1998 - Round Ireland with a fridge

by Tony Hawks; Prefers to remain anonymous

  I looked at my watch. It was 1.30. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been close to falling asleep. It had nearly happened twice. On each occasion my drift towards this peaceful state had been disturbed by a small explosion. This was the hostel’s central heating system which had been spitefully designed to fire up every forty minutes. The intervals between explosions afforded enough time for one to get extremely sleepy, but not sufficiently so to avoid an abrupt awakening at the next outburst from the hostel’s boilers.

  At 2.00 am, most of those who had been lucky enough to relinquish consciousness had it restored by the noisy return of the occupant of the bunk below me. Telltale signs such as belching and singing, suggested that this man, when faced with a straight choice of what to do with his evening, hadn’t gone for the healthy option. It wasn’t escaping my notice that this man had made the correct decision for this situation, for as soon as he had completed a blundering and noisy shedding of his clothes, his head hit the pillow and he began snoring. Well, not quite. He was almost snoring. The deep breaths were there, and the accompanying snorting sounds were there too, but only at a faint volume. It was clear this man had the potential to snore very loudly, but that this was something he preferred to warm up to. It was vital to fall asleep before he reached his full volume.

  I failed in this regard, and one hour later he had worked his way up to a level of snoring which would have won him medals in the European Championships. All the evidence was there to suggest that in another quarter of an hour he would reach his peak, and produce snores which would rival some of the best in the world. I was alone in my concern because I could tell from the clearly audible breathing patterns of the others in the dormitory, that everyone had managed to fall asleep except me.

  Being on the receiving end of snoring wasn’t a new experience for me, but I had never experienced the sound coming from directly beneath me before. Somehow this made it considerably more disconcerting, and gave the distinct impression that some kind of geological upheaval was imminent. In the dead of night rational thinking vanishes, and although Ireland wasn’t renowned for its earthquakes and volcanoes, at least two clamorous rumbles from beneath my bunk made me sit bolt upright in fear.

  I’m against the death penalty. I believe that it is a mistake to show that killing people is wrong, by killing people. However I’m not against the random killing of people who snore. Okay, I accept that it is harsh, barbaric and against every decent human value, but the simple fact is that there is no other cure for snoring. People have tried myriad remedies, and none of them work. All right, you can wake them, but they’re only going to fall back to sleep again and begin all over again. The only truly effective way to stop someone snoring is to kill them.

  I lay in my bunk considering my options. Suffocation seemed the most appropriate, but strangling I liked also. My feeling was that there wasn’t a court of justice anywhere which would not be sympathetic to the mitigating circumstances of my present plight. But then, quite suddenly, he stopped. He just stopped snoring as if he had received news from a politician that a ceasefire had been agreed. The silence was no comfort. I knew that this was only a temporary cessation of hostilities and that he would begin snoring again soon, so I was aware that this next period was crucial if I was going to fall asleep. I had to act now. I rolled on to my side, closed my eyes and offered up my consciousness.

  There were no takers. Evidently, mine wasn’t a personality suited to sleeping under this kind of pressure. I had no place in the British Olympic sleeping team after all. It was one thing falling asleep in training, and another when you were up against the clock.

  The night dragged on.

  Here, in brief, are the other major events of the night: 3.30 am. Drunk recommences snoring.

  3.45 am. Sympathy snorer on other side of dormitory starts up. (Stereo effect created.)

  4.30 am. Get up and go to toilet. Stub toe on corner of bunk.

  4.33 am. Return from toilet and stub same toe on different corner of bunk.

  4.55 am. Give serious consideration to shouting at the top of my voice, ‘LOOK EVERYONE, GET OUT OF MY ROOM!!’

  5.05 am. Consider suicide as an option.

  5.07 am. Reject suicide as an option on the grounds that it would be too noisy, and wake people up.

  5.15 am. Decide this night is penance for stealing Tina’s lift. Give up, and resign myself to a night of no sleep.

  5.16 am. Fall asleep.

