A Singular Country

by J. P. Donleavy

  But now you heard your man the rural rustic mention the word ‘horse’ more than once. And it would be in this misdirected situation of not knowing where you’re going where such an animal beats wheels any day. Unless of course you don’t straight off plummet down into a ditch or get flipped frontal somersaulted on your neck over a wall and get your ass broken. Or end up horse’s arse deep in a bog. Or like any arrow get shot head first into a meadow when your steed puts a hoof in a rabbit hole and you get incarcerated indefinitely in hospital. Now it is well known that Irishmen are not great lovers of animals, unless they are making him money. And there would not be jams on the telephone lines reporting complaints to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. And plenty of your folk would as soon kick a dog in the face if they knew it wouldn’t bite their foot off. Ah but as with a poor farmer’s petted cow it would be different. Mollycoddling would be the order of the day. And the same would apply to a horse that in a meadow would make the grass look greener, and if the nag was at all presentable with ribs covered with flesh and no conspicuously dipping in the back or too much slopping in the quarters, such an animal would raise the status of its owner. For the horse, evident all over this country, is the national symbol. And to race, jump, groom, pet or bet on it, is approved by all. But if you want to mount or ride on its back you’d be that bit more better than you’d be just standing holding your horse’s halter. And you’d improve one better even than that if you were in your snood, stock, booted leather and hard or silk top hat, to play polo, race or hunt it. Flying over the ground, side saddle or your horse within your bifurcation. Plus by god, keep the gallop going and before long you’d excel to the stratospheric. And you’d know soon too, why in Ireland, if a great jockey enters a chamber, all the assembled to a man stand as they would in Britain for your top royalty or in America for the President himself.

  Now don’t all rush at once to your tailor and bootmaker to equip to jump into an Irish saddle. But if you added to your regalia a pink coat on your back and gave chase to the fox you’d then be known as arrived, yourself among very upper crusters where you’d be operating under the biggest mystique of all. For the snobberies attached to the pursuit of this country pastime of fox hunting and trying to catch this cunning and elusive devil, are immense. For a start there’s no single section of people in this world who think more of themselves and less of others. And by god when fitted out in their kit and up on their mounts and ready for the tracking down of this canine, never mind your ignored old rustic giving out his well meant information with his directions to the American tourists on the side of the road. This lot would, as you stood there beneath them on the ground, look down at you, look through you and look away from you. And then by god let the fox appear and the huntsman sound his horn. They’d pay plenty of attention then. To gallop off and ride over you as if you weren’t there. And it’s not because they’ve just spied the fox lurking along the hedgerow, it’s because they think you are bloody well not worth knowing. And they go with others of their ilk, till the hounds track down this canine and leave nothing but a bit of steam rising from the grass where the russet haired poor creature was last seen to stand his ground and emit a final growl and snarl.

  But let us say now that you’d like on the Shamrock Isle to improve yourself and become one of them and sit up there all decked out superior and as Anglo Irish as possible on your high horse. Well you’d get a shock. For if you are new to the sport there is in the first place no way that you could appear in the field as anything other than the rank out and out novice and no doubt social climber that you are, standing out like the biggest of all big sore thumbs in Christendom. Of course foolishly trying to make an impression you’d have already acquired the best looking steed and been to the best booters, reputable tailors and hatters, and with bills to match that would make most folk faint. And in this attempting to look your impeccable best and giving what you would guess was no possible offence to the other long term members of the hunt, you’d find you’d still be taken aside to be reprimanded by those in seniority and your presumed betters for having the audacity to appear impeccable. This of course only heightens your intention to ride these pretentious bloody pomposities into the ground at the first cry of “Tally ho”. But now too let us assume you not only have amended your sartorial ways to avoid any but the lightest of criticism and you were keeping your place, you’d still be as it were in the firing line for even worse tongue lashing and cursing ridicule. Some of which is quite brutally direct.

  “I say, damn you, you arrant impostor, get you and your fucking horse out of my way.”

  Now this is all very Irish indeed. But count yourself lucky that whips are not lashing you across the face. And to avoid such verbal opprobrium and vilification on a hunt you’d need to go straight home or ride to hide somewhere fast well away from the line of the fox. And of course as nature would have it, this is always exactly where this Celtic canine is going too. And then suddenly there both of you are. The dear old pretty fox peeking out from the edge of the glade and gently looking up enquiringly at you as you sit there in the middle of your saddle, tears seeping down your face. Because those old mean hunt members have been dreadfully rude to you. Now why do people with so much of this kind of personal sorrow befalling them do this chasing of the fox at all, you’re asking. Well for a start, in a very acceptable upper cruster way, it enables you in the otherwise free and easy society of Ireland, to bring out and exhibit your killer instinct while at the same time risking your own and your horse’s neck which proves your nerve and lack of lily-liveredness. But there’s more. And to quote from the very folk themselves, it’s how to associate yourself with the right people. Which, especially in Ireland, would straight off be those who can afford your kit, the tack and the horse. And then the stabling, the grass, and the hay with which to feed them. Followed by the generous sized thick woolly blankets at night to keep them warm. Plus spending entire days two or three times a week away from earning a living. From mid morn into darkness. And sometimes knocked flat in a muddy ditch, horse scampered off, you’d be left distantly from civilisation, crying out into the cold air for help, unable to move.

