St. Patrick’s Day 2009

The circular door handles of this car get on my nerves.  As if some designer believed they look futuristic somehow.  No.  Just shit.  I got in this morning and selected the radio rather than a CD.  Major news stories this week concern Josef Fritzl’s trial and the imminent death of reality television star, Jade Goody.

Clicked easily back into the habit of judging town size by the size and boldness of font on the map.  It’s usually reliable, but not always.  I’ve highlighted a few as potential stop-offs.

As I skirted Ireland’s northern coastline, the full green force of St Patrick’s Day came into view and I pondered on why we have no real equivalent in England.  Boris Johnson tells us London has big plans for St George’s Day this year, but true dedication and seeping into culture takes years and we’ve probably long since missed the boat.  Is a similar celebration of Englishness made more challenging today – arguably especially in London – because of its cosmopolitan nature, politically correct sensitivities?  Because it could potentially fragment and divide communities as much as bring them together?  Or is the reason we’ve never celebrated St George’s Day to such a comparable level to do with unspoken lack of pride in Englishness, or even Britishness?  Have we reluctantly acknowledged that there isn’t a huge amount for us to be nationally, effervescently proud about?  Maybe it's a symptom of typical British reserve, reluctance to indulge in exuberant self celebration.  Particularly as we have the monarchy to do that for us.  What, me?  Us?  Pah, no, really, we couldn’t possibly.

Sunshine has arrived just in time for the Paddy’s Day parades.  Hope it lasts.

Earmarked a reasonably sized town, judging by map fontsize / boldness – An Clochan Liath, or maybe Killybegs – in which to find hospitality.  Always makes me slightly nervous when I haven’t booked, but today I can comfortably find something in good time, well before it gets dark.  I’ll be leaving pretty Dunfanaghy shortly, a small town in a dip between hills with a large expanse of flat sand.  One main, not very long street and copious amounts of green bunting.  Small towns are all gearing up for their parades, proud moments of childhood.  Two boys, 14 and 12ish sit looking bored, perched on a brick wall in front of me, staring across the sand, smoking.

Northern Ireland feels severely self conscious, brittle in comparison.  Rough and grim and ‘real’, like northern England.  Possibly a judgement unfairly distorted now I’m over the border into Eire, the sun’s come out and it’s even more inescapably St Patrick’s Day.  Nothing demarcated a border the other side of Londonderry, where the Republic began.  No ‘Welcome To’ signs.  Just a bypass around the city and a change in the speed limit unit.  From the UK’s mph to Eire’s Kph, with an accompanying confirmation sign informing of the change.  The motorist is left to deduce that they must have crossed the border.

Slept surprisingly well last night at the distinctly average Motel outside the city, the rotten smoky smelling room and soft bed.  Too many characters in the last few hours of my dream in a coastal holiday setting were colleagues.
Something telling me to try and stop thinking about work?  To more completely divorce the mind?

*

This afternoon’s driving was the sort I was hoping would present itself for at least a small period over these few days.  Sunshine elbowed bravely in around lunchtime and stayed, stubbornly fending off clouds.  As well as lightening my ever fickle soul, it appeared to make an instant impression on the roads which unwound before me, spectacularly weaving and zigzagging.  It provided the sweepingly glorious landscapes I’d been hoping for.  One wrong turn proved serendipitous in presenting the best views to date.  The region’s tallest, boldest mountain overlooked a deep dark blue lough which shimmered under the sun.  The lough was framed by fir trees and an otherwise relatively barren landscape, the other side of which lay the Atlantic.  All presented beneath a sky so cleanly blue it almost seemed to be trying to betray the location.



A hilltop stop revealed breathtaking new vistas, and peculiar litter.  A headboard, chair and a preposterous number of yoghurt corner plastic containers.  It couldn’t significantly weaken the starkly beguiling nature of the exposed landscapes.  Here was evidence of the regular punishment hurled by the Atlantic climate.  This endless torment was most obvious on the furthest North-West ridges, where few trees seemed to grow.

The narrow winding roads were so much fun, even in my crappy brick-like rental car – to which 60mph certainly seemed jolly fast indeed, whatever the surface or gradient.  This hire car looks like a snubbed nose and handles like an untrustworthy go-kart.  You have to lean into tighter corners like you're driving a Lego brick.  In its defence, it has so far politely sipped at fuel, unless that’s a creaky fuel gauge error, and it is a new enough model.  Just a crap one.  The lowest vehicle grade.  My hopes of an upgrade as in Scotland a year ago were unrealised.  I’ve nervously approached it in car parks, embarrassed, still not quite used to its dinky toy car appearance.

*

Now I’ve settled in Killybeg, having spurned a couple of earlier towns.  Hugely industrious by virtue of the area’s busiest working port, and subsequently not a pretty seafront.  Yet a nice enough B&B / Guest House was easy enough to find and check into.  At 4pm the town was full of Paddy’s Day pubs in full swing.  Around the corners of the headland, away from the vessel cluttered port, there are places worth exploring so I may extend my stay here, possibly do some walking – especially as the digs seem comfy and reasonably priced.  An open, cheerful, chatty host always makes such a difference to first impressions.  Chatting to her, a temporary mindblock made me feel immensely  stupid as I failed to recall where I’d begun the day.  Days fuzz together when you see so much.
*

Several Guinnesses imbibed last night, a few small town local bars sampled and a football match watched.  Still that legendary Irish hospitality seems elusive to sketchy looking single blokes like me.  Besides ordering my drinks and helping an elderly man over the road with his shopping, I chatted to nobody.  Between bars, I blanched at almost three euros for a small portion of chips at the town’s one chippy (potato famine still on?)

As I turned away an old man beckoned me towards him from the other side of the street.  Normally I’d have ignored such a plea from such a person on such a time of the evening, in such a place and on such a day of the year.  But something told me to give him a moment.  He had two bags of shopping which he implored me to take from him, saying he had bad arthritus and swollen hands – which, on inspection, he clearly did.  Could I help him take the bags to a bar just over the road, a matter of fifty yards or so.  “You thought I was drunk, eh?” he had astutely asked, following me back over the road.  After placing the bags on the bar he offered me ten Euros, which I had to decline several times before going in search of a football match: Arsenal-Hull.  Not a game I massively cared about, but sitting alone in a pub is slightly more socially acceptable if you’re watching football.

I found a decent place with a few people towards the end of their national celebrations.  One stunning, tall blonde in a group of reasonable looking thirtysomethings stood at the bar, glancing now and then at the loner.  Their partners bowled in drunk towards the end of the game.  Disappointingly, Arsenal returned from a goal down to win the match.  I finished my pint and went back.