My bi-annual trip to England was long overdue. I
couldn’t put it off any longer.
Although I love seeing my family and friends, since
Lesley and I bought a ramshackle farmhouse in the rural west of Ireland, those trips
back to my homeland have slowly slipped down the order of importance on my ‘to-do
list’. I had a good excuse for delaying, I always do. This time I was writing another
book; volume two in my Fresh Eggs and Dog Beds series.
Sure, it was a time sensitive project, something
I wanted to complete while the creative juices were still flowing, but would a week
away from my desk really have made such a difference? Probably not. In truth, I
find myself looking at Britain with mild distaste. I guess it’s a defense mechanism,
like the sanctimonious attitude of a reformed smoker – a necessary protection against
the constant longing. That nagging toothache of doubt. The question that gnaws at
my conscience in those sleepless hours. Would our lives had been better if we hadn’t
moved to Ireland?
The 7am flight was delayed an hour. Not the
fault of my beloved Ryanair, but rather the chronic overcrowding in the skies over
London. I didn’t mind. My father was a pilot. He once told me, “Take-off is optional,
but landings are mandatory. Before you take to the air, make sure you have somewhere
to land!” These wise words have served me well as a metaphor for cautious planning
– something we blatantly disregarded during our sudden decision to move to Ireland.
After almost a month of delightfully warm and dry
weather in sleepy County Clare, Stansted Airport was surprisingly cold, with low
drizzly cloud and a chilly breeze. For some inexplicable reason, it took longer
to achieve temporary possession of my hire car than it did to make the 500-mile
flight from Ireland – including the delay. Undaunted, and with commendable daring-do,
I threw the little Fiat 500 into the hectic mid-morning motorway traffic and headed
north-east.
I’m happy to report my trip to England went well.
The hotels were clean, comfortable and welcoming, the weather perked up nicely,
and I got through the week without damaging the hire car. Furthermore, I had a lovely
time catching up with friends and relatives.
Although I was only away for a week, I soon missed
the company of my dogs, especially on my long morning walks, a routine I was keen
to maintain – particularly as I was battling to lose a little weight after the
long Irish winter. The hotel in Essex was just a mile from our old house, but in
my absence the familiar farmland and woods had been transformed into a confusion
of roads, housing estates and industrial parks.
Throughout the week, I had stuck to trudging along
the main roads, trading air quality and silence for half decent pavement and the
ability to walk a little faster, but on the final morning of my visit I took a
different route.
For half a mile I had walked alongside a
delightful elderly Swiss lady – also a recent returnee to the town. She was striding
along at an impressive speed and breathlessly venting her disapproval of the traffic,
litter, noise and terrible air quality. We chatted for a while and shared some memories
of how the old market town had once looked. Eventually I spotted a cycle path leading
into a small park, and with a friendly wave, we parted ways. This new path took
a serpentine route following a small stream, alongside a modern housing estate.
As it was early in the morning there were few people about, so for a while I was
able to lengthen my stride and burn some calories.
After three miles, I turned and headed back towards
the hotel. On the return leg I passed a few commuters, eyes down, chatting on their
phones and walking purposely towards the station for the early train. The dog walkers
seemed more affable, inclined to make eye contact and mumble “good morning” as they passed. Just before
the path reached the main road, I noticed a tall, dark-haired man approaching. He
was walking a small black poodle. It had a pink collar and a blue bow tied to the
fur on its head. A smile twitched his lips but faltered as the gap between us closed.
His eyes danced a cautious jig, flicking from mild fear to confusion. A frown creased
his forehead as his stride inadvertently slowed. Recognizing the face I hadn’t seen
for twenty-five years, I clicked my fingers and pointed.
“Karl Harris!”
He politely shook my outstretched hand, but his
smile was guarded.
“Nick Albert,” I offered.
“Niiick!” he smiled. “How the devil are you?”
“Oh, I’m just grand. How are you?”
“Fine, fine,” he replied.
I knelt to fuss his excitable poodle. The ridiculous
blue hair-tie came off in my hand.
“Sorry.” I grimaced handing the bow to Karl.