  You may assume by some of these more uncomfortable aspects of fox hunting that it’s also a sport which in quick order sorts people out. And you’d be right. For no matter who they are or how they appear in civilian life they are all revealed true to their nature on the Irish hunting field. Separating in one dickens of a hurry the faint hearted from the brave, the quick from the laggard, and by god last but not least, the randy from the celibate. For when the blood’s up and the adrenalin races through the veins and as you are suddenly confronted on all sides, and especially to the front of you, with the likelihood of instant maim or death and where, what courage, nerve or stupidity and obtuseness of which you are possessed, comes to prominence, you would be wont to think of leaving some surviving heirs. And at such times. Ladies hold on to your knickers. Gentlemen make room in your britches

  For lust

  By god

  Upon this Irish soil

  Lurks everywhere.

  ANY GOOD DUBLINER IF NOT ABSORBED IN THE MIDDLE OF A BOOK AS HE WALKS, WILL ALWAYS BE SEEN WITH HIS NEWSPAPER SOMEWHERE UPON HIS PERSON, ATTESTING TO PROOF THAT IRELAND HAS ALWAYS BEEN AND REMAINS ONE OF THE MOST LITERATE NATION ON EARTH.

  XII

  Now something you may not have realised in an anciently poor country such as this old Shamrock Isle where they don’t want to let all the money out, is that there is a strategically located desk of somewhat modern design, but like a judgement seat which confronts at the end of a long hall all departing travelling passengers. And upon which it says in large blue letters

  CURRENCY CONTROL

  O dear. Panic. Fright. Confiscation. Fines. Imprisonment. In your pocket haven’t you got wads of not only punts, which is the Irish name for a pound, but of dollars, Swiss francs and sterling and which you are spiriting out of this hard up nation. Ah but you would be walk
ing by. Free as a leaf in the breeze. And blown constantly. And why? Because there is never anyone sitting there at the currency control desk. That’s why. But the powers that be have at least let it be known and remind you of what you’re getting away with. And now in the modern world it should be of no wonder to you that nowhere else on earth is the law administered with such consummated sophistication. Is it any surprise then that banks from all over kingdom come are rushing to open up. And although you may see a few native Irish go in and out of them, nevertheless all other kinds of ethnic persuasions are much in evidence. Which recently has given another aspect to this land which after all you’ve already heard will provide a shock.

  Now straight off forget the likes of middle class old Dayton Ohio Harry and his well meaning wife Mabel. For in spite of all its old ways, believe it or not, Ireland is becoming by leaps and bounds a most glamorous country. This news is deliberately not being broadcast all over the place by those in the know, in case it crowds up where the private helicopters and aircraft are wont to land. The big old tumbling down mansions are being decorated, the dry rot hidden, the drips stopped dropping, and the lawns cut, and are again reverberating with the tinkle of glassware and solid clank of silver. The black tie and gowns again in evidence around the long mahogany tables. And the staff, mindful of the big salaries paid by these foreign millionaires, have not yet begun to kill the goose that’s laying the present golden egg.

  But as you might imagine among these folk not all of them are just merely wining and dining. And even in the face of the reputation of such a famously chaste place there do be other antics they do be pursuing. Not only joining with gusto in the lust of the fox hunt. But also with ladies and gents dismounted engaging in entwinements in the grass. And all aware in their wooing that it’s a damn good way to consort with likely members of your exalted income group, if not make future friends for life. And what a wild and ready for anything bunch they are. Their palates primed for splendid sauces and the great wines. And nude by moonlight they become riders. Galloping the night away and ready to mount again the next morn. And indeed one lady returning after a day’s hunting was overheard to comment as the groom remarked upon the condition of her stallion horse,

  “Ah madam he do be having a fearful awful lather of sweat on him now.”

  “And so would you too my good man, had you been between my thighs all day.”

  Now as does the four footed ungulate, you’ll have gathered that a sport such as fox hunting fits Ireland like a glove. The sad forlornness of the huntsman’s horn sounding across the countryside. The peek of pink coming into sight upon distant emerald meadows. Cars adorned with emblems of the horse and none of your folk are ever without their sugar lumps to feed them. Even their haughty voices neigh. Children just out of the cradle are put in the saddle by their parents already crippled and maimed from riding injuries who stand now on their crutches smiling encouragement, as these youngsters are sent off screaming in fear with a resounding thwack on their pony’s rear.

