1998 - Round Ireland with a fridge (22 page)

‘Another time, Geraldine, another time.’

‘Well, will you have a quick pint before you go?’

This was dangerous. I had been here before. I had to be careful.

‘Go on then,’ I succumbed. Immediate surrender on the willpower front.

‘Frank should be here in a minute,’ said Niamh.

‘Frank?’

‘Yes, Frank. From the local paper,
The Mayo News
.’

‘Local paper? What for?’

‘He’s going to get some photos of the baptism ceremony.’

‘Oh. I didn’t know about that.’

Brendan’s head popped up from below the level of the bar.

‘We christened Saiorse yesterday,’ he said, ‘today we baptise her.’ Clearly this had all been decided in my absence, and who was I to stand in the way of a group of people who were set on baptising my fridge?

Just as Geraldine delivered me a pint of the black stuff, a young guy called Brian called into the pub, complaining of a hangover of epic proportions after having been on an enormous binge the previous day. He was pale and extremely shaky on his feet, and as he took hold of his pint, his hands were trembling. Shortly after he had been introduced to me, I announced to the group, ‘Well, I’ll just go upstairs and get my stuff, and then well get on with baptising the fridge.’

Brian looked at me in utter disbelief at what he had just heard. He glanced at the others and was even more perplexed by a set of expressions which showed no signs of having heard anything remotely out of the ordinary. He turned to me again, and was about to say something.

‘Don’t even ask,’I said.

He nodded obediently. He wasn’t ready yet. We all knew he needed to finish that pint first.

§

The baptism ceremony took place on the pavement just outside the pub and was a humble affair. It constituted myself, Geraldine, Niamh, Brendan, Etain and Brian (who was now in the know), all gathering in deference round the fridge. Brendan held a small bottie of Babycham which was to be used in place of champagne, and the rest of us stood around wondering quite what was expected of us, whilst Frank enthusiastically took photos. Slowly a crowd of well-wishers gathered, some out of curiosity but I suspect most out of a complete absence of anything else to do.

Suddenly I seized the initiative. I cleared my throat, took a step forward and declared, ‘We hereby name this fridge Saiorse Molloy. God bless all she rides in.’

It was a short, but few would deny, quite brilliant speech. Brendan poured some Babycham over the fridge and everyone cheered. One of the more nonconformist religious ceremonies was over.

Etain had disappeared up the road immediately after the formal service, but now she returned, proudly clutching a large blue certificate which she handed to me. It read:

SAIORSE

From Saiorse, a name of Irish origin,

Meaning ‘freedom’

Faces problems head on

Admired for its originality, dedicated to worthy causes

A kind and generous fridge

It always stands firm for its principles

It does not have to get its own way always

Others think it is an extremely clever fridge

From Matt Molloys Pub

May 20
th
1997

I was quite touched. I hadn’t been given a certificate since I had passed Grade Six piano, and this one meant a great deal more.

§

As I stood and waited on a narrow band of road just outside Westport, it suddenly dawned on me that I had hardly seen any two-door cars. All four-door. Of course. One of the benefits of being in a good Catholic country. Fridge hitch-hiking is made easier by the fact that people have large families and therefore buy four-door cars. The neat little Fiat Punto that pulled up in front of me fifteen minutes later had been the first two-door I had seen.

‘We heard you at breakfast, didn’t we, Jane?’ said Billy, from behind the wheel of the hire car.

‘Yes, they had the radio on the hotel dining room and we started listening more closely when we heard your English accent.’

‘So, when we saw the fridge, we knew it was you.’

‘This is the first time we’ve stopped for a hitcher. I keep telling him to stop but he won’t—will you, Billy?’

‘Well, I have now.’

It was unusual to get a lift from a couple, especially with geordie accents. Well, almost.

‘Technically we’re not geordies, we’re from Middlesborough,’ Billy had explained.

‘Oh. I’m sorry about the cup final.’

‘Oh God, Tony. What a day. Thank goodness we’re not back home. Course, we’ve lost Ravanelli, Juninho and Fester already.’

