Country Days (9 page)

“He would always doze off in the confession box, but if you mentioned girls or sins of the flesh, he would straighten up and cock his ear and ask for every detail. The only sexual experience that man ever had was in through his ear.”

He continued earnestly, “Priests should get married, I think. Do you know something: it is my belief that God did not give us any spare parts.”

It was a most entertaining breakfast, laced as it was with Dingle theology.

As we left the hotel we met Eamon Keane. Having listened to his wonderful voice on radio over the years, he was somebody for whom I had the greatest admiration. His dark brooding eyes in his thin ascetic face gave him the appearance of a medieval monk. He told me that he was meeting an old friend for lunch; they had gone to school together and
been childhood sweethearts but had not met for over thirty years.

“What will she think of me now?” he mused gently.

“I think that she will fall in love with you all over again,” I told him, and looking at his dark, handsome, sensitive face, I felt that it would not be too difficult for any woman.

As we left Listowel I remembered the advice his mother had given to Bryan MacMahon and felt that after our week there all our jugs were a little fuller.

T
HEY DECIDED ON
impulse to come to our village. One day as David had driven through it, he had thought that it would be a nice place to live. His job did not tie them to any particular location, and within a week they had moved into a little house up the street from my own. David was a good-looking, easy-going Kerryman, with a quicksilver mind, who enjoyed fishing and reading, but Rachel was the one who drew all eyes in her direction. Her father was from the west of Ireland, her mother from France, and she was beautiful. David called her his Botticelli woman; she was voluptuous and well endowed, and folds of brown curling hair cascaded down around her shoulders. But it was her face that really held your attention; it was oval shaped with dark brown eyes and her skin was tawny with golden freckles. She was the most relaxed easy-going person I ever met and her rich, husky voice flowed over you like soothing cream. I always felt on meeting her that she had time for everything and that she never bothered with the word hurry – it was not in her vocabulary. They were
a wonderful couple and it was obvious that they were at peace with each other and with the world.

They had three young, dark-eyed children – a boy and two girls – and the boy became the bosom pal of one of our children. He often stayed with them at night and absolutely adored Rachel; when he came home to tell me on one occasion that he wished she was his mother, I had to agree that he showed great wisdom in his choice. I was told that if the children wanted pancakes after going to bed, then Rachel made pancakes and joined them in bed to eat them. Part of David’s job involved long hours on night duty and Rachel was happy to spend all her time with the children. Their garden ran down to the banks of the river. Rachel and the children spent hours swimming there and she taught the village children to swim. After a few months in their house up the street, a farmhouse became available outside the village and they moved into it. They were delighted with the freedom of the fields and the children grew browner. When Rachel became pregnant again, she wore her pregnancy with a regal cloak and glowed with good health.

The night the baby was born, David called to tell us that he had Down’s syndrome. In the weeks that followed, you could see that they were bowed but not broken. They called the little lad Johnny. A month later David inherited a farm from an uncle in a very remote part of Kerry and they moved from Innishannon.

Ten years later I was sitting in a restaurant in Listowel during Writers’ Week. At a table across from me with his back to me sat a man whom I thought was vaguely familiar. During the meal I glanced occasionally in his direction, trying to place him in my memory, but as I could not see his face it proved impossible. But when he stood up to leave there was no mistaking the dark hair and the laughing eyes: it was David. We were thrilled to see each other again after so many years and we spent all our free time for the rest of the week catching up with each other’s news. I promised that when we would be in Ballybunion later that summer we would drive out to see them.

The sun was blazing down behind the Virgin Rock as we left Ballybunion with our eight-year-old daughter Lena in the back seat and we set out for their house. Lena had never met a Down’s syndrome child, and I wondered if I should prepare her with an explanation. I did not want her to do or say anything that would upset David and Rachel. However, I could not find the right words, so I kept my mouth shut.

When David had said that their house was “a bit out of the way”, he had not been exaggerating. After leaving behind a small town, we passed occasional houses for a while, but then for a long time there were only hills and sea; the road turned into a track and I was beginning to think that we were on the road to nowhere when suddenly we saw it in the distance. A house clung to the sea front, and in
fields around it sheep and horses grazed, looking at us as in disdain when we approached and disturbed the silence. One pony in particular stood out, with his long flowing mane and rich colouring. Dogs bounced out to greet us, but we could not find the front door as the house seemed to face in all directions, and then David came from another direction and ushered us in.

