John Joe Could Murder a Pint.

John Joe Could Murder a Pint

( For international reviewers I would explain - a Pint is Guinness/beer - Murder is busting for a drink)

“Excuse me Sir. Could you tell me where I get the Bus for Donegal?”

“Feck off.”

“Feck off yourself.”

Bloody Dubliners, haven’t changed since I left six years ago. Six years working a hundred ton Power Press banging out shell casings for the Brits to fire at Gerry. Bang bang bang fifteen casings a minute, my head still aches. Now the war’s over, it’s bye bye Birmingham. I can’t wait to get back to my Donegal Hills.

“Excuse me Sir. Could you tell me where I get the Bus for Donegal?”

You haven’t a clue? Does anybody know anything round here? 

I was very good, sent money home every week. God knows what they spent it on. I got the odd letter telling me everyone was fine and to keep the money coming. I sent a note with the last draft to suggest they buy some whitewash to give the house a bit of a lick. It does your heart good to see the sun sparkling off a white cottage on a green hillside.

“Excuse me Sir. Could you tell me where I get the Bus for Donegal?”

“Turn right into O’Connell Street, pass Nelson’s Column and opposite the Gresham Hotel you’ll see an old white bus with McKeekin badly painted on the side. It leaves at half two. If you’re quick you’ll make it.”

“God bless you friend. I owe ya.”

“Single ticket to Ardara, please.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph is that John Joe McHugh? I haven’t seen you in years, you look great.”

“Don’t feel great. I’ve not had a minutes sleep for twenty four hours. That auld Liverpool boat was bobbing about like a stick in mountain stream.”

“Get yourself down the back and stretch out on the seat.”

“Waken me when we come over the mountains above Ardara I want to see again the sweep off the hills down to the sea.”

Sleep came quickly but only lasted a few hours. I just lay out along the back seat staring at a bit of torn cloth hanging down from the roof of the bus. My mind drifted into bygone memoirs.

Giant black cliffs that looked like they had heaved themselves out of the white topped waves crashing at their feet. Gulls circling, diving and screaming to be heard above the din.  Barely surviving heather with bent back stems blanched white by the prevailing wind and salt.

Dawn walks in the hills to mind the sheep. Mist nestling in the valleys waiting for warm rays of the sun to chase them off till tomorrow. Soft rain drifting in from the sea blotting out the landscape in grey.

Evening strolls with Rose along the beach to the rocky headland. White surf rolling in, gradually reducing to a ripple on the wet sand before being sucked back. Holding hands as we sat on the rocks watching the sun sink slowly below the horizon. Clouds catching fire turning from white to red and then grey with the far hill black. An evening star bright in the sky. A soft chilly wind blowing across your face reminding you it’s time for home. What about Rose? I’ve heard nothing.

Dusk by the lake side, a gentle breeze nudges the weeds and little puffs of mist twirl around. A trout rises and the ripple circles grow wider and wider on the brown bog water. Some would have you believe in fairies.

Would the house be the same? There was talk of adding an extra room out the back. Would the thatch still be covered in litchen? Would there be a good stack of turf against the gable end - enough for the winter? The smell of peat and wet clothes.  Big black pot and kettle hanging over the hot ashes.  Oil lamp on the table. Would they ever bring electricity to Donegal? Hell might freeze over first. I’ll bet the glass on the Sacred Heart picture is still broken and it still hangs lopsided by the door.

Oh how we laughed the time that American cousin visited and complained there was no lock on the outside toilet. Mammy just said “it’s been like that for thirty years and no one’s stolen the bucket yet.”

“You down at the back, wake up.”

Sure enough, there it was, that great sweep of green and rocky Irish countryside reaching right down to the cliffs, sand dunes and the wild Atlantic Ocean.

Not much changes in Donegal, except John Joseph McHugh is home and could murder a Pint.