And so my first foray into the wilds of Connemara was complemented by a detailed analysis of Middlesborough’s tragic season. Maybe it took the edge off my enjoyment of the bracken browns and soft violets of the mountains, but Billy and Jane had been decent enough to stop and give me and my fridge a lift, and they needed to get this football stuff out of their system. Better out than in, and I knew I was performing a necessary service by being the ears for their pain.

Just between Where the team really went wrong’ and ‘How the manager should build for the future’, I had enough time to look out of the window and recall the snapshot of my new-found friends from Matt Molloy’s waving me goodbye. Hey, I thought, they were more than friends now, they were family. Well, the fridge’s family. In less than twenty-four hours we had achieved a genuine bond of affection which we had unwittingly formalised and cemented in our own childlike baptism ceremony. I reckoned I’d miss them.

Billy and Jane were on holiday touring around the west of Ireland and they absolutely loved the place. Jane was adamant that she wanted to uproot and settle there.

‘It’s great now, but maybe you should have a look what it’s like in the middle of winter,’ I said, offering creditable circumspection.

‘Can’t be a lot worse than Middlesborough,’ said Billy, suggesting that he mightn’t need too much arm twisting on the subject.

‘So what exactly is Kylemore Abbey then, Tony?’ asked Jane.

‘It’s a convent of Benedictine nuns.’

‘And you’re
sure
you want us to drop you there?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure if I’m sure of anything, but it feels like the right place to go next.’

There was a pause, before Billy asked, ‘Do you mind if we ask why?’

‘Not at all. It’s just that this guy Brendan said that I ought to get the fridge blessed by the Mother Superior.’

Another pause. This time Jane broke the silence. ‘Well you can’t say fairer than that.’

And you couldn’t It may have been nonsensical, and whimsy bordering on the cavalier, but it certainly wasn’t unfair.

You first see the abbey when you turn a corner in the road and the imposing turreted building becomes visible across a reedy lake, on whose shores it sits, sheltered by the wooded slopes of the hillside climbing steeply behind it.

‘Wow!’ gasped Billy. His exclamation, though not eloquent, couldn’t have better summed up the sight that was before us.

In the abbey car park, Jane stooped over Saiorse to add her signature, and I noticed that the space available for such scribbles was filling up rather quickly. All the gang at Matt Molloy’s had signed, plus a good proportion of the well-wishers outside the pub. Not having any connection whatsoever with the fridge or its owner had proved no disincentive for the shouting of ‘Give me that marker pen so I can sign the feckin’ thing!’

As I wheeled the fridge into the reception area of the abbey craft shop, iirtheeorner of my eye I could see Billy and Jane watching me in amazement. It occurred to me that the reaction I was eliciting from people was almost becoming the fuel on which I was running. The more extraordinary my behaviour, the more I became liberated by it I was on a roll and confidence couldn’t be higher. There was no stopping me or Saiorse now.

The girl in reception looked taken aback. Nonplussed even. Yes, definitely nonplussed, and she did it rather well. Mind you, she had good reason for such a complex expression, for what I had asked her almost certainly didn’t form part of her normal daily routine.

‘Would it be possible to see the Mother Superior?’ I had said. ‘I want to get her to bless my fridge.’

‘I’ll get Sister Magdalena,’ had been her reply.

That’s right young lady, just pass the buck to Sister Magdalena as soon as things get a little tricky, why don’t you?

Sister Magdalena looked long and hard at the fridge.

‘And you’re walking round Ireland with it?’

‘Hitching.’

‘Hitching. Oh I see,’ she said, ‘and what are you raising money for?’

‘I’m not. I’m doing it to win a bet.’

‘I see,’

No she didn’t. She didn’t see at all. She went on, ‘Well, Mother Clare is busy at the minute, but she may be able to see you before prayers.’

‘Oh, that would be terrific.’

It would also give her something to pray about.

I took a stroll in the abbey’s grounds, along the lakeside where I was surrounded by fuchsias and rhododendrons. I arrived at a small chapel, which I later discovered was built by the abbey’s original owner, Mitchell Henry, a Manchester tycoon, landlord and member of parliament for Galway. He must have had some affection for Norwich Cathedral because he had instructed this Neo-Gothic chapel to be built as an exact replica in miniature of that church. Thankfully, the architects had the wisdom not to scale everything down, meaning that the chapel could be entered without going down on one’s hands and knees and crawling through the door.

