The Way Home

by Mark Boyle

  Kirsty has a quick rinse on the wooden decking to wash off the worst of the day’s dirt, so that the bath water stays largely clean for those who come after, and she gets in first. A woman’s prerogative. She lights a couple of candles as I pour two goblets of blackcurrant wine. I get in slowly, my body readjusting from the chilly November air to the sudorific water. That’s more like it. Lying back, the heat of the cast iron radiates through my body, teasing its way into every vertebra, tendon and ache, while a gentle drizzle refreshes my face. On reflection, I should have prioritised building this hot tub at the start of the year, but then again, I had a lot of things to prioritise when I first started down this path. But none of it matters now.

  ~

  Late autumn is when I start thinking about manuring the vegetable garden. If the soil isn’t full of nutrition, it’s impossible for the vegetables to be. If the vegetables aren’t full of nutrition, it’s impossible for our bodies to be.

  We collect around ten wheelbarrow loads of horse manure from a stables up the road, and heap it in a mound. A couple of days later, an experienced organic market gardener we know notices it, and warns us to be careful of a wormer which equestrian folk routinely treat their horses with, as it will still be in the manure and get taken up by the vegetables in the same way as its minerals and vitamins are. Ultimately, he says, it will end up in your body. We check with the stables, and he’s right, it is in there, and lots of it, too. The whole affair reminds me why I stay clear of what we consider to be ‘normal’ food. Kirsty has recently treated the horses she looks after for Packie with carrots and garlic, which is the old traditional treatment. She is off on an adventure soon, and wanted to make sure that they were in good condition before she left.

  Despite it being more labour-intensive, we decide that from now on we’ll poo-pick the field in which the horses are kept. That involves pushing a wheelbarrow around a muddy field in November and hand-picking their shit off the grass. The benefits, however, are twofold; we get to eat food that doesn’t have wormer in it, and the horses get to eat food that doesn’t have their own shit in it, lessening the likelihood of them getting worms in the first place. Wild horses never needed to be wormed before we started ‘looking after’ them, but wild horses weren’t stuck for months on end in a two-acre field with nothing else to eat but the grass under their own shit.

  It would be one of those win-win-win situations if it didn’t involve me pushing a wheelbarrow around a field picking up shit for half a morning every day for the next month. So for now it’s just a win-win.

  ~

  Down at the lake. I’m fishing for pike, but I catch a salmon. The first of my life. She puts up a terrible fight, but I finally get her out, take out the hook, and have her in my hand. What to do now?

  The law says it’s November, out-of-season time for salmon, so throw her back in. My belly says it doesn’t care what month it is, I’m hungry, so kill her. My eyes look into hers, I see her wild spirit and think about what my kind has already done to hers, and my head says throw her back in. The animal in me says stop being so civilised, it’s flesh – do you think bears care that it’s salmon spawning season when they catch them going upstream? – so eat her. My head says that bears don’t dam (and thus damn) rivers and pollute lakes, so throw her back in. My belly reminds me that it is still there, and hungry, and that ultimately my flesh depends on hers. My hand feels the pulsating, magnificent life in her body, and wants it to continue going forth and multiplying. Considering that it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event for most fishermen, these days, most people would suggest at least taking a photo of her. I can’t, and wouldn’t even if I could. No need to add insult to injury.

  I look into her eye again, and I throw her back in. Not because of the law, but because . . . well, I’m not sure actually. For some reason unknown to my stomach, it just didn’t feel right.

  I cast in again, and unlike every other fisherman in the country, I hope for pike this time instead. Best to keep these things simple.

  ~

  On my way to a babysitting evening at a friend’s house, I take a quick detour to the secluded pool on the Cappagh river. Excitedly I walk through fields of grass to this particular spot in the universe, a place so worthless, so unviable for farmers, that it is allowed to burst at the seams with life.

