The Twinkle.
I think the idea was to stop me going mad. I was becoming abrasive and quick to let people know about it. So let’s go to Dublin. Nowhere less mad than that, eh?
Adam and I had a weekend in Edinburgh about 150 years ago, maybe 12 or so, and thought it was about time we had another one, just a brothers Big Day Out sort of thing, and Dublin was settled on as a good in-between point, coming from Aberdeen and London.
We’d managed to get flights that landed at about the same time, around midday, and we’d take it from there. Simple. I landed to a message from Adam saying he was outside Arrivals. Simple. I went outside, and not seeing him immediately, headed to the taxi rank; we’d already agreed that a cab was the simplest plan. Everything was simple. Except that there was no sign of him at all, so I rang.
‘Where are you?’
‘Outside Arrivals’
‘Me too. I went to the taxi rank, thought you’d be there.’
‘I am there. Sure you’re there? Outside Arrivals?’
‘Definitely. All I’ve done is go outside, and go to the taxi queue.’
‘Terminal 1?’
‘What?’
Thus we learned that there are two Terminals at Dublin Airport. One for regular flyers, Irish people, and fogey brothers pretending to be 20 again, and the other for the hen and stag parties that fly in from all over, mostly dressed as line-dancers, we noticed.
I walked the long 3 minutes to Terminal 2, we met and after no discussion at all headed straight to the bar to establish an itinerary for the rest of the day and tomorrow. Adam had said on the phone that he wasn’t fond of Guinness, the reason for most lads trips to this Fair City, but he had one here, and I knew that even at an airport bar, this was a different and far superior drink to any comparison to it anywhere else. It’s like pesto in Genoa, or kleftiko in Athens, it’s simply not the same away from its home.
Our digs, an AirBnB flat by the Liffey river weren’t available for check in to till 3pm, so we got a cab to The Brazen Head, a famous pub on the other side of the river that we’d checked out, though we thought we’d ask the driver, presumably a hearty local, if he’d recommend anywhere else, knowing the city as he would. He turned out to be a young lad, possibly from Lithuania, who nodded when he eventually recognised the name of the famous pub, and we set off.
The Brazen Head proudly announced itself as ‘Ireland’s Oldest Pub’ – presumably along with another 500 or so others – on a sign outside when we got there, and to be fair, it was very busy, there was a huge crowd standing outside as we pulled up on the other side of the road. That didn’t look too good for us, just hoping for a jovial yet homely, rustic yet lively yet quiet pub with a live band singing sad and longing songs rejoicing in the homeland. Yet in the first of many comic and eccentric moments, by the time we actually got our 2-night suitcases from the boot of the cab, the entire crowd, of tourists, had moved along the pavement and our way into the famous old pub was clear. Marvellous. Their timing was comically perfect, we crossed the road and went in.
The entrance was a courtyard, as befits an ancient pub, a stable yard really, with posts to tie the horses to on either side, but as we went in, and having had our hopes raised by the moving on of the large crowd outside, it was heaving. You couldn’t have tied up a gerbil in there, never mind a horse. However, as a rather wonderful welcome to Ireland, as we entered the throng with our small cases, little R2D2s trundling in our wake, a large man behind us slapped us both on the shoulders and proclaimed ‘Ha ha, straight off the boat and in for some pints eh lads? Fair play t’ye.’ Fantastic.
Straightaway we found an empty table in the downstairs room by the stable. And straightaway we were told there was a queue for this, so we went back outside to join what looked like an endless snake into the dark interior. But pretty soon we were taken as part of a large group up about 9 flights of stairs to a very upper-storey dining room. This was a huge and sprawling building. If this one did turn out actually to be Ireland’s Oldest Pub, and therefore the only one in existence when it first opened, you could probably have fitted the entire population in there.
But this spacious dining room had none of the traits we were hoping for, none of the bonhomous, welcoming, traditional, jovial, rustic etc vibes that we’d been hoping for. A waitress started slowly making her way round the room, and when we heard a table of Americans ask for a round of mineral waters we knew it wasn’t for us, and left immediately.
