The only way is Wexford

Also this week: A new president for Ireland, and an operatic national anthem

The Concert Hall at Wexford Opera House. Photo by View Pictures/Universal Images Group via Getty Images

In October 1969 I travelled from Paddington to Fishguard, a through train in those days, and then took the ferry across the Irish Sea to Rosslare where we were met by another train for the short journey up the coast to Wexford. The whole return journey cost £14, and although I wasn’t paid much, as an absurdly young publicity manager at the publishers Hamish Hamilton, I could just about afford the outing to the Wexford Festival Opera. I’ve been back every year since apart from 2020, when we had to attend virtually during lockdown. With the exception of my local Mozartfest in Bath in November, Wexford remains my favourite music festival anywhere, and that’s not just because of the music but also because of the place. I’ve really come to like Wexford.

Reviving the greats

The Irish genius has been for words rather than classical music, and indeed Wexford is the home town of John Banville, whose new novel Venetian Vespers I’m relishing, as well as Billy Roche, author of The Wexford Trilogy, not to mention that it’s where Colm Tóibín, from Enniscorthy, went to school. In a country with an exiguous classical musical tradition, this utterly improbable festival in a small town on the south-eastern coast was heroically founded in 1951 by Tom Walsh, anaesthetist in the local hospital and a passionate opera devotee. But it worked, even if for years there was a touch of am-dram: with my dear late friend Rodney Milnes, then opera critic of the Spectator, later of the Times, I was roped in at the last minute to help paint the scenery of Mozart’s Il re pastore.

One of Wexford’s purposes is to revive forgotten operas, even if another purpose is to remind us that forgotten works have sometimes been forgotten for good reason. There have been some delightful rediscoveries, such as Sapho by Jules Massenet, to whom I’m hopelessly if harmlessly addicted, and a few real stinkers: Umberto Giordano’s Siberia might be the worst opera I’ve ever sat through. Another purpose is introducing young singers before they become famous. The great Russian baritone Sergei Leiferkus made his Western debut at Wexford in 1982 in Grisélidis, another Massenet piece, and only eight years ago the title part in Luigi Cherubini’s Medea was taken by Lise Davidsen, the Norwegian soprano who’s by now the hottest ticket on either side of the Atlantic.

Galway girl

While Wexford was making music, the Irish chose a new president. Under a rather dubious constitutional arrangement, the president of the Irish Republic is in theory a titular head of state without political power, unlike presidents Donald Trump and Emmanuel Macron but like King Charles or, more relevantly, Frank-Walter Steinmeier, the president of Germany. But he was chosen indirectly by legislators, and largely keeps to himself, rarely saying anything contentious, and indeed many people would be hard put to remember his name. By contrast, the Irish president is elected by the citizenry, and past presidents Mary Robinson, Mary McAleese and Michael D Higgins were never short of opinions.

Nor is Catherine Connolly, the runaway victor. She’s a barrister from Galway and doesn’t shy away from the “wearing of green”. She beats the drum for the unification of Ireland, and visited Belfast two months before the election where she said that Northern Ireland was a “limb” cut off from the Republic and that its people should be allowed to vote in the presidential election (that is, for her). She’s also supported by Sinn Féin, and displays her command of Irish by dropping into it during speeches.

A festival finds its voice

As it happens, Wexford is the only opera house I know in Europe or America where the national anthem is played every night before every performance. This means that I’ve heard the Irish national anthem more than 160 times, and I know the tune. Fifty years ago it was played by the orchestra but no one sang. Then people began to sing, and now the audience lustily belts out “The Soldier’s Song”, or rather “Amhrán na bhFiann” in Irish. They’re helped by the supertitles above the stage. The death of any language is a tragedy, but the very name Sinn Féin (meaning “ourselves alone”) reminds us what dark invocations language can produce. I’m very fond of Ireland, Irish nationalism not so much, any more than I like the English kind.

Geoffrey Wheatcroft is the author of “Yo, Blair!” and “Churchill’s Shadow”