  Did I say is? Was. As I approach the pool from the north, I soon realise that this place I love is now as good as dead. The mature trees, shrubs and plants which once cloaked its banks, and provided cover for a heron, kingfisher, ducks, pike, trout, salmon and an entire micro-world of interdependent species, have been ripped out with a digger. In its place is a new farm track running adjacent to the river, complete with a barbed wire fence for its full length.

  I’ve seen more clear-fells and strip mines and factory farms than I care to remember, but few have hit me as hard as the change to this river. I’ve never seen any sight so savage; actually, I’ve never seen any sight so civilised. It feels worse for the fact that this little sanctuary for wildlife held a special place in my own heart, and that it was all so utterly unnecessary.

  I’ve recently been reading the ecologist Pádraic Fogarty’s book Whittled Away, which explores how, despite Ireland’s eagerness to confuse its association with all things coloured green with a global brand image of sustainability, nature in Ireland is vanishing at an alarming rate. As I stand on the bare banks of the river, a picture tells a thousand words.

  Did I say the river was as good as dead? No, the river will come alive again. All we need to do to help it is nothing – which seems to be the hardest thing of all to do.

  ~

  It’s commonly thought that, living as I do, December must be tough. In some ways, there is an element of truth in this, but only if you don’t enjoy the elements. In other ways, December can be the easiest month of the year. The hard work has been done. The wood has been gathered, sawn, chopped and stacked; it now only needs to be sat by as it burns. The fruit has been preserved, the herbs dried, the venison smoked, the blackberries fermented, the skins tanned, the winter vegetables planted; they now only need to be enjoyed. There are still things to be done – rain, hail or shine – but the long dark evenings do their best to attune you to their rhythm, resist as you may.

  This has been my first autumn without electricity, meaning no screens, no push-button connectivity with loved ones, no bright lights to encourage 24/7 ambition, nothing to distract me from myself. Some evenings my mind will drift to old friends, people I once knew well but whom, after they and I had scattered ourselves around the world in this most transient of cultures, I’ve not set eyes on for years. In recent years I stayed in touch with them via email, phone, online video calling and social media. I miss them, and a few in particular. Many of them I may never see again, never even hear their voices. They could get married, divorced, have kids, get cancer, win the lottery or die, and I would probably never hear anything about it.

  There are moments, like now, when I grieve for that reality. And then there are others, when I smile at the knowledge that they’re out there in the world and that one day, if the conditions are favourable, one of us may surprise the other.

  ~

  I receive a letter from my editor at the Guardian. Among other things, he tells me that my last article was their most shared on social media over the course of the week it was published. He tells me like it is good news – why bother writing after all, if you don’t want as many people as possible to read it? – and at all other points in my life it would have been, but . . . but, somehow it no longer quite feels that way anymore. Success now seems to mean other people staring at a screen a little longer, ‘liking’ you, sharing your work on the websites of shadowy Silicon Valley billionaires, and I can’t say I’m comfortable with the thought.

  ~

  There’s a sign up in the post office saying it is closing down. There was once a post office in Knockmoyle, just a short walk from where I live. Now the people of this rural community are
going to have to travel to Loughrea to send a small parcel or pick up their pension.

  I ask Packie, who is one himself, if pensioners can get their money paid straight into their bank account instead. Of course, he says. But he tells me that many of them don’t understand any of ‘that bank stuff’. And that you can’t have any craic with one of those card machines.

  ~

  One of the neighbours’ tractors won’t start. This is hardly surprising, as it has no battery, nor has it had one since I’ve lived here. It’s not the only problem the tractor has. Instead of lights, there are four fluorescent jackets hung on the front and back corners. All of the windows are devoid of glass.

  In the spring to autumn months, he parks it on a hill and starts it by free-wheeling down the track. It’s a technique he has mastered. On freezing December mornings, like this one, it doesn’t work so well. It’s frosty today, so when he knocks on my door I’m already expecting him. He’s got a screwdriver in his hand, ready to go. As he uses it to spark some part of the engine, I go against everything I was ever told about fuel and engines and light a piece of old newspaper and stick it into a vent. The flame warms the engine up, and within a few moments he’s in the cab of the tractor and giving me a wave.

