~ Goldsmith Country ~
With their rucksacks placed on their knees, Abi and Brian fitted comfortably alongside the driver in the front of the pick-up truck. The driver, a wizened old farmer who wore a flat cap that seemed several sizes too big for him, had stopped to offer them a lift at the field gate where they were taking a rest. They hadn’t needed to thumb the ride.
“So what brings yous two out here, miles from anywhere?” the farmer asked as the truck moved off.
“We’re hitchhiking,” answered Abi, who sat in the middle of the trio. “We’ve been staying in Dublin, and now we’re making our way across to the West coast. To Galway. That’s the plan.”
The farmer nodded, thought for a moment and then smiled mischievously.
“Hitchhiking, is it? Well, I don’t know about the hitching part, but it seems to me yous haven’t been doing much of the hiking. You know, I’ve passed yous half-a-dozen times today while I’ve been going back and forth, taking feed out to the cattle, and yous haven’t made much progress at all. Sure ‘n’ it may take you a while to get over to Galway.”
Both Abi and Brian laughed out loud.
“Naw, we’re no’ very good at it,” said Abi. “No’ the day, anyway. We were doing really well earlier on. Then it became too hot to walk. So we’ve been resting… a lot.”
The farmer nodded again.
“It’s a hot day, I’ll grant you that. One of the few in Ireland.”
“Also, we just had to stop to admire the countryside. It’s so beautiful here. So green and fresh.”
“I’ll grant you that as well. Now, seeing as Longford is the only place this road goes to, I take it that’s where yous are headed this afternoon?”
“Aye, it is,” Brian answered, joining the conversation for the first time. He had been enjoying the banter between Abi and the farmer, and the latter’s dry humour.
“Well, I’m going back to the farm just now, but I can drop yous off about a mile from the town. Think yous can manage the rest of the way on your own before it gets dark?”
Abi and Brian laughed even louder than before.
“Scotland, is it?” asked the farmer when they were leaving his truck about quarter of an hour later.
“Scotland, aye. From Edinburgh,” said Abi.
“Thought so. A beautiful country as well. And a beautiful city. Yous two take care now. I hope yous make it to Galway.”
It was early evening when Abi and Brian walked down Longford Town’s Main Street and checked into the Longford Arms Hotel. Although he probably didn’t need to, Brian, the constant planner, had booked the room a few days before from Dublin. It wasn’t the plushest of hotels, but it was the only one in the town that Brian could find, and he figured it would do fine for a pair of tired and dusty hitchhikers. It didn’t have a restaurant, but it did sport adjoining public and lounge bars. When they peeked into the latter bar, it looked so inviting that they decided to have a drink in it before heading up to their room. Besides, they were very thirsty after that last mile’s walk in the heat of the setting sun.
There were no other customers in the lounge. They sat on bar stools at the counter and ordered two bottles of lager from the thin, severe-looking woman who came through from the public bar to serve them. She was in her late forties, with greying black hair tied back in a tight bun and a white face that probably hadn’t cracked a smile for years. She set two schooner glasses in front of them, poured the lager into the glasses and returned to the public bar, all without saying a word.
It was Ice Cold in Alex all over again as Brian and Abi sat for some time licking their lips and watching the beads of condensation run down the glasses. Then Brian grabbed his glass and gulped down half the lager before setting the glass down again.
“Worth waiting for,” he said, mimicking John Mills and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
Abi was more sedate, finishing only a quarter of her glass in one gulp. But it wasn’t long before they were asking the woman for another two bottles. As she placed the bottles in front of them, Frosty Face (that’s what they had decided to call her) spoke for the first time.
“So what brings you to Longford?” she asked in a voice that was more interrogative than friendly. “We’re well of out of the way here, so we don’t get many tourists.”
“We’re actually travelling to Galway,” Brian explained. “But we wanted to make a detour and drop in on Longford. It’s where I think my mother came from. All she ever mentioned was Longford, so I’m not sure if she meant Longford Town or elsewhere in County Longford. Her father’s name was Lane, Patrick Lane. You may know it.”
Frosty Face shook her head. “Lane? ” she sniffed. “No, the name doesn’t mean anything. But I’ll ask around.” Then she disappeared again.
As he and Abi sat drinking their lagers, more slowly this time, Brian couldn’t hep comparing Frosty Face’s coldness with the generosity and humour, not to mention the twinkling eyes, of the old farmer they had left only a short while ago. Dark and light; the two sides of Ireland, he supposed.
