1998 - Round Ireland with a fridge

by Tony Hawks; Prefers to remain anonymous

  ‘It’s behind you,’ she said, seven months too early for panto season.

  I turned round and there it was, a simple semi-detached two-storey property decorated in red and black. It was odd to think that Marjorie’s one mention of this neat little pub had been my reason for coming here to Westport, but that was the way I was allowing my journey to unfold. I was trusting my intuition. I elected to go in for a quick pint and then head for the tourist information office to sort out my night’s lodgings.

  It was mid afternoon and there were only six or seven customers in the pub. However it wasn’t long before the winning combination of fridge and rucksack had everyone discussing the merits and drawbacks of this kind of travel.

  ‘How much was the bet for?’ said Niamh, who was working behind the bar for the summer.

  ‘A hundred pounds.’

  ‘And how much was the fridge?’ enquired an interested bystander called John.

  ‘A hundred and thirty pounds.’

  ‘Jeez, you’re an eejit,’ added Seamus, the pub manager.

  ‘Niamh, get this man a pint,’ concluded Geraldine, the boss and wife of the eponymous Matt, plus mother of Niamh.

  I was beginning to understand how the Irish mentality worked. The more foolish, illogical or surreal one’s actions were perceived to be (and mine surely fell into one of these categories), the wider the arms of hospitality were opened in salutation. I now found myself surrounded by inquisitive customers and staff. Brendan appeared from behind the bar where he had been stacking bottles.

  ‘Has the fridge got a name?’

  ‘Well, no it hasn’t.’

  ‘Well you’ve got to give the fridge a name. You can’t be travelling around with a nameless fridge.’

  A chorus of approval greeted Brendan’s sentiments.

  ‘What sex is it?’ asked Etain.

  Things were moving too fast for me.

  ‘I hadn’t given it much thought.’

  There must be a way of telling.

  Amidst much amusement, a series of implausible methods were put forward, the most universally approved of which was proposed by John.

  ‘What you have to do is you have to put it between two donkeys of either sex and see which one of the donkeys makes a move for the fridge.’

  I was happy to accept this method as incontestable proof of the fridge’s sex, but a distinct lack of donkeys restricted further progress down this particular scientific avenue.

  ‘Why don’t you give it a name which covers both sexes?’ said Geraldine. ‘You know, like Kim, Lesley or Val.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ agreed Brendan, ‘but you can’t call a feckin’ fridge Val!’

  I concurred. No fridge of mine was going to be called Val.

  ‘How about Saiorse?’ suggested Seamus.

  ‘Seersha?’

  ‘Yes, Saiorse. It can be a boy or a girl’s name, and it’s Gaelic for ‘freedom’. And you won’t get many fridges experiencing more freedom than that one!’ He had a point.

  ‘Full name Saiorse Molloy,’ said Geraldine.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ I said, to cheers from the group. ‘I hereby name this fridge Seersha Molloy.’

  Geraldine was clearly moved by this new addition to the family, because she asked, ‘Where are you staying Tony?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t sorted it yet, I was going to find a bed and breakfast.’

  ‘You can stay in the flat above the pub if you want.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Niamh, go and get the keys. Let’s put him and Saiorse upstairs for the night.’

  ‘Are you sure? That’s very kind.’

  A good portion of my time on this trip was spent thanking people for their kindness.

  I couldn’t have expected that a brief mention of the fridge’s surfing activity would cause such a furore. The response was immediate, and it was as if the gauntlet had been thrown down. My new-found friends took it upon themselves to rise to the challenge of coming up with something whacky for me and the fridge to do. The suggestion that Seamus should take it water skiing was gaining in popularity, but Seamus, an apparently practical man, seemed to have some difficulty with this notion, although the rest of us couldn’t see what the problem might be. Attach a rope, start the speed boat, and let Saiorse do the rest.

  Geraldine introduced me to a couple called Tony and Nora, friends of hers and Matt, who had been visiting for a long weekend.

  ‘If you’re ever down in Ennistymon, we’ll take Saiorse scuba diving,’ said Tony, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand. ‘Here’s our address—you’ve no need to bother with hotels and the rest—you come and stay with us.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s not just the drink talking?’ I joked.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ he said, holding his orange juice proudly aloft.

  This trip was full of surprises.