Inside Rachel sat in a huge old armchair, slightly more ample and with a few grey hairs, but as beautiful as ever, and her gorgeous husky voice was like warm honey. The room was full of books and comfortable disorder, and a fire glowed in an amazing stone fireplace. Rachel had collected the stones on the beach, especially after winter storms which had blown up new varieties, and had built it herself. It was obvious that she loved living by the sea, and David told us that Johnny had been reared with the same feeling and was an expert swimmer. They talked of their horses as part of the extended family and of one pony in particular who had a long flowing mane and had been christened by the children “Gentle Jesus”. Remembering the beautiful pony outside, I thought that he was aptly named, because there was something almost angelic about him. His temperament, however, they told us, did not exactly match his appearance, so there was a touch of irony about his name.

Quietly the door opened and Johnny stood there. He sized us all up with a happy smile on his face
and then walked straight over to me and climbed on my lap. He put his arms around my neck, looked straight into my eyes and then said in a breathless voice, “Aren’t you beautiful?”

Needless to mention, he had me in the palm of his hand after that. He was the most lovable child and wanted you to know that you were welcome in his house. He took Lena by the hand and they went out happily to play in the sand.

As we talked it was easy to see that even though Johnny had brought certain problems he had also brought immense joy to the family. They had surrounded him with great love and assurance of his importance, and Rachel was now teaching in the special school that he attended. The rest of the children were grown up and working away from home. But Johnny went to them on holidays, even flying out on his own to be met by them at airports.

It was the early hours of the morning as we drove down the bumpy path from their house. Lena in the back seat was silent for a little while and then she leaned over the back of my seat and said, “Wasn’t that house full of love and wasn’t he a very special little boy?”

Silently I thanked God that I had kept my mouth shut earlier on and not coloured with my adult inhibitions what she with her child’s vision had so aptly described. As we left their farm behind, I looked back and Gentle Jesus was grazing peacefully with the sheep.

T
HE NEED AROSE
in me before going to Lough Derg or into the labour ward to paint my toenails a bright, dazzling scarlet. On one occasion it was to look up at them and on the other to look down. These were the two occasions in life which I really felt tested my endurance. However, on the night before my last visit to Lough Derg, I decided that maybe I could manage without my ten red flags, so I cast aside my bottle of nail varnish. In a moment of false courage a few months previously, when the CIE circular had come by post, I had lifted the phone and booked a ticket. Viewed from the long time distance of two months, Lough Derg did not look so threatening, and once booked I put it out of my mind. Ostrich-like I buried my head in the sand.

Many years previously I had come across Lough Derg when, as innocent teenagers, a friend and I set out to spend a weekend on an island. We scarcely knew its name, but we had a vague idea that the food might not be so good. Dressed in cotton dresses, we travelled up by bus in glorious sunshine with not
a warm garment between us. To say that we got a shock would be an understatement. Paralysed with cold, starved with hunger and blinded from lack of sleep, we lurched around the island like two drunks. We were stunned by the unquestioning stupidity that had led us into this corner of crucifixion. The only distraction from misery was provided by two young men who, like ourselves, had found that things were not quite up to their expectations; we met them regularly to smoke cigarettes and swap funny stories. As I watched the other barefooted pilgrims praying, I thought that they should all be locked up. After that visit I never again wanted to see a cigarette and vowed that wild horses would not drag me back to that miserable place.

Over the years Lough Derg had hidden like a grey ghost in my subconscious. Later I began to wonder what it was really like. Buried as I had been in my own misery, I had not really sized it up or taken on its challenge. It had beaten me and I needed now to know why that had happened. So I went back, better prepared, and on my second visit it had shaken me but had not flattened me. And occasionally I returned again to that sombre little island, as unyielding as steel, which stretches you to the limit of your endurance.

This year as I packed my Lough Derg bag in the middle of a burning heatwave, I wondered if my usual island ensemble would be necessary. But a little wise remembrance from within cautioned that
when God made Lough Derg he gave it a special weather zone. So in went a long-sleeved thermal vest and matching knickers. Brief panties have no role on the Lough Derg fashion ramp. Next I included a warm blouse, a pure wool polo-neck sweater and an extra heavy wool woven jumper, knowing that Lough Derg is the place to prove the difference between pure wool and synthetics. Then in went a warm track suit, army pants belonging to a teenage son that in ordinary circumstances I would not be seen dead in, and a pair of knitted tights with the soles cut off; after that a heavy duffel coat and a set of oils.

Some marketing people have based their sales technique on claims that their products have kept climbers warm on Everest, while hand-cream has been marketed with claims that it has been used to good effect by Nordic fishermen. I am waiting for the day that some wise Irish company will brand their goods “tested and proved on Lough Derg”. Sun-tan oil, insect repellent and knitted gloves could all be necessary on one visit to that island, where the temperature can range from tropical to below zero within twenty-four hours.

