1998 - Round Ireland with a fridge (26 page)

Should make for an interesting wedding night.

‘You couldn’t match my fridge with another one could you?’ I politely enquired.

He laughed. ‘Ah, now that is beyond my area of expertise.’

Honestly. And he called himself a matchmaker.

§

As Tony and I drove off on his sightseeing tour, I learned that there were two alternative spellings for Ennistymon, and that the local authorities had failed to make any decision on the matter. How you spelled it, depended on whether you were coming in or going out of town. As you arrived, you were greeted with the sign ‘ENNISTYMON’, but on your departure, it was a sign with a line through ‘ENNISTIMON’ which had the last word. A totally pointless compromise and fudge.

The tour included the dramatic Cliffs of Moher, the village of Doolin, lisdoonvarna itself, and the Burren Smoke House, where Tony’s sister-in-law worked. She was a bubbly woman who insisted on showing me a video usually shown to tourists of how a salmon is smoked. I patiently sat through it despite a spectacular lack of interest (I had never considered being au fait with the procedure involved in smoking a salmon a social advantage), and afterwards I was rewarded with a good-sized portion of the final product to take away. The irony was that I had no way of keeping it fresh even though I was touring the country with a fridge.

Apart from the woman who was serving behind the bar, the evening clientele of Cooky’s were entirely male, and I was the youngest by some margin. There was a chap playing the banjo rather well up at the far end of the bar, and a less competent guitarist attempting to accompany him. As Tony and I walked in, the resident drunk called out, ‘Hey Tony, go and get your box.’

At first I thought it was someone calling for me to go and get my fridge, but the other Tony disappeared outside and made for his car. I smiled to those present, keen to give the impression that I knew what a ‘box’ was, and why one might be needed on a social occasion like this.

The drunk, doing his utmost to focus his bloodshot eyes on me, put his hand on my shoulder in a gesture of friendship which serendipitously also prevented him from falling over. He explained needlessly, ‘He’s gone to get his box.’

Yes, I thought, and there was a good chance we would be putting this fellow in it at the end of the evening.

Tony returned with an accordion, and musicians and instruments materialised from nowhere. The resident drunk suddenly produced a pair of spoons from his pocket, and proceeded to play them with great skill and dexterity. After the ability to order a drink, this must have been the last of his faculties to go. I had always thought of the spoons as being played as a novelty purely to get laughs, but in the correct hands it made an authentic percussive instrument. The four-piece band became a five-piece when Willy Daly entered carrying a bodhran (the tambouriney thing hit with a stick) and joined the merry band of players. He must have had a device within him which could instinctively sound out a session when it was beginning.

What followed was a great treat for me. This was Irish traditional music as I had hoped to see and hear it, spontaneous and from the heart, and not produced for the sake of the tourist industry. As I sat there with my pint in my hand, enjoying the jigs and the reels, I watched the joy in the player’s faces and in those around them who tapped their feet and applauded enthusiastically. Music the joybringer. No question of being paid, or any requirement to perform for a certain amount of time. Just play for as long as it makes you feel good. This was self expression, not performance. Someone would begin playing a tune and the fellow musicians would listen to it once through, hear how it went and join in when they felt comfortable, until, on its last run through, it was being played with gusto by the entire ensemble. This process provided each piece with the dynamic of a natural crescendo which could almost have been orchestrated.

The banjo player was from out of town, but his playing assured him the hospitality that might be showered on a long-lost son. He had an extremely large belly hanging over his trousers, which were held up by a belt which looked incapable of withstanding the strain. Were it to break, then his weight would be re-distributed to such a degree that he would surely topple over forwards. It was too much responsibility for a belt which was showing signs of fraying.

He bonded with Tony, recognising him for the accomplished accordion player that he was, and they smiled at each other in mutual admiration. The less talented guitarist continued to play, providing the right and wrong chords in equal measure. Though at times he spoiled the sound that the combo were producing, he received no admonishment or looks of censure, and was made as welcome as the most able musician.