Straight across the road was The Merchant. Here was a big, ground floor room, with waitresses in traditional-looking outfits (though most of them were Asian) buzzing around with trays of Guinness. We took a big table and ordered a sharing platter of wings with stodgy sides and a couple of pints. After a couple more pints – Adam was getting the taste for this now – we made our way along the river, crossed it, and found our digs. I’d never done Air BnB before so didn’t realise there’s a sort of Crystal Maze you have to figure out before you’re allowed in. We’d been given 2 code numbers, 1066 and 1963 (easy to remember, William the Conqueror and JFK). The first one opened a secret side-gate (not the main one) and on one of the walls beyond was a box. Adam tapped in the JFK code, the box opened and there was a set of keys. We had to work out which keys applied to which doors, and which were false leads, but we fumbled our way in before the sirens went off.
It was a humble little place, just how humble we were to find out later, but it had 2 beds and a sofa, and a bathroom with soap in it (not always a given. There’s a lot of that shower gel/body scrub/shampoo mixture around nowadays), so all was well really. Except we couldn’t get the TV to work. I jiggled and re-inserted a few cables while Adam tried to get a rise out of the remote, but neither produced much of a picture, just a message saying ‘Don’t even think about getting this telly to work. We’re filming you and laughing while you try.’ Adam sent a message to the BnB owners, asking for someone to stop watching their CCTV and come and fix ours. After enough trying, he decided it was possibly just the batteries in the remote, so we unpacked and headed out again, to find the sort of bar we were looking for, and buying some AAAs along the way.
Our mission today was simply to find a pub that had a pool table, then go for a Thai later. We had a Park Run to do first thing in the morning, which apart from starting at 9.30, we had to travel some distance to get to, so it was going to be an early start next day. Trying desperately to be of any use at all on this trip – Adam had booked the digs, and is much better at organisation – I’d found a nearby place called Frank Ryan’s. This was shut, but looked good for later, so we headed for the heart of the city, the area called Temple Bar, which I’d been to before and so now felt in some way the host. I switched on my location indicator, Blue Dot Man, we crossed the river and headed up to the busy part of town.
Temple Bar really is the hive of Dublin, and this was a Friday afternoon. The streets were already busy – I might as well have stayed in London and gone to Oxford Street – and the atmosphere already vibrant and expectant. Things were obviously going to start happening pretty soon. But my blue man failed to catch the growing party atmosphere, indeed he seemed to want to just hide in a corner, and refused to budge. Trying again to be useful, I got more and more frustrated as I directed him towards various pool halls and bars, but he was scared to move towards any of them.
Eventually, Adam revealed that he had a spectacular watch, that was virtually a SatNav on his wrist, which showed that one of the places we were looking for was just round the next corner. He also got a very helpful reply from the BnB owners, about the telly. In reply to his request to fix it, they wrote ‘We hope you have a great stay in Dublin. If there’s anything you need, 24/7, don’t hesitate to let us know.’ Adam repeated his message about the TV not working, and we moved on round the corner. Now Adam’s watch was in charge – I think he had been being generous, letting me try to lead us around, but enough was enough – we soon came to the really bustling streets, and to a sports bar called Buskers. True to its name, right inside the door was a very loud man with a guitar on a small stage. He was awful, but you had to walk pretty close to him to reach the stairs down to the sports part of the pub. Here we managed to set up for a few hours, on a big American pool table amongst smaller ones, a skittle run, a dartboard, TV screens everywhere, showing many different sporting events, and closest to us, a punchball contraption. So our games were frequently punctuated by violent thumps from just past a corner pocket, and the queue to punch the ball often strayed virtually onto our table. Of course, it’s not just the loud thump as people break their hands hitting the heavy, suspended basketball, there’s also a big clang if they do it well.
Adam saw he had a new message from the helpful BnB people.
‘Have you tried unplugging it and plugging it in again?’ they suggested. They obviously had their top people on this. I don’t think he even bothered replying to this, or maybe sent a scathing one back. They obviously couldn’t give a toss, and we’d bought new batteries anyway. We were in the middle of a pool game (Thump! Clang!) and couldn’t be bothered with this.