  ~

  I find it strange that, in a world where free speech is so coveted, what I long for most is the freedom to not have to speak. Aldo Leopold summed up my morning’s sentiments when he said, ‘Of what avail are forty freedoms without a blank spot on the map.’

  I take out my Ordnance Survey map, number fifty-two, in the hope of such a spot. There’s nothing resembling wilderness, but I’m pleased to discover a handful of grid squares – each 1 kilometre squared – which are devoid of any of the tiny black squares that depict human habitation. I notice a lot of stone circles and megalithic tombs nearby, put on my boots, and start walking in search of our past.

  ~

  Holohan’s reopened, rather unexpectedly, last night. A young lad, mid-twenties, local, has taken it on. He says he wants to make a real go of it, but not in quite the same way that we’ve become used to people making a go of things. He tells us he doesn’t want to take a wage from it, not for a time at least, and that he just wants the pub to remain open, for there to be a place for people to meet.

  He warns Paul and me that whoever loses at chess tonight has to drink a ‘cement mixer’ – something that, in these less civilised parts, involves knocking down a whiskey, an Irish cream and a half pint of stout in one go – for their troubles. On the house. Neither of us wants to lose at the best of times, but that gives us added incentive, as we both have plenty to do in the morning, none of which will be easier with a hangover. We tell him that if the loser has to drink one of those concoctions then the loser is paying for it too. He’s not the only one who wants to see the place stay open.

  It appears there are others, too. Along with the regular old boys at the bar, there’s young people in tonight. And women. Yes, women. There’s a sense of renewal about the place, pub and people both acting like two lovers reunited after a childish spat.

  I lose. A man has to keep his word. We tussle over the cash, before I tell him that I won’t be back unless he takes it. He looks confused. The hangover’s not going to help with the manure collection in the morning, but who cares. There are strong signs of life, and that’s all that matters, really.

  As I go to leave, the landlord offers me a lift home as he’s clearing up. It’s on his way, he says. I tell him that I’ll need the walk home to clear my head before bed.

  It’s late when I get home. Not a single car passed me.

  ~

  Publishers love a happy ending. Publishers love a happy ending because readers love a happy ending. Readers love a happy ending because, well, who wouldn’t? We all long for happiness in our own lives, and it speaks well of us that we still want this for others too. The only problem is that, viewed through a short-sighted lens, reality doesn’t always do happy endings.

  I received a letter, this morning, from Kirsty. She’s been on the road for the last four weeks, busking, visiting other communities and landscapes, rediscovering herself and tackling her own deepest issues and fears. I usually receive a letter from her every week. It has felt difficult not being able to write back, as she has had no fixed address to respond to, but I love hearing about her adventures.

  This morning’s letter is different. In it she tells me that she has decided she won’t be coming back here to live. She has other paths she feels called to explore, and she wants to give all of her energy to that, on her own.

  I read it again. And again. It hits me right in the heart. I’m not usually one to cry, but the tears come down hard. We have been together for three years, and I had assumed we would spend the rest of our lives together. My head is going around in circles, thoughts left with no avenue of expression. As I sit on the windowseat of the cabin I can see her in the patchwork curtains she made, in each grain of wood, in every little detail she perfected.

  If I had my time again, I tell myself, I would do things very differently. I would certainly prioritise spending time with her, doing things she loves, over everything else that wasn’t absolutely necessary. But life doesn’t always give second chances, and you just have to be grateful for the one you got. Today I don’t care for wise words like that, though. Today I’m heartbroken.

  One thought loops through my head. Why can’t I learn. Why can’t I fucking learn.

  Reality kicks in. Being cut off from a world increasingly connected by fibre optic cables instead of eyes, meeting new people isn’t going to be easy. They say there are plenty more fish in the sea, but from where I sit now, with the letter in my hand, all I can see is the pond next to the garden. I stop that trail of thought early, though, before it grabs a hold. No use.