After an hour or so, the unaccompanied singing began. For this, each singer would close their eyes and present their party piece to a reverent audience who would offer their comments on the lyrics at the end of each song. Songs were sung in turn, much in the same way that drinkers in an English pub might exchange jokes. Some patiently waited, anxious to display their talents, and others had to have a song coaxed out of them. Significantly, the ones who had to be encouraged gave the best performances, but there was no competitive element and each singer, good or bad, was given commensurate respect I racked my brains for a song I could sing should I be asked, but happily the honour wasn’t bestowed upon me. I made a mental note to come up with something for these occasions, because I liked this approach to singing—closing your eyes and belting it out from the heart. It seemed like a style tailor-made for the drunk, but Tony proved that intoxication wasn’t essential, as his contribution, which was the product of four soft drinks, was one of the more heartfelt and soulful renditions of the evening.

Tony was still singing in the car as he drove us home. The song included the line ‘I picked up a hitch-hiker who was handsome and tall’, and for a moment I thought it was going to be about me, but I listened intently and there was no mention of a fridge anywhere. So I wasn’t a folk legend just yet.

§

The next morning I just had to mention it. I had been surprised that Tony hadn’t, and I couldn’t leave without raising the subject.

‘Have you given any more thought to taking the fridge scuba diving?’

‘I have, and I’ve realised that we won’t be able to lift the thing once it’s filled up with water. We need air bags, and I don’t have any.’

Damn, neither did I.

‘Never mind, no one would believe that we’d done it anyway,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry. We can put the fridge on one of Willy Daly’s ponies and take it trekking if you like.’

Honestly, for an inanimate object, it received more offers than I did.

‘I think that might frighten the pony. Maybe we’ll just leave it to hitch today.’

When Nora dropped me outside an ugly development of holiday bungalows on the road from Lahinch to Kilrush, I had absolutely no idea where I was going. Up until that moment I always had at least a destination in mind, even if the reason for it had been as flimsy as someone having mentioned a pleasant pub in the area. But this time I had nothing, I was simply going to wait and see.

No one could have foreseen the night that was ahead.

Bachelor Boy

C
ars were scarce and the sky was as unpredictable as my mood. I had slept well, but for some reason I felt irritable. It began to rain, gently at first, but then quite steadily to the point where I needed to get the windcheater from my rucksack. Naturally, it wasn’t sitting welcomingly at the top of the rucksack, but nestling somewhere in the depths of the bag. I began delving. Three delves later I was starting to become angry. Try as I might, I couldn’t locate that waterproof. The rain was now coming down harder and I was beginning to get quite wet. There was nothing for it but to shout at the rucksack. This I did. It made me feel better but offered no protection against the rain. I delved again, this time with a violence not normally associated with such a task. God increased the rain output. I wanted to kick the rucksack and shake my fist at the sky but realised that to do so would mean I was turning into Basil Fawlty.

I was in a no-win situation. Clearly the only way to find what I sought was to empty all the garments in my rucksack one by one on to the roadside, but then the rain would give them a good soaking and they would fester in the confines of the bag for the remainder of the day. However, to remain where I was with no protection, was an invitation to head colds, influenza and pneumonia to ‘Come on in!’ Had I been thirty years younger I would have known exactly what to do. Burst into tears. Cry my little heart out But I was older now, and social programming meant that was no longer an option. With age comes wisdom, circumspectien, maturity and resourcefulness. I had an idea. I knew exactly what to do. I took three steps back from the rucksack, ran at it and gave it an almighty kick. Then I looked up to the heavens and waved my fist angrily.

‘Look rain, just piss off!’ I cried.

It worked. The rain eased off. Fifty yards away, a young woman crossed over on to the other side of the road. No doubt she still remembered her mother’s warnings not to get too close to people who shout at the sky.

I didn’t need the windcheater any more, this was just fine drizzle. But fine drizzle is deceptive. Twenty-five minutes of it can get you extremely wet, but drivers don’t consider it to be serious enough to make them sympathetic to a hitch-hiker’s cause. I sat down on my fridge in resignation. I had forgotten that it was wet and that well-wishers had signed it. Now I would have the inverse of ‘Best Wishes’ written all over my arse. To most it would look like gobbledegook, but it would read correctly to those drivers viewing me in their rear mirror after having driven past, and it would appear that I wasn’t in the least bitter at their failure to stop.