Shrugging, he swivelled round on his stool to take a better look at the empty lounge. It was a sizeable room, with tables and chairs ranged along its walls. Taking up most of the space in the centre of the floor was a series of display boards joined together in a zigzag fashion. Curious, he slipped down from his stool and, glass in hand, went to look. Seeing what he was up to, Abi followed suit.
The travel guide they had brought with them to Ireland was rather scathing about County Longford, describing it as “a cultural desert”. So they were both surprised to see what appeared to be a large dollop of culture emblazoned across the display boards. On the side of the linked boards facing the counter were big photographs of the stunning landscape that could be found throughout the County, together with details of places to visit and nature trails to take. And the whole display on that side was headed up Goldsmith Country, named in honour of the famous poet, Oliver Goldsmith, who was born in the County.
The reverse side was headed up Oliver Goldsmith. As well as showing a variety of portraits and sketches of the poet, the boards set out the story of his life from birth through to death. The parts of his story that intrigued Abi and Brian most were the antics he got up to as a young man before he moved to London and made a name for himself. He seemed to be a dissolute character, to say the least. When he first left home to go to Dublin to study at Trinity College, apparently he didn’t travel very far before he got drunk, lost all his money and had to return. Having eventually arrived in Dublin, he decided to emigrate to America, but got drunk again and missed the boat. And he made two unsuccessful attempts to go to London before finally landing there. Both of those times, he got drunk, got into a fight and lost his money.
All of these comical shenanigans were made even more comical to Abi and Brian because they were described on the boards in a completely matter-of-act, humourless way. Light-headed from the effect of the cold lager, they began by giggling, but soon were laughing out loud, with tears streaming down their faces. But their laughter stopped abruptly when they emerged from behind the boards to see Frosty Face framed in the doorway to the public bar and looking like thunder.
Later that evening, after eating in a steakhouse up the road, they returned to the hotel for a drink. The lounge bar was still empty, but the public bar sounded lively, so that’s where they went. In there, they found a noisy crowd being entertained by a man playing the guitar and singing. They chose to sit on bar stools at the quiet end of the counter, and were served by Frosty Face in her usual laconic manner. The man with the guitar sang mostly American country numbers, interspersed with Irish Rebel songs that were instantly familiar to Brian. And it wasn’t long before he and Abi were enjoying the atmosphere and singing and clapping along with the rest of the crowd.
An hour or so later, when the singer was taking a break and Abi was paying a visit to the ladies, Brian spotted Frosty Face standing in a corner of the bar in conversation with a tall man of about the same age as her. He had noticed the man before, circulating among the customers, all of whom seemed to know and like him, so he had guessed him to be the hotel’s owner. At one point during the conversation, Brian was sure that the man said the word “Lane” as if he was asking a question, after which he glanced across the room at Brian, turned back to Frosty Face and gave her what Brian could only describe as a dark look. Not a shrug, not a shake of the head, but a strange dark look. A few more words were exchanged between them. Then the man left the bar and Frosty Face returned to her work.
Brian thought at first that his imagination was running away with him. He had had a few drinks by then. The alcohol, coupled with the heat and noise of the place, might have been playing tricks on him. Nevertheless, that look from the man continued to puzzle him. Maybe the name Patrick Lane did mean something in Longford. If, indeed, he came from there, his grandfather would have had quite a reputation in the town. According to Brian’s mother, her father was a Lieutenant-Colonel in the IRA during Ireland’s War of Independence. She also claimed he was Michael Collins’ right-hand man. So he would have been a Free Stater up against the Republicans in the bloody Civil War that followed. But they were living in the 1990’s, more than seventy years after those terrible events. Did bad blood still run between families even now? Did rural Ireland still hide a dark underbelly? The questions were quickly dismissed when Abi returned from the ladies and the singer resumed his performance to a loud cheer from the crowd.
The next morning immediately after breakfast, Abi and Brian went to the hotel’s small reception counter. They weren’t surprised to see Frosty Face sitting behind it.
“I know we only booked for one night,” Brian began, “but we’re really enjoying the town and would like to explore it a bit more. Would it be possible for us to stay another night?”
“Tomorrow is Saturday, Market Day in Longford,” Frosty Face replied coldly, “so all our rooms are booked for tonight.”
There wasn’t the merest flicker in her eyes as she spoke. Nor was there even a hint of apology in her voice.
Half an hour later, Abi and Brian were walking away from the hotel, their rucksacks on their backs. Rain was coming, so they had decided to forego the hitchhiking and take the bus to Galway.