For a few minutes we shared some banal pleasantries,
but much time had gone by since our last meeting and we were no longer friends
– if we ever were. I shuffled my feet in embarrassment as Karl looked over my shoulder
for escape.
“Well, I’d better get on…” we blurted, almost together.
With a smile and a nod, we went our separate ways.
A little further up the road, I spotted an old concrete
signpost almost buried in a hedge. Like a simile for the life I left behind, it
indicated the original route of a disused footpath. It was overgrown, but passable.
Figuring it would be a less unpleasant walk back to the hotel than trudging along
the dual-carriageway, I stepped over the nettles and set off in a new direction.
Although I frequently had to crouch to pass under
the overhanging hawthorn and wipe away the occasional cobweb, I made good progress.
The mud underfoot was dry and well-trodden, albeit scattered with discarded beer
cans, cigarette butts and the detritus of someone’s clandestine drug use. High in
the trees, a song thrush made desperate efforts to make itself heard over the roar
of the morning traffic.
As I walked, my thoughts drifted back to my meeting
with Karl. From what he had shared, in the quarter century since we had last met,
his life seemed almost unchanged. He was a contented bachelor, living in the same
house and still working at the same company. His life had stability and permanence.
But much like my walking route, my life had taken a much different path, eventually
leading Lesley and I to a derelict farmhouse in the wilds of rural Ireland and a
career as an author. Had I stayed on the same path as Karl twenty-five years before,
how different would my life be today. Would I be so happy, or as content? Who can
say?
In an exquisite moment of irony, at that moment
the old footpath I was following terminated abruptly at the entrance to a
field. The hotel was nowhere in sight. My legendary sense of direction had failed
me again! With the aid of Google maps, my smart phone and a good bit of head scratching,
I managed to figure out where I was and plot an approximate route back to the hotel.
Heading towards the loudest traffic sounds, I pushed through a prickly hedge and,
with a whoop of excitement, slithered on my bum twenty feet down a steep grassy
embankment towards the road below. As my feet hit the curbstone, stopping my descent,
there was a squeal of brakes and the angry toot of a car horn. Smiling like a village
idiot, I turned my eyes towards the stationary car, only to find the disproving
face of a policeman staring back at me. Feeling mildly self-conscious, I stood and
casually brushed the dry grass from my trousers. His window slid down.
“What the hell are you playing at?” he shouted.
“I nearly hit you.”
“Sorry.” I gave him my best attempt at an apologetic
grimace. “You see I got lost and I was trying to find my hotel.”
“Where’s your car?” he growled, his eyes interrogating
mine for any sign of dishonesty.
I was about to launch into a long answer, explaining
how my car was back home in Ireland and that I was only on holiday, exploring
this once familiar countryside, but the words stuck in my throat.
“At my hotel,” I croaked.
“Why aren’t you driving?” he demanded.
“I wanted some exercise. 10,000 steps,” I explained,
pointing at my wrist before realizing my fitness tracking watch was back in Ireland.
Apparently satisfied with my explanation as evidence
I wasn’t a risk to myself or others, he half rolled his eyes and sniffed. “Be more
careful.”
“Yes sir,” I mumbled, feeling like a naughty
schoolboy.
He sighed and delivered some parting advice. “Walking
around here is bad for your health.”
“I don’t suppose you could give me a lift back to
my hotel?” I shouted as he drove off. Apparently not.
***
Stansted airport was oppressively hot and horrifically
busy. It was the worst I have ever experienced and rather a challenge to someone
used to the quiet solitude of rural Ireland. Although I had been reacclimatised to crowds for a week, I quickly
found myself becoming stressed and irritated by the noise and heat. Fortunately,
I knew of a quiet corner where I could enjoy a cup of tea while I read a book or
watch the planes land. I settled down and waited patiently for my flight to be called.
My solitude was soon interrupted.
“Jees! That’s some crowd!” The person who sat next
to me was a tall, pasty-faced man, aged around thirty-five. He wore ripped jeans,
scruffy trainers and a white nylon t-shirt. There was a confusing jumble of tattoos
on his arms and hands. Encircling his neck was an elaborate drawing of a snake,
culminating with the head on his left cheek, it’s fanged mouth open as if protecting
the wearer. I tried not to stare.