  Now in Ireland a horse is never blamed for anything. If it kicks you in the head it only did so because you moved too suddenly and not suddenly enough to get out of the way. In short, horses are always forgiven and always beloved. And never mind the stallion that would eat its stable door down in order to bite off your goolies. And you would in your shocked hysteria, be expected to pet it back on the nose. And by god if only a horse could speak there would be even more libel and scandal spread aplenty. And perhaps there is a good enough reason for all this worship. For there is nowhere else that a lady, even of the plainest sort, looks better than on top of a horse. Bowler hatted, their hair coiffed in a net, their arses curvaceously to their best advantage displayed and supremely evident in tight britches in which thighs extend in clear definition over her mount’s flanks. And is it any wonder that in such capersome recreation as fox hunting, that not only is the lady in hot pursuit of the fox, but frequently the Master of Foxhounds. Who often, poor old sod, finds himself waylaid in glades as well as bogs when he becomes the signal object of this venereal attention. And without doubt many a Master of Foxhounds is left feeling more like the hunted than the hunter. And frequently after a long day’s chase interrupted by unchaste entwinements, Masters have been known to crash face first asleep into their soup over dinner. And by god you guessed it. Wasn’t it the day herself the vicar’s daughter radiant in pink coat no less, had just had her opening day out fox hunting with a vengeance.

  But now we come to the moment of the year when all concerning this four hooved friend culminates in Ireland. And that would be in and during the social miracle of Horse Show week. And mind you, awful snobs that we are, we are not referring to your hoi polloi here. But to your green blooded Irishman with an occasional blade of grass growing up through his cap. And bog trotter or stud owner, low and high, and got up to the nines and desperate to be on their mettle during this, the most fashionable time of the year. And so, with riding and racing in all its forms pervading far more than just the open countryside, you’d expect to see a horse drawn dray or cab in Dublin. And if you be but just a wee bit patient you’ll not be disappointed. Ah but there would be more. And it would be your incredible ilk of elegant people as can be witnessed nowhere else on earth. And although such is frowned upon by those who think they know better, expect as evening descends during hunting season to confront at your pub, hotel or Dublin cocktail party, a man returned from a day out, and still in his dashing rig with spurs clinking and burrs and thorns still sticking to his pink coat. He would of course be posturing conspicuously, prancing about, impatiently and continuously battering his thigh with his riding crop just to make doubly sure he attracted attention. Also too, although fewer in number, you’ll find a notable traffic of polo players crossing the hotel lobby. These gents and some ladies, of the Mark II and III varieties, are easily recognised by the leather worn over the knees for protection. And damn me, while in their own very leathery unique gear, if some of them don’t dare to stomp about dismounted with their mallets practising shots on the hotel carpet, especially where by tradition fox hunting fixtures are posted on the wall. And it wouldn’t by god take old Dayton Ohio Harry long while just having an after dinner quiet brandy with Mabel, and still hanging around in Dublin looking for directions, to surmise that something frissonly saucy is about to be afoot further in the night up in the more discreetly remote rooms of the hotel.

  “Holy cow Mabel I don’t like the look of some of that leathery apparatus coming into this place. What the hell do you think is going on here?”

  Now your old Harry is right to be agitated. For your sure sign of your sadist equestrian like the one presently passing in the lobby, is the definitive manner in which his boot heels are brought thundering down on the floor with the accompanying tinkle of silver spurs. And conspicuously heard despite the thick carpeting. With the heads of the uninitiated turning. And especially poor old Dayton Ohio Harry who is now hot out of his seat exclaiming,

  “Hey gee Mabel I sure don’t like the sound of the jangle of those big long spikes on that guy’s spurs. And holy cow see there, more leather goods being lugged into this hotel. And if that don’t look like the trailing ends of a cat of nine tails to me, I’ll eat my company tie. Holy mackerel, I’d sure like to know what in hell is going on. Just catch a glimpse of her will you.”

  Now unlike the bush by the tree in the fork in the road, concerning which Harry was advised by your country bumpkin, to take no notice, Harry is wide eyed apoplectic at what has just walked in. Nobody less than your English vicar’s daughter. And thus is proclaimed the whole homelike intimate sociability of this land. For here she is the scarlet woman now seen casually loping by booted for riding and still in her hunting pink and with a rather ornate escutcheoned vasculum in tow, from which the highly adorned ivory handles of whips peek. Suddenly she stops, puts down the vasculum, takes off her hunting coat and slowly expands out her chest and yawns.

  “Hey gee Mabel, gosh, is she built.”r />
  And is it any wonder that the vicar’s daughter’s newly purchased Ferrari has been safely housed in the grand safety and exclusivity of the Royal Irish Automobile Club not that far away up the street. And that she’s abandoned her former al fresco activities and taken to the indoors to consort on a higher social and permissive level, and who knows, even a Protestant Catholic one. And now hasn’t she, seeing that his eyes are dancing around in his head, even cast a brilliant friendly smile in old Harry’s conspicuous direction. As in fact he has already jumped to his feet at the passing sight of her. As indeed, let me tell you, not only would it be her dazzling looks, splendid teeth and smile but doesn’t she have a figure on her that would put a horn on Harry in a hurry. And bloody well bust any zipper ever invented on even the strongest fly.