That holy island is full of surprises, and sometimes they sneak up and trip you when you think that you have everything under control. One year Lough Derg might lull you into a false sense of security by being almost bearable. Then on the next unsuspecting visit, it might nearly murder you.

As I waited for the bus on that lovely warm
summer’s day, a friend came along.

“Are you off for the day? You have a great life!” Little did she know.

The bus was full of women, which confirmed my opinion that we females are made of sterner stuff than the male. On the journey up we said some prayers that were slotted in between songs from the singers on the bus. It always surprises me that the people who do Lough Derg are generally
light-hearted
and happy.

That night we stayed in Bundoran and at my dinner table was a pretty, trendy teenager full of pep and sparkle.

“Have you been to Lough Derg before?” I asked.

“No,” she answered brightly; “my mother was going but something turned up at the last minute and she couldn’t go, so I’m coming instead.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said encouragingly.

“Of course I will,” she said in surprise, and I remembered my first visit and hoped that she would fare better than I had.

Later that night we had tea and biscuits before midnight, the last normal food for the next three days. It was unusual for me to have a large double bed to myself. As I lay there in solitary state, I felt like Queen Victoria. Bedroom television is not a home luxury, so I turned it on in anticipation, but the sexual activity in the late night movie was so intense that I got exhausted just watching. To preserve my energy for the days ahead, I switched it off and
decided to go to sleep. The couple on the badly sound-proofed bedroom above did not, however, have sleep on their minds, and moans of pleasure rolled across my ceiling. Finally the sea of passion ebbed and we all got to sleep.

The following morning I decided to test the climatic conditions before dressing. I put my head out the bedroom window and had it nearly whipped off by a gale force wind. Lough Derg’s icy fingers were reaching out for me. Breakfast was a glass of warm water. I watched other guests file in for breakfast, and as the smell of toast and bacon and egg wafted out of the dining-room, I swore that I would never again take such comforts for granted. The thought of a sizzling sausage made my teeth water, and my stomach groaned in sympathy. How could I be so crazy, I asked myself, to be subjecting myself to this madness? And this was only the beginning! I looked at the normal people and wondered where had I gone wrong. A vastly overweight man headed for the dining-room and I felt like grabbing him by the arm and inviting him to

Go mad along with me;

The worst is yet to be.

When we left the bus on the shore of Lough Derg, the temperature took a sudden dip. I made my way to one of the lakeside toilets and dug out extra clothes. Trying to undress in a toilet which was only meant to accommodate certain limited movements required the flexibility of a ballet dancer, but eventually I
emerged, having inserted an extra layer of clothes beneath the top layer. I suspected that over the following days I would gradually pad outwards until my final outline would resemble a sumo wrestler.

Stepping into the wobbling boat, I regretted my armchair decision to leave the world for two days. The lake was dishwater grey; the boat was
blue-grey
; the island in the distance was white-grey and my mind was a dull grey. In contrast to the bleak surroundings, the people in the boat were laughing and good-humoured. But one woman with a coat draped around her shoulders sat gazing into space. Talking to herself, and maybe addressing the man in question, she asked sadly, “Jesus, what brought me here?”

But it was too late for such questions, so she smiled with resignation and determination. Lough Derg is not the place to approach with a negative frame of mind. We braced ourselves for the days ahead. As the boat chugged across the lake, the barren contours of the island rose up to meet us and its impressive grey stone buildings blended with water and sky. It was my first sight of the new hostel for women, which merged with the old buildings as if it had been there for hundreds of years. No plastic, chrome or glass building blights the landscape of Lough Derg. It is clothed in the austerity of medieval times. As I watched the island approach, my heart sank like a stone in a bucket of water and the thought of swimming for the mainland crossed my mind, but
the dark grey water frowned back at me. There was no way out now.

Straight across from the landing bay is the large dome-shaped basilica and stretching out from it on either side are other grey buildings, which extend all around the edges of this small, barren island. They are like an encircling army and their centrepiece is a sloping mound in the middle of the island; here are the famous Lough Derg “beds”, around which this island revolves. Bed in this case is a very misleading term, certainly not apt for the six stony circles of hardship riding on the back of that little hill in the centre of the island. Each bed has at its centre an iron cross embedded in rock with a stone path around it. Enclosing the cross and circular path is a stone wall and outside around that is another circular stone path. The six beds, each named after an Irish saint, lie like a drab patchwork quilt on the side of that hungry little hill which has its back to the lake and its face to the basilica.