  6.30 am. Woken by Chinese-looking man’s alarm clock going off.

  6.31 am. Decide killing is too good for Chinese-looking man. Will take contracts out on his loved ones.

  8.00 am. Decide to get up.

  8.01 am. Discover that I have an unnecessary and unwarranted erection.

  8.01-8.30 am. Wait for dormitory to empty.

  8.32 am. Dormitory almost empty. Risk getting up. Big Dutch lady sees unusual bulge in my boxers. She smiles.

  8.40-9.10 am. Breakfast, spent avoiding eye contact with big Dutch lady.

  9.30 am. Leave the premises, swearing never to stay in a hostel again, as long as I live.

  The longest night was behind me.

  16

  Down And Out In Galway

  The nation needed an update on my recent adventures. On air, Gerry Ryan astutely picked up on one common thread which ran through them all.

  ‘Tony, you seem to be spending most of your time in pubs, I think it’s important to point that out at this stage.’

  ‘Well, the trouble is, Gerry, I can’t get out of them. I go in and I’ve got a fridge in tow, and it isn’t long before the exit door is barred and that’s it, I’m stuck there.’

  ‘I must use that as an excuse myself one day.’

  He was right, of course; I had been spending most of my time in pubs. The irony is that the one night when I didn’t go anywhere near one, I ended up with less than two hours’ sleep.

  ‘Watch out folks,’ said Gerry, winding up our interview, ‘he’s in Letterfrack, and he’s heading for Galway today, so if you see a gentleman looking reasonably benign with a fridge by his side, please do stop and say hello and if he doesn’t seem threatening, well then, please give him a lift. Bon voyage once again Tony, we’ll keep in touch.’

  I pulled the fridge down to the roadside, tired, but knowing that these conversations that I had on national radio were the equivalent of filling a vehicle’s tank full of petrol. I was fresh in the minds of the nation’s drivers and once they set eyes on the fridge, they were only too happy to throw open that passenger door.

  Then a problem. There was only one spot suitable for hitching, and someone was already hitching in it. I wasn’t prepared for this. I ought to have been. Eighteen years of Tory government back home should have left me comfortable enough with the concept of competition.

  ‘Oh hi,’ I said to my peer, nervously, ‘I’ll just move on twenty yards or so shall I?’

  ‘No, no. You’re all right here. I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t mind at all, off you go.’

  And with his hand, the young lad offered me the roadside before him.

  ‘But you were here first.’

  ‘I know, but I’m not the man with the fridge, am I? Honestly, I’m in no hurry, off you go. Best of luck to you. Where are you headed?’

  ‘Clifden, then Galway, I think.’

  ‘Ah, you’ll have no problems. Not with that thing in front of you.’

  Padrig, a student at the woodwork school which was directly behind us, sat on a nearby wall and chatted to me whilst I hitched away. A number of cars came by and indicated to me that they were shortly turning off, by pointing to the left.

  ‘I hate it when they do that,’ said Padrig, ‘because there are no left turns on the stretch of road between here and Clifden.’

  I had to admire his pedantry.

  A young van driver pulled up who knew Padrig quite well, but he only had room for one person and a fridge in his van, so it was a case of ‘secon
d come, first served’ and Padrig stayed where he was. He didn’t mind one bit, and he waved enthusiastically as Brian drove me off towards Clifden. Brian shared what was becoming a universal approval of my quest, and made a stop to show me off at the hand-weavers craft store where he worked, where I was given a cup of tea and a sandwich, and encouraged to sign the visitors book.

  By one o’clock I had walked through quaint Clifden, the town which passes for the capital of Connemara, and set myself up on the solitary main road out of town. Fatigue was setting in, and I was barely able to keep my eyes open as I slumped down on my fridge and stuck my thumb out once again. A driver in a lorry from the building site opposite saw me and called out, ‘Is that a washing machine?’

  How nice, a variation on a theme.

  ‘No, a fridge,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh right. I hope you do okay where you are. I’ve seen hitchers there for a very long time.’

