Nice town. Was once on the railway and might be again some distant day if West On Track ever gets there. But sure as hell I won't be on that train. My Toronto Son might, he's 22, so he just might. Reckon he'll be pretty damn old, but make it? He might. Maybe his children? Whatever.
He did make it to Tubbercurry this week with me. But by motorcar. En route to Toronto. Not to Knock Airport, no, Knock doesn't do Toronto, but en route to Dublin from our fastness in the west.
I'm not often in Tubbercurry. It's not on a direct route between Fastness in The West and Apartment in The City...but now and then when I need to breathe that mountain air and see Lough Talt, I drive that way. But this visit was nothing to do with mountain air or Lough Talt. It was all to do with H, the wife. She had a client to track down in the Tubbercurry area.
The plan: She would leave her husband and son in the town and drive into the hills to find that client. Then, that done, she would return to the town, pick us up, and we'd all drive on to Dublin. Very efficient woman. Not that that prevented her being defamed/libelled and traduced by a Sunday Independent journalist a week or so back. (You know who you are Ciara Dwyer).
Yes, efficient wife, a writer needs one. Very good looking woman too, same wife. I've lived with her so long I've forgotten that. But was reminded during the week by Eoghan Harris. She's a 'stunner', according to that sage/scribe, telling me this and other stuff too embarassing to repeat. What happens in my email stays in my email ! (Much like events on a stag weekend.) Enough to say he detailed her attractions. All this arising from a hames the Sunday Indo made of reviewing a book of mine, A Walk on The Southside.
I sometimes have my doubts about that newspaper.
The wife's Passat vanished into the mist (it was misty) and the son and I stood on Main Drag Tubbercurry. It was quiet. Too quiet? Probably.
I looked across the road and there it was, a place I knew, remembered. A hostelry. We'll go in there, we decided, have a cup of tea.
It was Killorans, coffee shop and bar.
Coffee shop and bar goes no way towards describing Killorans.Nothing really could describe Killorans. Maybe because it's not actually a place, more like a journey. Down sideways of memory and charm.
I told the son of the place I'd been there fifteen years ago for breakfast. He said "fifteen years...mmmnn...mustn't have been a great breakfast". His mother and I discussed Brendan Shine at some length, Killoran's being a centre of music and entertainment. (As well as coffee shop and bar). She told me about her Downs Syndrome daughter and her dealings (fraught) with the HSE to raise funds for the handicapped of the town. And the same daughter brushed the floor around our table. Smiling. And meaningfully mentioning the forthcoming Valentine's Day to my Toronto Son.
It was a good place and human. And there's less and less of that to find.
And so the hour passed well.
I thought to myself this is what tourists in Ireland are looking for. But there's less and less to find. And then H the wife came back to collect us. I took a photograph. The rest is history.
We drove on to Dublin.
Toronto Son went out to see his mates. I reckon this involved pizzas and slabs of cheap beer in places that students live in Terenure. He went out with strict injunctions to reappear next morning for important visit. He did reappear next morning. By his demeanour it was obvious that his night before had involved pizzas and slabs of cheap beer in places that students live in Terenure.
The important visit?
To my sisters, his aunts.
To say my sisters are eccentric is....well...quite right. But then I too am eccentric. Eccentric is good. Cherish the difference. Yes the instructions to the Toronto Son was that he must visit my sisters/his aunts on his visit from Toronto. It was only right and proper. Childless aunts like visits from nephews. Granted, the converse doesn't always obtain, but it's only right and proper for the younger generation to..etc etc...
Just to make sure he got there I drove him.
We set off to Greystones. We drove into the relevant housing estate.
It then became surreal.
We saw ahead of us a Garda Presence, by way of car and personnel. A knot of rubberneckers. A tow truck. And a vehicle up a tree in a garden. A particular vehicle with flowers painted on the sides. Yes, one of my sisters is an artist, and drives a particular vehicle with flowers painted on the side. How well she drives it is...hmmnnn...the owner of the garden and that tree may very well be able to fill you in on that.
We lept out of our car, son and I, actually quite shocked. The guard told us that the sister/aunt had been taken away in an ambulance, she too quite shocked, but apart from that...etc. She'd been taken to Loughlinstown Hospital.
Ah, I thought. Being old enough to have known people who referred to it as The Workhouse. Back in the '90's. The 1990's. And workhouse it was. And more or less still is. There's a mass grave in the back garden.
We drove to Loughlinstown Hospital.
Any empty parking spots were labelled doctors, with names of various consultants. The thought did cross my mind as to why those parking bays were all empty? It is mid morning, weekday, busy busy busy...why are all the senior doctors' parking bays empty?
Why am I asking myself stupid rhetorical questions?
Toronto Son and I thus spent most of the day in Loughlinstown A&E Department. There are better ways to spend a day and better places too. But needs must. The country is in freefall. But everyone knows that, so no point in adding words to words.
We drove the sister/aunt home. The garden she'd run into didn't look that great. Particularly with that tree cut down. A feature tree. A mature silver birch. Kind of made the house, really. Pity.
We left Greystones and drove back across the city. Toronto Son said goodbye to his sisters and elderly relatives. And next morning we drove him to the airport. And he said goodbye to his mother (stunner) and to his father (writer). It was five thirty, thereabouts. And his mother (stunner) wiped a tear. And his father (writer) touched her shoulder. And driving silently back towards Sutton I saw a glimmer of dawn beyond Howth in the east.
But it promised no light for the darkness.
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