Women’s liberation came to Lough Derg before it hit the mainland, because St Brigid is at the top here. You start with her and you must watch your step as she is extremely steep and you could break your neck if you decided to rush her. Next comes St Brendan, who is to her right and slightly lower down where she can keep an eye on him. He is rough and edgy with treacherous spiked stones that could penetrate a hastily positioned toe; the secret here is careful, premeditated movement. Then comes St Catherine,
who has a pathway of small, sharp, cruel stones, and then Columba who is easier. Next is St Patrick and finally the double bed of Davog and Molaise who, maybe because double beds are conducive to relaxation, lie in flat comfort under an overhanging tree on the water’s edge. These little beds have lain here for centuries and thousands of barefoot pilgrims have walked and prayed over them. Sometimes the prayers are peppered with unpremeditated swearing as the bitter little stones extract their last drop of penitential hardship.

When we arrived at the hostel, we climbed up and up the stone stairway to the top floor which was divided into tiny cubicles, each holding bunk beds and a sink with a single cold water tap. We decided then on the amount of clothes necessary for the day, which was bitterly cold, so another layer went on and we took off our shoes. Bare feet are the common denominator of Lough Derg. On the first day the prescribed medicine is three beds. Now, “doing a bed” consists of the following routine: a visit to the basilica and then to St Patrick’s iron cross, outside which you say one Our Father, Hail Mary, and Creed. Then to St Brigid’s cross on the outside wall of the basilica, where you say three Our Fathers, three Hail Marys and one Creed, and then with your back to the wall of the basilica you stretch out your arms and publicly renounce the devil. The poor old devil gets a rough ride on Lough Derg! Everybody is trying to put the run on him. The first time you
do this you feel a bit dramatic, and some people do it with an amused grin on their faces. It doesn’t knock a shake out of the hardy annuals. Then you walk four times around the basilica and say seven decades of the rosary. After that it’s on to the beds, starting at the top with St Brigid and the formula is the same for each bed. You walk around outside the low stone wall, kneel at the entrance, walk around inside, kneel at the cross at the centre and repeat the prayers that you said at St Brigid’s cross. Preservation of your kneecaps and maintenance of balance is the aim of the game on those slippery, spiky slopes. Each pilgrim becomes an expert at balancing on one leg like a singing hen until a vacant space becomes available for the second foot. On some occasions one can find oneself reduced to going on all fours to get around a tight corner.

The next destination is the water’s edge, where you increase the prayers from three to five and say them standing and kneeling. After that, it is back to the iron cross and you finish, as you began, in the basilica. It takes about an hour to do a bed, depending on your average speed. Some people plod around like contented cows in a world of their own. Others clock up prayers like a bandit making notches on his gun. As we had come early to the island, we had plenty of time to do our beds. When I had finished mine, I felt drained with exhaustion and hunger and thought longingly of home, where they would all be tucking into their tea. They were probably wondering how
their crazy mother was surviving, and if they could have seen me they would have had a good laugh. The reason for doing Lough Derg was beyond their understanding and, at that stage, was beyond mine as well.

In the mid-afternoon the rain started to come down. Many of the teenagers were in jeans and sweaters and looked up reproachfully at the sky as if asking God what did he think he was doing. But at least their feet were free to enjoy the rain.

The variety of feet on Lough Derg tell an interesting story. The soft, perfectly formed feet of the very young flit over the stones like nimble hooves of mountain goats. Slightly older feet are still almost in their original condition, but are not quite as flexible on the rocks. Then come the older ones, branching out like gnarled trees into mature humps and bumps. But very old feet, like very old faces, are the most fascinating of all. They are like craggy rocks, some distorted into unusual shapes with varied toe formations and discoloured toenails. All these feet move over the beds, clambering, slipping, climbing and seeking level footholds. Some toes are bandaged, and the most touching sight of all are the feet of the women, no longer young, wearing elastic stockings which are covered at the heel with wet mud. The feet of Lough Derg are a touching, impressive sight. Sometimes, when the strong, bony toe of a mountainy man cracks against a spiked rock, a few extra prayers are said that were never heard in
church.

Here in Lough Derg is a hidden core of our life that is difficult to analyse. It is as Irish as the brown bogs and grey mountains and is a living, breathing essence that still runs through our veins.

When we had our three beds done, we went for our meal. One is permitted daily, but meal, like bed, is a misleading term in this context. You are not confused by choice: black tea or coffee, dry toast and plates of Lough Derg biscuits, which are not eaten but gnawed. If you decided to take a bite, you could cause endless dental damage. I like a lot of milk in my tea and at the sight of the black tea my eyes sent a coded message to my queasy stomach to prepare for an unwelcome intrusion. The trick is to drink and not to think and to chew through as much dry toast as possible for future sustenance.