‘Darling, that was unbelievable. That guy was hitching with a fridge, and he had ‘Best Wishes’ written on his bottom.’

‘How quaint.’

§

It was another excited lorry driver, Tom, who saved the day.

‘Where are you headed?’ he asked.

‘I don’t really know.’

‘Well, isn’t that true of all of us?’

Tom delivered building supplies and pearls of wisdom.

‘I could drop you at Killimer where you can get the ferry across the River Shannon to Kerry,’ he advised me.

The ferry to Kerry. It had a nice ring about it. I got out my map.

‘Yes, and then I could head down to Tralee.’

‘Exactly,’ said Tom, ‘find yourself a rose in Tralee.’

‘Yup, sounds good to me.’

It was late in the day but I finally had a rough game plan. Tom dropped me at the ferry terminal where he posed for pictures with me, the fridge, and some girls from the café who had seen the fridge and come rushing out to greet it I was becoming slightly miffed that this fridge was getting more attention than I was. There was aa hour’s wait for the ferry, which was enough time for the café girls to prove once again that there
is
such a thing as a free lunch.

Once on board I realised that I was the only passenger on foot and since the weather was still inclement, most of the drivers remained inside their vehicles. It occurred to me that all the cars would drive off before I had time to set myself up on the road, so my oufy real way of securing a lift the other side was to wander round asking. This was a particularly undignified practice since it involved tapping on people’s windows and begging. I didn’t feel comfortable with it but it had to be done, because it would be another hour before the ferry dumped its next load, aad even then it woulb be difficult to find a spot where drivers would stop as they drove off the ferry.

Either I was being particularly unlucky or I wasn’t very good at it, but with the southern bank of the Shannon estuary drawing ever closer I was still without an offer. Perhaps the fact that I was separated from my fridge, which was out of sight over by the side of the ferry, was having an adverse effect on my confidence. A coach driver turned me down because he wasn’t insured to take me, a Range Rover full of American golfers simply didn’t have room, and everyone else I asked said they were heading in a different direction.

Finally, I approached a tatty car which I had been leaving until the cause was desperate. The two dishevelled looking men within it looked up at me as I tapped on their window.

‘Excuse me, but you’re not going anywhere near Tralee are you?’

‘We’re going to Listowel,’ replied the driver, without warmth.

‘That’s on the way, isn’t it?’ My earlier glance at the map was proving invaluable.

‘I suppose so.’

‘You couldn’t give me a lift there could you? It’s just that no one seems to be going that way and I’m a bit stuck.’

The two fellows, who I took to be builders such was the distribution of sand, cement and dust throughout their hair and clothes, looked at each other and the older one, the passenger, nodded.

‘Yes, all right. We’ll take you to Listowel.’

They had been rather reluctant, but at least I wasn’t stranded.

I introduced myself, and as I walked down the boat to get my stuff, I realised that these guys, Pat and Michael, knew nothing about the fridge. Everyone who had stopped for me up to now had at least seen that I had a cumbersome piece of luggage with me. I wondered what the response would be. I didn’t have to wait long.

‘Now what in God’s name is that?’ asked Pat.

‘Ifs a fridge.’

‘I thought so.’

They both viewed it in disbelief.

‘Is there enough room in the car for it?’ I checked politely, knowing that there was.

‘Oh yeah. Well stick it in the back,’ said Michael, scratching his head. ‘Excuse my French, but what the fuck are you doing with a fridge?’

I explained, and Pat and Michael shared a look which appeared to mean Veil, at least there’s two of us’.

Pat, who was the driver and the younger of the two, began to relax and chat freely with me after about twenty minutes. Michael, however, sat frozen in the front seat convinced that they had foolishly allowed a dangerous psychopath within easy stabbing range. He shuffled uneasily when I spoke, and flinched every time I made a sudden movement. I got the impression that he hadn’t believed a word I’d said, and was convinced that the fridge contained the vital organs of my victims.