  The tears dry up, the cloud passes. It’s important to give such emotions their time, but it’s also important not to give them a second longer. No point wallowing in self-pity, there’s too much of life to be had. And if love is to mean anything, it must mean wanting the best for the person you claim to love, though your own heart feels like it is being ripped from your chest as you let them go. Losing someone you cherish in your life can feel brutal, but it’s the risk we gladly accept when we open our hearts to the immensity of love.

  I put the letter away. I have beds to manure, wood to bring in and water to collect.

  ~

  I look at the pencil in my hand, and put it down on the table for a moment. It’s a hexagonal, machine-cut piece of wood – I’m not sure what species, but I suspect cedar – with what I guess is a thin rod of graphite running through it, finished in yellow, white and blue paint. It looked identical to all the other pencils in the ‘H’ box when I bought it. The barcode confirms the standardisation is complete.

  I buy my pencils from the small art shop in our nearest town, specifically because the owner and his wife are trying to get the money together to jack in the world of business and, instead, move to a smallholding in Connemara. If he were to give me a guided tour of the entire process of making one – from the building of the roads to get the workers from suburbia to the factories, to the extraction and felling of the materials, etc. – I wouldn’t want to buy a single pencil. But he doesn’t, and I do.

  I look at the pencil on the table and wonder if I should ever pick it up again. God knows there are plenty of reasons not to. For one thing, there’s the ecological impact of the infrastructure required to make one. Yes, it’s a fraction of the embodied energy of a laptop and the World Wide Web, and a pencil can’t make you impulse-buy online or take up your morning with distractions like celebrity news, porn or social media. The degrees do matter, but they are still only a matter of degrees.

  This sliver of wood also makes my body hurt in ways that lumping logs around all day doesn’t. Bad ways. My neck in particular. I’m a physical animal – we’re all physical animals – and so the sedentary moments, if too long, don’t come easy to me. And while
most days I feel fortunate to be able to work both my head and my hands, with each informing the other, writing can often drag me away from the present moment, the place where I physically am, and from what is immediately around me; and I prefer to be where I am, and not somewhere in time or space that I’m not. Some days I question why I bother; after all, the natural world isn’t going to rack and ruin for the want of books in the world.

  It’s on those days that I sometimes close my eyes and imagine myself outside, doing something intrinsically useful like rewilding land, restoring the expansive Great Forest of Aughty that Brian Boru once loved. Now that would be something. The rivers running free of slurry, topsoil and agricultural chemicals, with salmon and brown trout – maybe even sturgeon – returning in numbers that our ancestors would have once taken for granted.

  I see fine, healthy populations of ladybirds, craftspeople, starlings, red deer, hedgehogs, musicians, mycorrhizal fungi, Irish mountain hares, goshawks, fishermen, Daubenton’s bats, moths, grasshoppers, corncrakes, honeybees, skylarks, witches, wood mice, otters, faeries, hen harriers, bards, pine martens, earthworms, toads, feral goats, badgers, pygmy shrews, curlews, growers, stoats, foxes, lacewings and golden eagles, all adding their own nature to the complexity and wonder of this place. And, if I allow myself to fantasise, a pack of wolves to fit the range. Heady dreams, heady dreams. But a man has to dream, even if he can’t afford an acre, let alone 100 square miles of landscape. Maybe I’ll find a way.

  I pick up the pencil. For all of its faults, at this moment in history the written word – in lieu of a strong oral culture – still offers us an avenue to connect the present with the past, reminding us of perspectives and ways that we have forgotten. Ways that may have value once again in a different kind of world, one that may arrive whether we like it or not; ways that could help us regain our sense of shared humanity and contentment, restore our mental health, and teach us the humility we will need to take our rightful place in the fabric of life again; ways that might even show us the path back home.