court long ago. And when you gave me this ring, perhaps you have forgotten. Forgotten never. Play for me again, Tristan. No, Tristan, stop. Why, Esolder, what? No, I can bear no more. Every touch of your fingers on the string's tails at my heart. Oh, Tristan, why are you so blind? Blind, Esolder? Forgive me. I know not what I say. I feel faint. Is there not something, some wine? A moment. There should be. Are here. This golden flag and here, Esolder, drink. Thank you. And now you drink. Drink to our love that might have been. To our love that might have been. Might. Esolder, beloved. Tristan, kiss me. Holy Mary, the golden flag and... Bragwin, all my poor children, you have drunk the love, John. What does that matter now, Bragwin? What matters, King Mark, in my word, and the whole world and the sea and the stars? What matters anything now? A tragic destiny awaits you. We will face it together joyously, loving each other always. Now leave us, Bragwin, and draw the curtains. Yes, my lady. And thus does the bard chant the old immortal tale of the love of Sir Tristan the valiant, the mighty, and of the lady, Esolder, Ireland's fairest daughter. Rome's wave of conquest rolled in all directions over the ancient world, but stopped without crossing the Irish Channel. Thus, instead of the quick marching feet of the legions, Aaron's green sod felt only the sandal tread of gentle missionaries, preaching the gospel of Christ. Of these, the greatest was St. Patrick, who, when he stooped and plucked the three-pole shamrock leaf to explain the mystery of the Trinity, bestowed on Ireland her faith and also her ancient emblem. And when the barbarians surged from the dark forests of northern and eastern Europe to obliterate the Roman Empire and her far-flung civilization, it was only in Ireland that the world's priceless heritage was preserved from destruction. Within 50 years of St. Patrick's passing in 461, the Irish monks were busy converting the pagans of England and the continent. St. Columban and his successors founded hundreds of churches and monasteries in France and Italy. The wasteland around them was cleared and put under culture. But then their walls, scholars gathered. The work of dissipating the darkness of barbarism went forward. This was the great age of Ireland, the period when she performed a service of incalculable value to the world's civilization. But Ireland was not long destined for happiness. The Norsemen invaded Ireland. To meet them, Irish heroes sprang from the very sod. Such a one was Brian Borough. 950 A.D. Mahon, my brother, you have made a truce with the Danes. I have, Brian. But do not the Danes still hold many strong places in Ireland? They do, Brian. And what means this truce? As long as the Danes are not driven back into the sea whence they came, how can you lay down your sword? My men are weary to death. Weak, sick, hungry. Many of them have been slain. Mahon, I am ashamed for you. If you do not fight on with me, I shall fight alone. With what, Brian? With my own men. Your men. Where are they? Where are the hundreds of your men of Dalkeas? All dead. It is natural for the men of Dalkeas to die in battle. But it is not natural for them to submit to oppression because their forefathers submitted to it from no one on Earth. Then we will leave the decision to our followers. It is well. I shall face them now. Men of Ireland! Men of Ireland! Give us your answer. Shall we abandon the struggle? Shall we submit to the foreigners? Or shall we fight on? Fight, fight, fight, fight! Brian Baru defeats the Danes in 40 battles. King Brian's final victory at Clontare decides the long war. The Danish power in Ireland is broken forever. The 12th century brings the Norman French rulers of England across the Irish Sea into Ireland. The reign of Henry II begins the fruitless effort of England to conquer an unconquerable people. The martyrdom of Ireland endured for centuries. England's acceptance of the Reformation in the 16th century brought the final and venoming touch to the conflict, that of religious fanaticism. Oliver Cromwell, the Puritan Regicide, led his armies into Ireland and massacred thousands of women, children and priests. By the end of the 17th century, Ireland was nearly depopulated. The seeds of famine had everywhere been planted. The imminent disappearance of the Irish race seemed inevitable. But the Irish refused to disappear. Miraculously, the heart of Ireland still beats. The Irish still love and live. Irish eyes twinkle, Irish lips are smiling, and Irish feet dance on. Now let's climb aboard a jotting cart for a glimpse of the Irish countryside. As we jog along the narrow lane, the ruined white limestone keep a 13th-century Blarney castle looms up before us, rising 120 feet above the surrounding trees to mirror itself in the dark waters of a lovely little river. We follow the old caretaker up endless, circular stone stairs, the Witches Staircase. What a strange name, the Witches Staircase. Sure, and it's on account of the witch-miss. Yes, but what witch? Why, Cormac McCarthy's witch, to be sure. It was Cormac who built the castle in the old days. To defend the countryside against the English. And it did it too, until Cromwell basted in with his artillery. You see, Cormac McCarthy was a quarkman and begor a real fighter. But he was not much of a one for talking with the ladies, which is very odd in an Irishman. Though he loved a fine, dark-haired Corleone. He just couldn't tell her about it. And one night when he was riding back to the castle, sad and sorrowful, he heard a woman's voice from the river, hoping for help. Cormac jumped in and thrashed about in the dark until he found the poor creature. And when he dragged her up onto the bank, he saw that she was a witch. And she looked at him and she says, Cormac, my gassoul, I know what's troubling you. And she told him to climb up these stairs to find the satin stone and to kiss it. And all his troubles would be over. So he did, and all of a sudden, Cormac became so eloquent that his lady love was fairly swept off her feet. And she knew what half the girls in County Clark have been. If Cormac had felt like it, well, here's the place. But the stone, where's the Barney stone? Well, sir, it's in the outside of the wall. You see that hole? You lie down on your back there and shove yourself out. And then you find two iron bars sat in the wall and you grab hold of them and you pull yourself up. And there's the stone, and then you kiss it. Oh, no, I don't. I break my neck. Sure, and I've never seen anybody break his neck. Well, they must be good. Sure, and they are. Good liars. What do you mean? That's simple, Your Honor. Hardly anybody ever kisses it. That's where the Barney comes in. But never mind. You've been close enough to it to catch the charm, you'll see. And before you're halfway home, you'll be swearing beyond the saints that you've kissed the stone at least three times in faith than they all do. Now we visit another part of Ireland as green as the emerald, as historic as the shamrock. Here once stood the venerable halls of terror, those splendid palaces of the odd dry, the high kings of Ireland, Cormac MacArthur, Roderick O'Connor, and 142 others who for thousands of years ruled the sons of Aaron. A century and a quarter ago, two young lovers reclined amid the grassy ruins which stretch along the hilltop. It is beautiful and sad here, Tom. Beautiful and sad like the soul of Ireland busy. No wonder Irishmen were always poets. But it was the good fortune of little Bessie Dike to marry the greatest of them all, Thomas Moore, the sweet melodious bard. Are you happy with me, Bessie? Oh, who wouldn't be, Tom? What woman could resist a man who could write the verses you did for me yesterday? You don't even remember the malware, do you? Oh, don't I, though? Well, perhaps, though, if you were to hum a bit of one now, I might remember it the better. Hum? If you are to mourn me, I'll sing. Now, though much is left to see, we must take leave of this land which has given the world saints and soldiers, grim historic figures, and the quaint folklore of little people. This land which has suffered so long and so bravely. With the hope that a brighter future is dawning for Aaron, we wish her peace, prosperity and progress. And we say farewell, Ireland. Then, from the sparkling river Shannon, from bustling Dublin, from the modern industrial cities of Ulster, from the long burdened hill of Tara, and from those iridescent jewels, the lakes of Calarney, comes the echoing response. M'avore, m'avore, m'acaron, springtime, m'avore. Invite you to join us again next week in this time, as we journey to another of the world's fascinating ports of call.