Adam told me about a helicopter that had had to crash land on Clacton beach only three weeks ago, and couldn’t be moved to be repaired because of where it had had to ditch. I told him about my forthcoming interview at the American Embassy, part of the process of me going to the U.S in a couple of month’s time. Unfortunately, we’ve both inherited from Michael a habit of reacting to things very slowly, in fact usually hours or even days later, when several other conversations have taken place in between. Things go in, thoughts are processed, and eventually a response comes out, but it can be pretty slow and deliberate. We’re like sleepy old cash registers. We know what we’re doing, we knew what Michael was doing, but it’s a bit surprising to others.
It was time to eat, and to find the Thai restaurant we’d googled, and booked a table in, called Red Torch Ginger, sounded good. For our records only, I’d won the pool 7-6 though as we’d had to replay one frame cos the cue ball got stuck in the table, Adam claimed a 6-all draw. The man upstairs was still howling into his mike as we left; I think he’d reached Duran Duran hits by now and bawled ‘Is There Sumtin’ Oi Should Know?’ (I love songs in regional accents. ‘Here’s a furst-reht opportunita, to get married with impunita’, The Pirates of Penzance in Blackburn) as we crept past his stage and out into the streets. Close by there was another guy on a corner with a guitar who, you could tell, was way better than the shrieker who’d got the gig inside Buskers. I wasn’t going to even try to disturb my Blue Man, so following Adam’s watch again, we set off through the crowds.
Red Torch Ginger was excellent, though it knew that, and charged accordingly. Really, Dublin is astonishingly expensive, and that’s from one who lives in London. It’s Mayfair prices. But we’d chosen this restaurant for a good-looking menu, and to go back to the maelstrom streets outside would have been frustrating and we’d probably have ended up back here anyway, especially if my Blue Man woke up and started trying to organise things. I asked why the helicopter couldn’t be moved, and he told me it was in a location undesignated for the Air Force mechanics to do any work, so it was a bit of a conundrum. We both had a Mussaman curry, with a bottle of something sharp and white. Very good food indeed, with a wine to cut through its creaminess, and we left happy.
We made our way through the now-heaving streets (and many heaving teenagers) down to the river and back towards our digs, or more purposefully, towards Frank Ryan’s. This is the darkest bar in the world, and therefore the best. It was extraordinary, going in there for the first time. People were merely ghosts, very dim outlines sitting at what presumably was the bar, or at low tables dotted around nearby. It was an unlit tunnel, a narrow corridor where you were only roughly aware there were other people nearby because of the sound of lively Irish voices on either side. But you really had to just trust that you weren’t going to walk straight into someone, or a pillar, you could literally hardly see anything. We felt our way to a table near the back, and I think it was only on my way back to the bar that I noticed the small strings of red beads slung across various surfaces and along the ceiling. Otherwise it was almost total blackness.
Adam had really settled on Guinness now, after the 49 pints we’d had of it in Buskers, and with the crisp white in the Torch, he was really perking up, and loving this bar. I was also very excited by this bar, but it was now that we discovered another false presumption, like our one at the airport when we assumed we’d landed at the same Terminal. This time it was the discovery that while he and Cristy usually call it a day right at the very end of it, at midnight, Helen and I rarely make it past half 9. I guess calling it a day is more logical when they do it. So while he was all agog and ready to settle in to this wonderful atmosphere of a graveyard party, I was fading fast. I suppose if you’re going to fade, a bar where you can pretty much literally do so is the place to be. And we had our Park Run in the morning. So we had a couple more Guinnesses – all you could see was the white head on top and feel the glass in your hand – and went round the corner to the digs.
When we’d arrived, I’d magnanimously and very practically chosen the smaller room. Only when I got into bed did I realise how magnanimous I’d been. I’m 5 foot 6, but I literally had to lie with my feet flat against the wall. Anyone any taller would have had to scrunch up. Adam was pretty tight (I guess we both were in another way, after a long day and 75 pints of Ireland’s Best) in his bed too, but he had no floor space for his case. This was a pretty snug place. We’d bought a bottle of wine, along with tea and milk and a few snack bars when we first got here, and the idea had been that we drink it while watching something before turning in. But as the TV still wasn’t working, and I guess we’d enough incisive brotherly chat for one day, we didn’t fancy it. So the wine stayed in the fridge and we went to our respective cells, alarms set for Early.