  Ah, but they probably didn’t have fridges, I thought.

  Half an hour later, with my continued presence by the roadside bearing out his words, the builder returned with his load, and on seeing me, shrugged sympathetically. I shrugged back. It had been a meaningless exchange, but oddly, it had lifted my spirits ever so slightly, just at a point when they needed it. Shrugging, I decided, was good. More people should shrug. You never see a politician shrug (they see it as a sign of weakness), but surely one of the reasons the problems in Northern Ireland have been so prolonged is because the politicians on either side never shrug. There is no other physical gesture which comes as close to an embodiment of the fridge philosophy—a quiet acceptance of what has gone, and a healthy lack of concern about what is to come.

  Two Spanish-looking types cycled by on bikes, catching sight of the fridge and nearly falling off. When they had gone past, one of them turned and yelled back.

  ‘Hey, good luck, man!’

  That was nice of him. It made me feel good, a Spanish cyclist responding positively to a fridge. Perhaps I’d do this in Spain next year.

  The cyclist’s wish was fulfilled and good luck arrived in the form of Matt, whose job was driving around Mayo and Galway repairing any tills, slicers and scales which went on the blink. I suppose that just as things needed delivering, they needed repairing too. Matt was getting married in three months.

  ‘It’s embarrassing though,’ he said, ‘because if you’re getting married in a church, you have to go on a pre-marital course.’

  ‘Run by who?’

  ‘The Catholic Church, the priests.’

  ‘And how long is this course?’

  ‘Two days.’

  Terrific idea. Two days of advice on how to cope with married life, from a body of people who have never been married, and don’t indulge in any sexual activity. (Now don’t scoff, it’s true—they don’t.)

  ‘And what happens at the end of the course?’

  ‘They give you a certificate. You can’t get married in a church without it.’

  ‘So it’s compulsory?’

  ‘No, it’s not compulsory, but you have to do it.’

  Matt dropped me in the car park of a big shopping centre on the outskirts of Galway, having driven about forty miles out of his way to do so, and after thanking him profusely I began pulling my belongings into the town centre. The trolley, which up to now had performed way beyond my expectations, for some reason or other insisted on shedding its load every thirty yards or so. A less tired man would have coped with it better than I did. It was a long way into the town centre, and I passed no hotels or B&Bs on the way in. Had it not been for the occasional supportive toot of a car horn, or shout of encouragement from a friendly Galway shopper, I might have lifted the fridge on to the nearest skip and called the whole thing off.

  I had decided to reward myself with a nice hotel tonight, regardless of cost, but was dismayed to find them all full. Or maybe that was just what they told me. I must have looked a bedraggled figure, struggling into reception carrying a rucksack and pulling a fridge behind me on a distinctly wobbly trolley, so I probably didn’t represent the select clientele they actively sought. The last receptionist to reject me produced a list of bed and breakfast phone numbers.

  From the street, I put the mobile into action. A woman answered.

  ‘Hello, Stella speaking.’

  ‘Hello Stella, my name is Tony, do you have any vacancies?’

  ‘I do Tony, for how many is it?’

  ‘One.’

  She gave me the address and started to give directions. I stopped her, ‘No, it’s all right, I’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Quay Street.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t need to get a taxi, you’re very near.’

  ‘Are you sure? It’s just that I’ve walked a long way already, and I’ve got a fridge with me.’

  There had been no need to mention it, but experience so far had shown me that if people had heard about my adventure, their attitude changed dramatically towards me. Stella was definitely not in the know.

  ‘A what? ’

  ‘A fridge. I’m travelling with a fridge.’

  ‘I see.. Well either way you’ll not want to be bothering with a taxi, it’s not far.’

  It was far. It was very far, and what’s more Stella’s directions made no sense. Half an hour and three mobile phone calls later, I finally reached the guest house, in the heart of the Galway suburbs, and Stella, a smiling middle-aged woman with suspiciously black hair, answered the door.

