May 2018 Not to be outdone, and to honour Lycidas, as one who is loved by the Muses, Simichidas replies with his own song: his best, he thinks. To the lyricism of Lycidas he poses a playful, light-hearted, perhaps flippant offering. The Loves have sneezed on himself as on his friend Aratus. He himself loves Myrto “as goats love the spring”, while Aratus loves Philinus. Simichidas calls on the god Pan to help in his friend’s love affair. But if Pan fails to do so, “May your skin be bitten and scratched all over. May you sleep in nettles”. The song is a stinging, alliterative delight: But O if othergates thou go, may nettles make thy bed and set thee scratching tooth and nail, scratching from heel to head, and be thy winter-lodging nigh the Bear up Hebrus way i’ the hills of Thrace; when summer’s in, mid furthest Africa mayst feed thy flock by the Blemyan rock beyond Nile’s earliest spring. (109-114) It ends with some good advice, Theocritean good sense. If all fails, Aratus, no more waiting at doors. Let peaceableness (ἀσυχία) be our care. In other words, a philosophical outlook on life. And now Lycidas, laughing pleasantly as before, presents Lycidas with his lagobolon, his herdsman’s crook, a symbol of their friendship in the Muses. Then he takes the road on the left, to Pyxa, and travels on, and on. Simichidas turns towards the farm of Phrasidamus and his brother. Some two thousand years later I follow in his footsteps, to Linopoti. I would like to think that here, or somewhere nearby, close to the Haliki lake near the town of Tigaki, is where Theocritus sets the scene of Demeter’s harvest feast. A passage of Keatsian richness call up the scene: Poplars in plenty and elms stirred quietly overhead. Nearby the sacred water from the cave of the Nymphs murmured as it flowed. On the shady branches the sun-browned cicadas chattered busily, while a treefrog croaked from thorny brambles. Larks and finches sang. A turtle dove cooed, and humming bees flitted about the waters of the spring. Everything
CLASSICAL ASSOCIATION OF IRELAND savoured of the abundance of harvest-time. Pears at our feet, apples at our sides, sloe bushes hung down to the ground for us. (136-145) The wine is described no less richly. Wine fit for a Hercules, from wine jars four years old – such nectar as set Polyphemus dancing among his sheep, he who pelted ships with mountains. I find a pleasance for myself, and sit outside under some whispering pines, to do honour to Theocritus. My head full of the problems pored over by students of his poems, a glass of wine seems appropriate. It is red wine with the earthy character of cherries and plum, though hardly four years old. Simichidas – is he a real person? Is he Theocritus himself? A fictional character? And Lycidas – is he an actual goatherd or a freespirited poet got up in his goatskins? Or is he, too, a fictional character, or a figure borrowed from the Coan poet Philetas? Or… And the walk and the meeting and the harvest festival – did these actually happen and to what extent do they reflect an actual occurrence? Another glass is delicate and racy, with a lemony zest and freshness and vibrancy; I lose myself somewhat in a kind of reverie. A smell of rennet hangs in the air. I see, or think I see, two figures at a crossroads. One offers a lagobolon to the other. I want to call to him, “Who are you, Lycidas? Are you a real person or are you some symbol? That rancid smell – does it conceal some divine Olympian fragrance? Are you the god Apollo?” But Lycidas, smiling enigmatically, goes on down the road towards Pyxa, and on and on. I return to myself and take a sip to honour Demeter, and to thank snub-nosed Simaetha, and Gorgo, and Corydon, who led me to this place. Gerry Murtagh
Update on the CAI Tour 2018 Unfortunately, the cost of the lovely tour of Northern Italy planned for 2018 was prohibitive and we felt compelled to cancel. Instead, we hope to arrange a tour for May 2019. Our thoughts are turning towards Cyprus or southern France. Andrew Smith and Joan Wright.t 3