  §

  It was early evening before I got a chance to look around Westport. It would have been shameful if all I had got to see of the place was the inside of Matt Molloy’s pub. Westport had been a prosperous landlord town, designed by architect James Wyatt in the eighteenth century. It only took me ten minutes or so to do a full circuit, and discover that its streets radiate from a focal point, the Octagon. There was a monument here with St Patrick on the top, proudly having taken the place of a British dignitary after the demise of British supremacy. The words beneath him made interesting reading:

  I AM PATRICK

  A SINNER MOST UNLEARNED

  THE LEAST OF ALL THE FAITHFUL

  AND UTTERLY DESPISED BY ALL

  Now that guy had a self esteem problem, no two ways about it.

  I saw a signpost saying Westport Quay, and since it was a nice evening I decided to walk there. It turned out to be further than I had thought, but worth it. I was lucky enough now to be experiencing weather for which the west coast of Ireland is most definitely not renowned. Clear blue skies and a gently setting sun hung over Clew Bay as I headed up a dusty path towards a grand-looking house I had seen in the distance. It was quite magnificent, and in a wonderful location, with stunning views across the bay. It was clearly the landlord’s home around which the entire town of Westport had been built, to house the estate workers. I climbed through a hole in the perimeter fence of the grounds and indulged in a little trespassing. This was too special a house not to merit further investigation. Subsequently, I discovered that it was Westport House, and that by the following month it would be a commercialised tourist trap, but at the moment it was closed to the public and I genuinely believed that I was getting a privileged glimpse of some palatial splendour which was off limits to the hoi polloi.

  On the walk back to Westport, out of nowhere some storm clouds appeared, and the heavens opened. I tried to hitch back, but the irony was that without my fridge, no one was remotely interested in stopping. By the time I got back to the pub, I was completely drenched. There was no one around from the afternoon’s ‘naming committee’ so I took the opportunity to sneak upstairs, dry off, and profit from an early night.

  As I lay in bed, the sounds of the pub below reminded me of times when, as a child, I was trying to get to sleep when my parents were entertaining downstairs. There even seemed to be someone down below with the same booming laugh as my father’s, but presumably this man’s raucous guffaws greeted other people’s jokes rather than his own. But once I had nodded off, not even the traditional Irish music emanating from just beneath the floorboards could keep me from eight solid, sound, substantial hours of sleep.

  Roisin hadn’t called.

  14

  One Baptism And A Blessing

  I woke, washed, decided to fix myself breakfast, and soon found myself in somebody else’s kitchen. An awful place to be, especially if you need to make use of its facilities. There is no such thing as a simple operation, even something as modest as I was taking on—a pot of tea and a couple of pieces of toast—becomes a Gargantuan task and a severe test of patience. In somebody else’s
kitchen.

  I started well. I located the kettle and even managed to work out how to turn it on. The hunt for the tea bags didn’t go to plan, but after two or three minutes of slightly irritated opening and shutting of cupboard doors, they turned up in the one on the left just below the sink. Silly place for them, but I didn’t let that get to me, and at this point I was still relatively calm. The hunt for the teapot was futile. It had been naive even to consider attempting to locate it. Those of you who are experienced in other people’s kitchens will know that the teapot is always placed in the most idiosyncratic of locations, known only to close family members and passed down from generation to generation by oral tradition.

  It got worse. They had no mugs. How could anyone have a kitchen with no mugs? This was a first. I looked everywhere. I covered every square inch of cupboard space, but there was not a mug anywhere. Except for me, the searcher, who for five full minutes was mug enough not to look in the dishwasher. Fifteen minutes later I was on the verge of doing something very silly with a sharp kitchen knife.

  Fortunately I couldn’t find one.

  ‘That was very nice, thank you,’ I said to the waitress as she took away my plate, on which were the scant vestiges of a full Irish breakfast.

  I was just heading out of the café when an elderly grey-haired woman approached me.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘you’re not the window cleaning company are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s just that I’m meeting someone from the window cleaning company in here, and I don’t know them.’

  I shrugged and left the café, not at all envious of the morning that lay ahead for her—routinely addressing strangers and enquiring as to whether they were from the window cleaning company or not. Quite why the rendezvous had been set up at a café and not at a suitable address, or why a little old lady should require a meeting with a representative from the window cleaning company, I couldn’t fathom. It didn’t matter, in fact it fitted nicely into the ludicrous design of things.

  By lunchtime I was back in the bar, having finished with Westport’s launderette, and I was ready to say my goodbyes.

  ‘Are you sure you have to leave today, Tony?’ said Geraldine.

  ‘Well, I think it’s right to keep on moving.’

  ‘That’s a shame, because my husband Matt is back from Dublin tomorrow and I spoke to him on the phone and he’s dying to meet you.’

  ‘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 20th 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 ba
ptism 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.