Early was about 7ish I think, and it actually felt fine. I’ve often felt there’s something about Guinness which is kind of fortifying, in a way that beer isn’t, beer weakens you. OK, Guinness is a heavy liquid, and before long you’re in the loo after every pint, but it doesn’t do much harm in the morning. Or not this morning anyway. I had no plans to shave during this visit, a freedom unpopular at home, and he agreed.
This morning was actually quite fun, as we had to get a tram first, to Dublin’s main terminus, Connelly Station, from there to get a nice local train up the coast to a place called Malahide. Even sitting in T-shirts and shorts and trainers, riding ten miles up the Irish Sea in late August, it was pretty comfortable; the joys of new travel I suppose, in any circumstances.
On the train we talked about Park Runs he and Cristy had done, for instance internationally they’ve done PRs in 7 different countries. It’s a great institution. ‘It’s nice not to shave sometimes’, he said.
It wasn’t far to the park for the run, and we were a bit early for the 9.30 start. It was a large park, with several woodlands here and there. People started gathering – they were expecting about 200-300 this morning – the place began to fill up, and the atmosphere grew. Old and young, professional-looking and fat amateur (me), people with dogs on leads and people with kids, I always find it a very welcoming party of people. Always. This was my second Park Run. And when I say run, I had no intention of running at all. I was going to be a Park Walker. This is perfectly acceptable, several people do it, and a couple of stewards have to stay with us, straggling with us to make sure we finish, and don’t get too far behind I suppose, or lost.
Adam and I, avoiding the rush, had our picture taken having completed the Run before it had even started, posing in enthusiastic and winning fashion within a cardboard frame.
At last we were all ready to go, and the MC, Tom, stepped up to address the crowd. This is a routine that happens everywhere, before every PR. It’s a welcome, also a brief safety run-down, an ask whether there any first-timers, and where people are from, as many people, like Adam and Cristy, travel all over the world and make these PRs part of their visit to any country. Today’s furthest-away were from South Africa. Oh yes, and he had to tell us the route. Can’t have us all charging off in different directions, it’s a designated and regulated course, 5 km long. To help his description he mentioned points along the way, a mini golf course, a cricket pitch, a tall power pylon and so on, although there were also stewards and signs along the course to keep us all guided along the right paths.
Tom was a very jovial chap, and put everyone at their ease. This is a job Adam has done many times in Aberdeen, and is a vital part of the whole event. Our man in Malahide had his own special trick, he sang. To the tune of O Sole Mio (the Cornetto tune), he outlined various protocols and advice, including his Verse Two, which was:
If you’ve a doggie
He mustn’t bite
And in the forest,
Don’t let him sh- off the leash…
He was marvellous, and set us all up and off in good spirits. We both waited for the proper runners to zoom off, then Adam joined the end of that pack. Already about 300 yards away I could see a guy in a bandana leading the way, he’d been doing impressive warm-ups and looked the part so I wasn’t surprised. I waited till other runners had jogged away, then set off walking. 5K never seemed a daunting distance, so I was happy to spend however long it took wandering along the route, through the woods and wherever the guide markers and signs took me.
I couldn’t have walked much more than ½ km before I was suddenly overtaken by Bandana Man. Astonishingly, he’d already completed the course and was going round for a second time. Amazing! And he was still flying along. Inspired, I thought I’d jog for a bit, but only a few yards later I thought I’d walk for a bit. This was to be my pattern, mostly walking, but with the occasional burst of lazy speed, mostly to keep the ones ahead of me in sight. I was aware that there were stewards walking along behind me, but also that I was obviously last. Our plan was that whenever Adam had finished, he would turn round, go back up the course, find me toddling along somewhere, and we’d run the last bit together.
The path meandered past the mini golf course, through occasional bits of woodland, and out into the open again, a nice morning walk. Bandana Man passed me again, on his 3rd lap. It seemed he would never slow down. I was given encouraging thumbs-ups by the stewards that I passed, even though it was quite obvious I was last and they’d like to get home in time for lunch. I was following a woman in light-blue who was doing the same walking/jogging thing as me, and a chap in a green top, older than me but obviously fitter. At one point he stopped and waited for me, to ask if he was going the right way and I assured him he was. If I could keep those two within eyeshot I reckoned that would do fine.