“It’s because we laughed at that wee drunk, Oliver Goldsmith,” Abi sighed. “That’s why she didnae give us the room.”
“Aye, probably,” Brian nodded. He had an alternative explanation, but he kept it to himself.
“So what brings yous two out here, miles from anywhere?” the farmer asked as the truck moved off.
“We’re hitchhiking,” answered Abi, who sat in the middle of the trio. “We’ve been staying in Dublin, and now we’re making our way across to the West coast. To Galway. That’s the plan.”
The farmer nodded, thought for a moment and then smiled mischievously.
“Hitchhiking, is it? Well, I don’t know about the hitching part, but it seems to me yous haven’t been doing much of the hiking. You know, I’ve passed yous half-a-dozen times today while I’ve been going back and forth, taking feed out to the cattle, and yous haven’t made much progress at all. Sure ‘n’ it may take you a while to get over to Galway.”
Both Abi and Brian laughed out loud.
“Naw, we’re no’ very good at it,” said Abi. “No’ the day, anyway. We were doing really well earlier on. Then it became too hot to walk. So we’ve been resting… a lot.”
The farmer nodded again.
“It’s a hot day, I’ll grant you that. One of the few in Ireland.”
“Also, we just had to stop to admire the countryside. It’s so beautiful here. So green and fresh.”
“I’ll grant you that as well. Now, seeing as Longford is the only place this road goes to, I take it that’s where yous are headed this afternoon?”
“Aye, it is,” Brian answered, joining the conversation for the first time. He had been enjoying the banter between Abi and the farmer, and the latter’s dry humour.
“Well, I’m going back to the farm just now, but I can drop yous off about a mile from the town. Think yous can manage the rest of the way on your own before it gets dark?”
Abi and Brian laughed even louder than before.
“Scotland, is it?” asked the farmer when they were leaving his truck about quarter of an hour later.
“Scotland, aye. From Edinburgh,” said Abi.
“Thought so. A beautiful country as well. And a beautiful city. Yous two take care now. I hope yous make it to Galway.”
It was early evening when Abi and Brian walked down Longford Town’s Main Street and checked into the Longford Arms Hotel. Although he probably didn’t need to, Brian, the constant planner, had booked the room a few days before from Dublin. It wasn’t the plushest of hotels, but it was the only one in the town that Brian could find, and he figured it would do fine for a pair of tired and dusty hitchhikers. It didn’t have a restaurant, but it did sport adjoining public and lounge bars. When they peeked into the latter bar, it looked so inviting that they decided to have a drink in it before heading up to their room. Besides, they were very thirsty after that last mile’s walk in the heat of the setting sun.
There were no other customers in the lounge. They sat on bar stools at the counter and ordered two bottles of lager from the thin, severe-looking woman who came through from the public bar to serve them. She was in her late forties, with greying black hair tied back in a tight bun and a white face that probably hadn’t cracked a smile for years. She set two schooner glasses in front of them, poured the lager into the glasses and returned to the public bar, all without saying a word.
It was Ice Cold in Alex all over again as Brian and Abi sat for some time licking their lips and watching the beads of condensation run down the glasses. Then Brian grabbed his glass and gulped down half the lager before setting the glass down again.
“Worth waiting for,” he said, mimicking John Mills and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
Abi was more sedate, finishing only a quarter of her glass in one gulp. But it wasn’t long before they were asking the woman for another two bottles. As she placed the bottles in front of them, Frosty Face (that’s what they had decided to call her) spoke for the first time.
“So what brings you to Longford?” she asked in a voice that was more interrogative than friendly. “We’re well of out of the way here, so we don’t get many tourists.”
“We’re actually travelling to Galway,” Brian explained. “But we wanted to make a detour and drop in on Longford. It’s where I think my mother came from. All she ever mentioned was Longford, so I’m not sure if she meant Longford Town or elsewhere in County Longford. Her father’s name was Lane, Patrick Lane. You may know it.”
Frosty Face shook her head. “Lane? ” she sniffed. “No, the name doesn’t mean anything. But I’ll ask around.” Then she disappeared again.
As he and Abi sat drinking their lagers, more slowly this time, Brian couldn’t hep comparing Frosty Face’s coldness with the generosity and humour, not to mention the twinkling eyes, of the old farmer they had left only a short while ago. Dark and light; the two sides of Ireland, he supposed.
Shrugging, he swivelled round on his stool to take a better look at the empty lounge. It was a sizeable room, with tables and chairs ranged along its walls. Taking up most of the space in the centre of the floor was a series of display boards joined together in a zigzag fashion. Curious, he slipped down from his stool and, glass in hand, went to look. Seeing what he was up to, Abi followed suit.