“It certainly is,” I agreed, smiling. “If I hadn’t
found this quiet corner, there was a chance I was going to bite someone!”
He laughed at my quip. “I know the feeling. Where’re
you headed?”
“Ireland.”
“Me too. I’m going to see my Uncle.”
“Are you flying to Shannon?” I asked.
“Knock,” he replied, with a shake of his head.
“That’s north of Galway, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “You visiting?”
“No. I’m heading home.”
“Oh. You live in Ireland?” He looked at me with
renewed interest.
I nodded. “County Clare.”
“Lucky you.”
I pointed towards the crowds. “I’ll be pleased when
I’m away from all this and heading back home.”
“This country’s gone mad,” he whispered, his voice
heavy with sadness.
“It’s certainly changed since I lived here,” I agreed.
“Have you been gone long?” he asked.
“Almost fifteen years.”
“There’s a coincidence. I’ve been away for fifteen
years too!” He smiled and tapped the snake’s head. “Hence the tattoos.”
“Army?” I asked.
“Jail. Just out last month. I can’t believe how
my old patch has gone downhill.” He shook his head sadly.
“Surely it’s not that bad?”
He snorted. “I actually felt safer in jail!”
We chatted for fifteen minutes, reminiscing about
the England we had left behind and laughing when we realized how our paths may have
crossed when we were younger men. I thought he seemed a thoroughly pleasant fellow,
with an interesting story to tell. His flight was called first, so we shook hands
and bade goodbye. As he picked up his bag, he leaned over and patted me on the
shoulder.
“You’re okay,” he said. “Some people wouldn’t talk
to an ex-con.”
“I try not to judge.” I shrugged. “There by the
grace of God and all that…”
“Weren’t you worried I was going to stick you with
a knife?” He grinned disarmingly, but there was an undertone of deadly seriousness
to his question.
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“Well…” I shuffled my feet in embarrassment. “We’ve
both been through security and the metal detectors, so I figured…”
He stared into my eyes for a moment, then threw
his head back and roared with laughter. “I hadn’t thought of that!”
I watched him walk away, shaking his head and laughing
all the way to his gate. All-in-all, he was one of the nicest people I met on my
trip.
***
I was almost tearful as my flight approached touchdown.
Ireland looked particularly inviting, by virtue of a spectacular sunset glinting
off the waters of the Shannon estuary.
As usual, my wife was late picking me up at the
airport, but I didn’t mind waiting.
“When I was ready to leave, I let the dogs out on
the lawn so they could have a pee,” Lesley explained.
“Let me guess, Lady ran off?” Our ageing and profoundly
deaf Foxhound has an irritating habit of deciding to launch a hunting expedition
at the most inconvenient times.
My wife huffed and rolled her eyes. “She spotted
a fox near to the chicken run and that was it! Kia and Honey went with her. It took
forever to get them back.”
“She’s just doing her job,” I explained, smiling.
“But I’m really late.”
I patted her hand. “Not to worry, I’m just glad
to be home. I truly am.”
The roads were quiet, almost empty, even though
it was early evening. We drove slowly through a small village, giving a
friendly wave to a group of people enjoying an alfresco meal and a pint of Guinness.
“What are you smiling at?” Lesley asked, a few minutes
later.
“That sign outside the pub we just past.”
“What did it say?”
“Veg of the day – chips.”
Lesley laughed. “Welcome back to Ireland!”.
***
Early the following morning, I took the dogs for
a long walk up through the forest. Pausing for a few minutes to take some pictures,
I delighted in the solitude. Up here high in the hills, miles from the nearest car,
the air is fresh, thickened only by the heavy scent of pine and the humid aroma
of peat and gorse. The butterflies and bees are in abundance and the birds compete
with each other, not the roar of passing traffic.
I breathed deeply and nodded. There is no doubt,
moving to Ireland was the right decision. England isn’t a bad place, it’s just different.
A throwback to a previous version of me. Somewhere I no longer fit. It’s not like
Ireland, not like home.