After some woodland I came to a path where there stood a huge, carved totem pole. Surely Tom would have mentioned this as a guide marker? I didn’t remember him doing so. I carried on, and realised I could no longer see the light-blue woman or the green man, or any stewards anywhere, come to that. I’d taken a wrong turn. The most basic of Park Run targets, that of Completing the Course, was now lost, as was I. But it was a nice day, and I headed towards some distant football pitches that I thought I’d seen near the start of the course. It was quite a long road to reach them, and as I walked along, Bandana Man passed me yet again, so for a moment I thought I might still be going the right way, but apparently he’d had enough of doing circuits of the official route and was now just running freelance, off-piste all over the park, still at full tilt, it was extraordinary really. Nearing the football pitches, I thought I could see the chap in the green top playing in goal. He’d finished the course and was already half way through a game of football? How lost was I?
I asked a chap walking with his son which way was the way out of the park, and as a result turned round completely and started off in the opposite direction. The end of this long road opened out into a courtyard. In the middle of a run in a park, I’d managed to find a village. Maybe I’d reached the outskirts of Dublin? There were the impressive ruins of an old castle as I went up the street, and a sort of shopping/café area through an archway. Time to ask again. Also time, I thought, to text Adam and let him know not to bother trying to go back up the (correct) course to try and find me. I hope he was relieved, but I don’t think so.
In a big touristy shop selling postcards and thick jumpers, I asked a woman in the queue the way out of the park. She gave me directions that implied it wasn’t far away, which was reassuring. I left the shop with a fridge magnet and set off again. Almost immediately I saw the light-blue woman running towards me. O god. But she slowed down, and I asked my third person for directions. Fortunately, she agreed with the lady in the queue, and also said ‘It’s 5 minutes away.’ Whether or not that was 5 mins at my speed or that of Bandana Man, I was encouraged. I thanked her, she giggled a bit, and sure enough, about 15 minutes later, I emerged on a path where I could see the gate where we’d all started. Adam and I had been texting a bit and I could see him there jabbing his phone. I was approaching The End from completely the wrong direction but I still had to complete the course and check in with the officials. They cheered as they caught sight of me, and I pretended I was an heroic Marathon runner, staggering and half-falling towards the finishing line. Adam veered away, he was physically embarrassed. None of this bothered me at all, and neither had been getting lost; it was still a nice morning and my performance was taken in high spirits by Tom and the organisers, who stamped my Park Run card. Somehow, I’d come 303rd out of 305 people, and I can only imagine that there are two ‘runners’ out there to this day, admiring the totem pole or buying shamrock mugs. As we left Malahide Park I could see Bandana Man disappearing off into the trees.
We’d definitely earned a pint now, by very different means, and hoped to find somewhere either immediately next to Malahide station, or probably when we got back to Dublin. Going into unfamiliar pubs in unfamiliar countries can be slightly risky, as it only takes one drunk, or a gang of younger braves to single you out as unfamiliar to them, and not welcome. I knew when I went into a pub in Penarth many years ago to watch the football that if I didn’t keep my head down, there could be trouble. It was England v Poland, and many of the Welsh lads in the pub had actually gone to the trouble and expense of buying themselves Polish football shirts. With that level of antagonism, for me to march in and roundly cheer for England would simply have been asking to be picked on, and probably punched out the door.
But today I suddenly realised that those conditions didn’t apply any more. Penarth was 30 years ago. Young men tend to pick on young men for a fight. Nowadays, when I walk into a pub, anyone fancying a brawl sees a fat old man with glasses, not worth picking on at all. Where’s the triumph in that? They’d be more likely to offer me a chair. It’s quite reassuring really.
A train turned up and we headed back into the city. We recalled his 50th birthday, part of the celebration of which had been a trip to India for him and Cristy, and as usual I wanted to know mostly about the food. It was the trip of a lifetime for them, which fortunately they seem to have every 5 years or so. When we got back to Connelly Station I went through the barrier but Adam was having trouble with his ticket. I went to the Guard at the side and pointed this out.
‘His ticket doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘Ah leave him there’ said the Guard immediately. I laughed and straightaway he enquired ‘Does he have any money?’
