*The following article on the funeral of Denny Cordell was published in "The Telegraph" in March 1995.* *It complimented the Apreciation by Michael Purcell.* *The writer of this article is J.P. Dunleavy, internationally renowned author and playwright. * *Among those who attended the funeral were Bono and members of U2, Marianne Faithful, John Hurt and Paul McGuiness.* *THE FUNERAL OF DENNY CORDELL* * * Under the stars of a frosty night, dawn arriving chill across the Irish Midlands. As one gets off to the funeral of Denny Cordell, of whom one has never heard said a discouraging word. I first met him many years ago in one of the smaller sitting rooms of Glin Castle while we were both guests of Madam and the Knight of Glin. But I had heard of him long before as a greyhound owner and mostly described through the compliments of a friend who had rented him his stud farm to house his dogs. Then he later produced the music for a piece I authored and narrated about Ireland titled, "In all her Sins and Graces". And the more I listened to this music the less I became impressed by myself interfering with my spoken words. And so as all news does when it spells the end of one still so relatively young, his death now seems a strange betrayal to the future of all who knew him. But this is Ireland, where one comes to hate the truth that distorts the lie. You don't die here either. For the lips of those who remain keep saying your name and telling your tall tales. And Denny Cordell was one of those rare who came from afar to this island and stayed. And uncomplaining as he always seemed to me, he sometimes must have suffered its discontent. However, from all I could see, he enjoyed to play an Irish role still played, of pleasantly shooting, racing, hunting and fishing in this westernmost parkland of Europe. And knowing too that should you need the spice of discord at any time to stimulate, you need not go far. The inhabitants will always see both sides of an argument so long as it can result in a fight. I motored south from Mullingar under the glowering grey skies, randomly passing across the Irish countryside and viewing the battle for survival of all these suburban homes so stuck out of place with their "pitch and putt" and "Bed and Breakfast" signs, and more recently posted, those plaques warning of Community Alert Areas and thieves beware. The heart can seize up with loneliness along these lonely winding roads. But you're kept alert trying to read the cast-iron road signs torn in half. This is an ancient amusement practised by some locals as a testimony to their feats of strength. And this is always better than encountering a sign you can read which points the wrong way. But this is always done with the best intention so the visiting tourists will not miss the best sights. I go round and round the roundabouts looking for any sign naming a town I've heard of. Farther south finally the hills rise and beyond the valleys dip the town of Carlow comes. But I can't seem to find my destination of Bagenalstown for it is named Muine Bheag on my map. At last I find my way through mile after mile of winding narrow lanes and suddenly the gates of Corries House are there. Back in Bagenalstown I had already passed the small neat funeral home where Denny reposed wearing in his coffin his country and western outfit and holding a vinyl of Duke Ellington, one of his favourites as a boy. He's wearing too his cowboy boots, footwear when I noticed such first I thought strangely out of character. I was warned by two locals that I would have no trouble finding the rest of the way to Corries House as the vehicles would be parked miles around over the surrounding countryside. Finally there it is, the modest mansion, Corries House, sitting in its small paradise tucked sweetly in these hills. As one enters the gates and down the avenue around the stud railed field spears of daffodil leaves are pressing up from the ground. And true it is, his attending friends are legion. From every corner of Ireland and the globe, crowded in the hall and standing about in the sitting rooms. His dear slenderly beautiful lady, Marina Guinness, her face pale but eyes still sparkling blue. Rock stars in their leather rock gear. Music managers and executives in gents' natty suiting. The racing fraternity in their tweeds and cavalry twill. The grooms and jockeys. The Anglo Irish. I stare at an open door into the nearby room. Candles burn on the chimney piece and there on the dining table is placed the long polished gleaming length with its golden handles of Denny Cordell's coffin, brought back from the funeral home for one last visit to his house. On top lies neatly folded his racing colours, his silks of green and orange. Beneath the table a splendid array of pretty flowers, richly fresh and full of the colour of life. Beyond through another door, the kitchen, the table brimming with sandwiches, soup and cakes. And from all the other kitchen surfaces many glasses are lifted into which many beverages flow. The generosity that is Ireland. And amid the animated chatter it's hard to feel sorrow nor does one hear a sad word. Denny's handsome young sons and friends carry the coffin out of Corries House and up the rising drive to the front gates where an exquisite horse-drawn hearse waits. The flower-covered coffin placed within and outlined by cut glass windows. I stand watching in the drizzling rain with one of his oldest friends whose crinkly ginger hair is slowly getting wet as his gentle voice talks touchingly of this man they go now to bury and behind whom one is to walk to the church and cemetery. And about this and the distance there is the lie told that distorts the truth as the word goes whispered about that it is only a mile and a half. Off we go. Suspicions grow as the first two miles and three go by. To pass time I count the little rainbow circles of moisture on the road. And I find I am walking next to a woman in black of a beauteous face who is from New Jersey. Then next to her comes a man in Connemara tweed, his head of long hair is truly soaked in the rain. He shows not a sign of tiredness nor discomfort, but chuckles as I turn to look back and report that there are following now more cars and a distinctly diminished number of pedestrians. We shake hands as he introduces himself as John Hurt. And we walk yet another mile past a field where Denny galloped and trained his horses. Relief now as the church steeple rears finally still another mile away. But one knew the ginger-haired old friend of Denny's would walk thus 10 miles farther behind Denny's coffin. The knowledge gives one a strange hope of light to have in all one's own dark dooms where courage must live if life is not to die. All around the church, the lanes are packed with parked cars. Inside along with his coffin are Denny's saddle and bridle. I do not recite the prayers or sing. For John Hurt is in the pew next to me and the splendid resonance of this actor's voice would be sad to miss when declaimed so near. Crimond and Danny Boy are sung. And the Service ends with the rousing hymn "When The Saints Go Marching In". As the last sounds of song die away I am reminded of being back in Corries House. When asking one of Denny's old friends, Julian Lloyd how did all this so suddenly happen. He said that one night, three weeks ago, severe pain came upon Denny and he asked Julian to take him to the hospital. Where he lay waiting on his back to be attended and Julian placing a blanket upon him to keep him warm saw his cowboy boots sticking up and out. And Julian asked him wouldn't he be more comfortable with his boots off. And Denny, still so far from death as anyone knew, smiled and said "No I'd like to die with my boots on". J.P. Donleavy. *

Thanks for sharing that moving tribute, Michael. It was so well written, too, that it has made me want to look further into author J.P. Dunleavy's work. Jean, USA. ----- Original Message ----- From: "michael purcell" <carlowmike@gmail.com> To: <irish-american@rootsweb.com> Sent: Wednesday, December 10, 2008 3:03 AM Subject: [IRISH-AMER] The Funeral of Denny Cordell Lavarack 1995 > *The following article on the funeral of Denny Cordell was published in > "The > Telegraph" in March 1995.* > *It complimented the Appreciation by Michael Purcell.* > *The writer of this article is J.P. Dunleavy, internationally renowned > author and playwright. * <snip>