Mother Clare was a delightful woman with a gentle open expression. When Sister Magdalena announced to her what I was doing, her face lit up and she exclaimed, ‘Good heavens! What have you got in the fridge? Is it any harm to ask?’

‘I’m afraid it’s got my dirty clothes at the moment.’

‘Well, at least they’ll stay cool. And you’re taking the fridge all around the country?’

‘I am.’

‘Well, congratulations to you on your energy and enthusiasm.’

‘I was wondering if you could bless the fridge and then sign it.’

‘Of course.’

Naturally. It was all in the day’s work of a Benedictine nun.

They must have taken a shine to me, these nuns, because I was invited to stay for an evening meal, but was then disappointed to find that this involved sitting on my own in a special visitors’ dining room. I had hoped to sit with the nuns and quiz them about their lives, perhaps even ask one of them out. I like a challenge. After dinner I was asked if I would like to come and watch their choir practice. I did so, but soon regretted having said yes. They practised for a long time, and to be fair they needed to, but for me the novelty wore off after the first hour and a half.

Still shaken by the ordeal of choir practice, I was driven into Letterfrack, the nearest village, by Sister Magdalena. This was very pleasing, for when I had begun my journey I hadn’t expected to get a lift from a nun. On the way, I sneezed quite loudly.

‘Bless you,’ she said.

How nice to hear this from someone with the appropriate qualifications.

The Longest Night

S
ome sort of music festival in the area meant that there were no vacancies in any of the bed and breakfasts in Letterfrack. Sister Magdalena left me outside a building which bore absolutely no resemblance to an old monastery, which was called The Old Monastery Hostel. A hostel, eh? I wasn’t without misgivings, but at least its name maintained the ecclesiastical flavour to the day’s proceedings. I went in and found nobody about. A message, chalked up on a blackboard, greeted travellers on arrival. Welcome. Please make yourselves comfortable by the fire. Someone will be with you shortly. Everything you need is on this floor; kitchen, living room, bathrooms and toilets. Breakfast is served at 9 am downstairs in the café. Breakfast is free and includes hot organic scones, hot cereal and organic coffee and tea. Relax, be happy and enjoy your stay.’

Too many things were organic for my liking. Without a pair of sandals, a musty aroma of henna about me, or my hair in a ponytail, I felt that I wouldn’t be welcome here. I turned to my left and found myself in a large dormitory. Bunk beds seemed to be everywhere. For the first time on the trip since day one, I began to feel that I had bitten off more than I could chew. I selected a top bunk and marked out my territory by dumping my rucksack on it. I wheeled the fridge over to the window and left it there. I had made it into the dorm without anyone seeing that it was mine, and here was the opportunity to have a night off from the attention that went with being its owner. Besides, I thought it would be quite fun to let everyone in the hostel view each other with an element of suspicion, trying to establish which one of them was the idiot travelling around with a fridge. It might be the source of some healthy uneasiness.

A Chinese-looking fellow came in. I said ‘hello’ but he didn’t respond. Either his knowledge of English didn’t stretch as far as ‘hello’, or he was a git. Looking around the vast dormitory I could see the evidence, in the form of rucksacks dumped on bunks, of about fifteen other potential gits. Two nights ago, when I had lain in bed and wondered when I would next find myself ‘not sleeping alone’, this wasn’t what I had in mind.

A young American couple came in, and I realised that the dormitory was mixed. The couple were followed by a big lady who I took to be Dutch. I was working from size alone, so this was a long shot. Whatever nationality she was, she had a greater grasp of English than the Chinese chap, because when I said ‘hello’, she said ‘hello’ back. I smiled politely at her and then turned to him and gave a look which was designed to say ‘See, did that hurt?’ He didn’t see though, he was busy laying socks out on his bunk. It looked like he had embarked on some kind of ancient ritual in which the future could be read in the socks.

I caused at least three disapproving sharp intakes of breath from the room when I plugged my mobile phone into one of the power points to recharge it.

‘Sorry,’ I announced, realising that this sort of behaviour was about as incompatible with organic scones as you could get.