‘Yes, and he owes me some!’ I said, trying to keep up with this instant Dublin humour. ‘Better let him through then’ said the Guard, and opened the gate.
It does seem to me that there’s a razor-sharp reaction that a lot of Dubliners and Irish people have. They skip the predictable, sensible response that everyone else gives, and go straight to the humorous or cheeky answer. It’s all so fast, the conversations jump forwards like games of draughts, leapfrogging convention and going straight for a comic angle. ‘Charm’ is a word completely over-used when it comes to describing the Irish attitude and delightful approach to life. I prefer the word ‘twinkle’.
We trammed back to the digs, got cleaned up after the run/embarrassing potter, and headed back up to Temple Bar to find some lunch. We went into a few bars but each had a flaw: a touristy menu, no tables, they’d run out of Guinness, so we moved on a few times. Along the way I saw overhead a street sign proclaiming a section called ‘Rory Gallacher Corner’ celebrating the famous Irish guitarist and singer of the 70s and 80s. I think he was asked to be in Deep Purple at one point. Huge figure in those years. Underneath the sign there was a Fender Strat guitar pinned to the wall.
‘I’ve got to get a photo of that’ I said, pointing my phone upwards.
After the photo we noticed a chap standing nearby, watching me.
‘So whose guitar is that then?’ he said, in all sincerity. We were speechless. Then I told him it was Rory Gallacher, without sarcasm as he was so earnest. A few yards down the street, to our delight, we passed him as he explained excitedly to his wife that he’d just seen the guitar of ‘one of those fellas from Oasis.’
Our next find was a given as soon as we walked in. Off in a side-street, a large room with a bit of a carnival going on with the décor. Lots of tall Irish hats, green scarves and lots of dolls, then pretty much anything they could think of, all displayed hanging from the roof or sitting up behind the bar. It had the close, friendly feel we’d been looking for since arriving, there were lots of tables on the wide veranda out the front, so we chose a large table, and ordered the Guinnesses, well-earned after our adventures at Malahide. Adam went utterly traditional with Irish Stew, Fish and Chips for me. A lovely pub, good hearty food with a hearty three pints of the black stuff each, and a relaxed atmosphere from both of us. I think this is where, if anywhere, we did have a conversation that stayed on track, without references to previous topics, though of course as it was a proper and constructive chat, I have no idea what aspects and issues of our lives we did actually contemplate and solve. Really enjoyed this place, The Wild Duck.
Then back to our club of yesterday, Buskers, to fill the afternoon with more pool. It wasn’t too busy yet, so at one point, we had the big pool table, Adam had requested the Women’s England v Scotland Rugby World Cup highlights, prior to the live game against Samoa on one screen right next to us, and I had Man United v Burnley, live on another. Sensory perfection. And the floor between us and the bar became a well-worn groove.
‘Seven different countries?’ I asked at one point, ‘I imagined it was more than that.’ Adam listed the seven countries he and Cristy had done Park Runs in, then said ‘Did you say you have to do an interview?’
‘Yes, and apparently they check your social media as well. I haven’t been able to press Like on any anti-Trump posts for months. And if I say something that even hints at not being a fan of America at the moment, I have to delete it, can you believe that?’ ‘That’s ridiculous. What about freedom of speech?!’ ‘Doesn’t exist any more, apparently.’
The women were doing really well in the rugby. The England/Scotland highlights had now given way to the main feature, the match between England and Samoa, and to be honest, you couldn’t play a shot on the pool table without missing England scoring a try. And going to the loo could mean missing England scoring about 30 points. The final score was 92-3, and incredibly, the Samoan players wildly celebrated scoring their single free kick goal. Mighty Man United beat Burnley because one of the Burnley players scored against his own team, then United were awarded a penalty in the 27th minute of extra time.
‘But you really managed to eat local food there did you, street biryanis and so on, without getting ill?
‘Yes, we were fine, mostly. We did occasional restaurants, you’ve got to be a bit careful.’
And so the day continued. This was what we’d come here to do really, along with cure my madness. We’ve spent many contented afternoons playing pool over many, many years, though not in as many locations as their Park Runs. This time we played 15 frames (we were distracted by the TVs a lot), I won 2/3rds of them (Adam was more distracted than I was), and I dare say we matched England point for pint.
