County Limerick

By Geoffrey Gaskill.

In the headlights I saw him. It wasn’t him so much that caught my eye, as the manner of his walking along that road. Night time it might have been but even a casual observer could not have missed his stooped shoulders and how he leaned into the walk, arms dangling. Like a robot. His coat was undone and flapped open to the flurries of snow that portended a wild night. He was also bare-headed.

I’d been driving the west coast of Ireland for the last few days, marvelling at both its desolate beauty and wild weather. That day I’d left it late to get to my next stop, the village of Adare in County Limerick, reputed to be the prettiest in Ireland. To make matters worse, I’d lost my way more than once and tried to make up time by taking short-cuts. That made matters worse so by now it was dark, and the weather was deteriorating.

With no town or village in sight, Adare would have to wait. Tiredness weighed on me, so I resolved to stop as soon as possible otherwise I faced a night sleeping in my car. At that moment, I saw a glow in the distance. A village at last! It didn’t matter which one. I was just glad I’d stumbled over it.

By now the wind had got up and trees bent and swayed. Twigs and leaves competed with flurries of snow to obscure the road ahead.

As I passed the first houses, I felt a bump as though I’d run over something. I cursed. An errant fox, dog or cat, I thought. Maybe a branch or limb from one of the overhanging trees had fallen. I stopped the car and got out to inspect the damage. Hire car companies charge the world if their cars are returned in anything but pristine condition. At best I expected a flat tyre.

To my surprise not only was there no damage, no flat tyre, but it was so dark and windy that I couldn’t see whatever it was I’d run over. What did happen was, the moment I stopped, the tiredness now became a heavy weight. My body and brain decided to gang-up. Stopping for the night became non-negotiable.

Across the road I saw the lights of a pub. It was then I saw the man. He walked into the headlights of my car before putting his hand on the front door. A sign above read, ‘The World’s End’. One of these days I thought, I will catalogue how hotels in Ireland there were called ‘World’s Ends’, ‘King’s Heads’ or ‘White Harts’.

As he opened the door, I called to him. ‘Excuse me, mate,’ I said, ‘does the pub here have accommodation?’

Either he was so preoccupied that he didn’t hear me or was ignoring a stranger in the dark. He walked in and left the door open. A warm yellow glow tinged with redness spilled out onto the stoop. Flurries of snow turned into opalescent flakes.

I was too tired to be insulted as I was to drive any drive any further. Go in, I told myself and see if they have a room. God knows, the place looked inviting enough. If ‘The World’s End’ couldn’t accommodate me, I hoped they’d be able to direct me to somewhere that could. In the meantime, I could get a bite to eat.

The interior of the pub was picturesque like so many pubs in that part of the world, oozing historical charm. Low, smoke-darkened ceilings, an open fire and a bar that ran around three of the four walls. By now the man from the street was sitting at one end, far away from the door. There was already an empty glass in front of him. He stared into it.

I approached the barman and asked about staying. He couldn’t help but mentioned a place not far further along the road. I thanked him and asked about food. He took my order and I sat down with a drink to wait.

By the time I’d finished the meal and my second pint, my eyelids were closing. The warmth of the room, the long drive and the drinks had done their work. I paid and took my leave. The hatless man from the road was still sitting at the bar, empty glass in front of him. I’d kept my eye on him while I was in there, but no-one approached him save the barman who replaced one glass with another.

I got back to my car and hoped that the place I’d been directed to was indeed nearby and could help me with a bed for the night. Otherwise, dawn would be a cold, uncomfortable and long time coming.

The woman who answered my knock at her door, in a village so small it didn’t seem to have a name, was one of those squat and matronly types whose role in life seems to be taking pity on strangers

She looked at me. I must have looked pathetic, all wet and carrying a suitcase. Then she glanced out into the dark at the weather before telling me to come in. ‘Tsk, tsk. You poor thing. Out on a night like this. Yourself’ll be wanting a room, n’doubt.’

I can’t remember much more. Full of the warming meal, the drinks and the drive meant the cosiness of my room finished me off. I could do little more than drop my bag and fall on the bed and into a sleep fully clothed.

I awoke in the early hours and got undressed. I crawled back under the covers for the rest of the night. Before sleep took me again, I glanced out of the window. There was no more snow and no wind bent the trees. Instead, the sky had cleared and was now festooned with stars that glowed with impossible and crystalline sharpness and beauty. It would be freezing out there. I don’t know why my thoughts turned to the bare-headed man at the pub. For some reason I hope he’d remembered to button his coat and borrow a cap before he returned to venture out to go home. He must have been cold when I saw him. Being out of doors later would have been worse.

Then I thought about the empty glasses in front of him, his silence and how no one, not even the barman as he changed them, spoke to him.

I slept late and got up when movements downstairs became too hard to ignore. I looked at my watch. It was so late I expected the landlady to charge me for another night. Worse, I might not make Adare that day either.

I showered and packed. I went down and apologised to the landlady. She was all ‘Hush! Hush!’ and pointed me towards the dining room. ‘Have a good breakfast before you go,’ she said. Breakfast I thought? More like luncheon.

I protested about how I must have inconvenienced her and offered to recompense her at least a part night’s accommodation, but she waved the offer away with an impatient hand.

As I ate, she shuffled in and out, smiling as she told me how the weather would be good for my drive though it would close in again later that evening. ‘More snow,’ she clicked her tongue and furrowed her brow in disapproval of the inclemency of the weather. ‘No good for driving.’ Then she brightened. ‘The country between here and Adare is so beautiful.’ The soft lilt of her voice was hypnotic, and I felt the weariness of yesterday tug at my brain urging me to stay on. ‘You should take the time to see as much as you can, while you can. You mightn’t get back this way.’

I’d paid for my room and thanked her again.

‘Ignore what they say about Adare,’ she whispered with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye and a smile on her lips. ‘It’s here that’s the prettiest village in Ireland. And that’s saying something. Though it is a pity about the pub back aways.’

‘Pub?’ I said.

‘Aye, ‘The World’s End’.’

I must have looked confused.

‘It burned down last year,’ she added. ‘And them’s in charge haven’t cleaned up the site yet.’

I frowned. ‘Burned down?’

‘Aye. An eyesore it is now. A local fellow it was who set the fire. He’d lost his wife and daughter. Run over by a car while they were walking to the pub one stormy night to meet him.’ She frowned, shook her head and crossed herself. ‘Some say it was a tourist, but no-one knows. He drank hisself to death. Or so I’m told. Though there’s them that will tell you they saw him sitting up at the bar, as calm as you like, with an empty glass in front of him after he set the place ablaze.’

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Geoff spent thirty something years of his working life telling children how to write.

At retirement he decided to practise what he preached. Much of this output sits in his top drawer at varying stages of ‘completion’.

Otherwise he is an actor and director in the local theatre scene. After all, actors and directors are storytellers too.