The travel guide they had brought with them to Ireland was rather scathing about County Longford, describing it as “a cultural desert”. So they were both surprised to see what appeared to be a large dollop of culture emblazoned across the display boards. On the side of the linked boards facing the counter were big photographs of the stunning landscape that could be found throughout the County, together with details of places to visit and nature trails to take. And the whole display on that side was headed up Goldsmith Country, named in honour of the famous poet, Oliver Goldsmith, who was born in the County.
The reverse side was headed up Oliver Goldsmith. As well as showing a variety of portraits and sketches of the poet, the boards set out the story of his life from birth through to death. The parts of his story that intrigued Abi and Brian most were the antics he got up to as a young man before he moved to London and made a name for himself. He seemed to be a dissolute character, to say the least. When he first left home to go to Dublin to study at Trinity College, apparently he didn’t travel very far before he got drunk, lost all his money and had to return. Having eventually arrived in Dublin, he decided to emigrate to America, but got drunk again and missed the boat. And he made two unsuccessful attempts to go to London before finally landing there. Both of those times, he got drunk, got into a fight and lost his money.
All of these comical shenanigans were made even more comical to Abi and Brian because they were described on the boards in a completely matter-of-act, humourless way. Light-headed from the effect of the cold lager, they began by giggling, but soon were laughing out loud, with tears streaming down their faces. But their laughter stopped abruptly when they emerged from behind the boards to see Frosty Face framed in the doorway to the public bar and looking like thunder.
Later that evening, after eating in a steakhouse up the road, they returned to the hotel for a drink. The lounge bar was still empty, but the public bar sounded lively, so that’s where they went. In there, they found a noisy crowd being entertained by a man playing the guitar and singing. They chose to sit on bar stools at the quiet end of the counter, and were served by Frosty Face in her usual laconic manner. The man with the guitar sang mostly American country numbers, interspersed with Irish Rebel songs that were instantly familiar to Brian. And it wasn’t long before he and Abi were enjoying the atmosphere and singing and clapping along with the rest of the crowd.
An hour or so later, when the singer was taking a break and Abi was paying a visit to the ladies, Brian spotted Frosty Face standing in a corner of the bar in conversation with a tall man of about the same age as her. He had noticed the man before, circulating among the customers, all of whom seemed to know and like him, so he had guessed him to be the hotel’s owner. At one point during the conversation, Brian was sure that the man said the word “Lane” as if he was asking a question, after which he glanced across the room at Brian, turned back to Frosty Face and gave her what Brian could only describe as a dark look. Not a shrug, not a shake of the head, but a strange dark look. A few more words were exchanged between them. Then the man left the bar and Frosty Face returned to her work.
Brian thought at first that his imagination was running away with him. He had had a few drinks by then. The alcohol, coupled with the heat and noise of the place, might have been playing tricks on him. Nevertheless, that look from the man continued to puzzle him. Maybe the name Patrick Lane did mean something in Longford. If, indeed, he came from there, his grandfather would have had quite a reputation in the town. According to Brian’s mother, her father was a Lieutenant-Colonel in the IRA during Ireland’s War of Independence. She also claimed he was Michael Collins’ right-hand man. So he would have been a Free Stater up against the Republicans in the bloody Civil War that followed. But they were living in the 1990’s, more than seventy years after those terrible events. Did bad blood still run between families even now? Did rural Ireland still hide a dark underbelly? The questions were quickly dismissed when Abi returned from the ladies and the singer resumed his performance to a loud cheer from the crowd.
The next morning immediately after breakfast, Abi and Brian went to the hotel’s small reception counter. They weren’t surprised to see Frosty Face sitting behind it.
“I know we only booked for one night,” Brian began, “but we’re really enjoying the town and would like to explore it a bit more. Would it be possible for us to stay another night?”
“Tomorrow is Saturday, Market Day in Longford,” Frosty Face replied coldly, “so all our rooms are booked for tonight.”
There wasn’t the merest flicker in her eyes as she spoke. Nor was there even a hint of apology in her voice.
Half an hour later, Abi and Brian were walking away from the hotel, their rucksacks on their backs. Rain was coming, so they had decided to forego the hitchhiking and take the bus to Galway.
“It’s because we laughed at that wee drunk, Oliver Goldsmith,” Abi sighed. “That’s why she didnae give us the room.”
“Aye, probably,” Brian nodded. He had an alternative explanation, but he kept it to himself.