For tonight’s tea, we’d settled on Monty’s of Kathmandu, that bastion of traditional Hibernian fare. Well, Himalayan anyway. Fascinating menu, the Nepalese versions of Indian curries I suppose, with lots of new terms (Masu Ko Bari, Chulo Ko Parikar, Mungling Dhal Bhat), spices, and proteins like goat and venison. Being an ex-military man, Adam got talking to a couple of waiters about the Gurkhas, who (I learnt) were a kind of super-soldiers in WW2, fighting on our side and globally feared because of their bravery, endurance, discipline, and general unbeatable toughness due to intense military training, fierce warrior instincts and their very upbringing in the hard Himalayan environment. They were giants in combat and thank god they were on our side. Adam spoke of them with veneration, and the head waiter chatted to us with courtesy and dignity. A great meal and a good occasion.
And that was almost it for our visit. Definitely time to pop back to Frank Ryan’s dungeon for a nightcap or two. It was busy again (you could only tell by the noise) and we ended up sitting at the bar near the front, where it was slightly lighter. There was one stool free, which I wanted Adam to have. Yet immediately we’d settled there, a young lad from a nearby group got off his stool and rushed over to offer it to me. How extremely polite, I felt humbled enough to suppress my preference for standing, and took the seat. A credit to his generation.
So we finally ironed out what happened to the helicopter on Clacton beach, and how much I was dreading my US interview. Several more pints were consumed, yet I guess at the steady pace we’d been going, neither of us felt drunk, just sort of topped-up I suppose. We were much later leaving this time than the previous night.
At about 3am I woke up, sprawled across my bed, what there was of it, fully clothed, and wandered through to the living room part of the flat. Adam was there, sitting on the sofa with the TV remote next to him, soundly but happily asleep. I felt I had to wake him so he could at least lie down, so there was probably a prolonged passage of me very gently wobbling his elbow and whispering, which progressed to shaking his arm, probably falling into him, then shoving his shoulder with both hands before he came round, and we both stumbled to our rooms.
We got to the airport in a cab through the early Sunday morning streets. At one point Bandana Man shot past like Bugs Bunny. At the airport we went our separate ways in our usual gruff fashion, it was too early for anything else. Adam had removed the new batteries from the remote and kept them, which I thought was the least he could do, given the help he’d received from the BnB owners. And that bottle of wine was still in the fridge, fortunately we’d forgotten about it the night before.
On your own at an airport Wetherspoons (which here was vast), there’s no way of leaving your case to claim a table, and going to the bar to order breakfast without knowing if it’s been pinched or not. I was feeling impatient due to a need for material sustenance very soon. So I joined the queue for the bar, with my case.
‘What’s your table number?’ asked the chap when I reached the front.
‘I don’t have one yet, because I can’t leave my case.’
‘If you don’t have a table number-‘
‘A hundred and twenty-five’ I blurted out.
‘I thought you said-‘
‘I’m table a hundred and twenty-five’ I repeated, rather definitively. I’d seen the size of the place and wildly guessed that there might be more than 125 tables. I was expecting him to say there were only 50. But though he knew I was bluffing, he could see the queue behind me and relented. Two sausages, three huge mushrooms, beans (probably about 125) and two pints of Guinness. I said I needed refilling, and that included slaking a big thirst. Guinness slips down rather easily, so I’d ordered two, as I knew that with my mouth on the dry side, the glass would feel about an inch thick and I’d absorb the stuff like a sponge.
Somehow this away-break worked. I was less confrontational for several weeks. Hope it lasts. Somehow, the thriving and ever-so-slightly edgy streets of Temple Bar had worked their magic. Only I felt that it wasn’t the atmosphere, it wasn’t the fact that we’d done exactly what we’d planned at every turn (well, Adam had anyway), it wasn’t even the Guinness; for me it’s the people. There’s an easy-going side, laid-back to the point of being distanced from life altogether, but there’s also always a readiness to leap to the comic side, another distance from ever-serious life. The people engage in a way no others seem to, friendly but always with magic behind it, a glint, a twinkle.
September 2025