  She clocked the fridge, ‘Oh, so you weren’t joking then. You should have got a taxi with that thing.’

  Over a cup of tea I learned two important pieces of information. That Pet Rescue was Stella’s favourite television programme, and that her memory for names was on a par with her ability to issue accurate directions.

  ‘Whereabouts in England are you from, Chris?’ she asked.

  ‘London.’

  I was about to tell her that Chris wasn’t my name, but I checked myself, finding that being called Chris made a pleasant change.

  ‘Ooh London, that’s a coincidence, Chris, because I’ve just had another lad from London arrive, a quarter of an hour ago. He’s upstairs, you might meet him later.’

  I never did, but Stella explained that when he had arrived, because of his English accent, she had assumed that he was me, and had asked him where his fridge was. She didn’t tell me what his reply was, and we can only hazard a guess, but I was impressed that he had been prepared to stay the night. It is surely a brave man who goes ahead and checks into an establishment where the first question is ‘Where’s your fridge?’ Especially if, as he had done, you had arrived by motorcycle.

  Stella cooked a homely evening meal for myself and Owen, the student lodger from Kildare, to whom I had carelessly introduced myself as Tony.

  ‘Do you want more dessert, Chris?’ Stella asked me.

  Owen looked around the room for a Chris.

  ‘Yes please,’ I replied, with the only sensible answer to that question.

  Owen shrugged. Good lad. Correct response.

  Gerry Ryan had spoken highly of Galway;

  ‘You’ll be much welcomed in Galway I can tell you, there are some fine hostelries, and indeed a very learned and cultured people they are too,’he had said.

  But exhaustion meant that my experience of Galway was limited to an evening with Owen, in front of the TV in Stella’s living room, watching Ireland play Liechtenstein at football. And I had to call on all my reserves of energy even to manage that much. I quite enjoyed the game, but mainly because the positioning of the microphones at the ground were such that the comments of some of the crowd were clearly audible: ‘Come on Kennedy! Move your arse on you!’ offered an old man sup-portively.

  It worked, Kennedy did move his arse on him, and Ireland won 5-0. Owen was happy enough, and as I said goodnight, I congratulated him on his team’s performance. It would have been churlish to have pointed out that Liechtenstein were hardly giants in the
world of football.

  §

  I was woken in the morning by my mobile phone ringing. It was Galway Bay FM wanting to do an interview. My number was evidently doing the rounds. They said they would call back in twenty minutes, and as I waited, I tuned into their frequency to get a flavour of what they were all about. I heard the adverts. One stood out above all the others. An excitable voice announced with gusto: ‘Come to Ballingary, County Tipperary, this Saturday May 24 from 10 am to 6 pm, for the event of a lifetime—SHEEP’97!’

  I liked it already. The overly excited man continued, ‘Events include the RDS National pedigree sheep championships, plus competitions for lambs, wool and sheep shearing. There’ll be a display by David Pagan, the current world shearing champion, and many information and trade exhibits, assessments and repair of silage pits, machinery displays, and a major high-speed wilting demonstration! So call 06721282 for further information, and remember, if you’re in the business of sheep rearing, then get along to SHEEP ‘97!!’

  Never mind whether you’re in the business of sheep rearing or not, SHEEP ‘97 has got to be a must for the entire family hasn’t it? Is there a healthy ten-year-old anywhere who wouldn’t be chomping at the bit to get to an ‘assessment or repair of a silage pif? And only a fool would miss a ‘major high-speed wilting demonstration’. Most of us don’t get to see any wilting, but those of us who do, only see it taking place at a snail’s pace. At last! An opportunity to see wilting not only done well, but at high speeds. The mind boggled. If fate delivered me anywhere near Ballingary on Saturday, then SHEEP ‘97 could count on my presence. I could take Roisin. If she phoned. That was a point—why hadn’t she phoned? Ah well, patience Tony, patience. To my delight, just before Keith Finnegan began his interview, the SHEEP ‘97 ad came on again, and this time I noticed that the accent of the voiceover artist was such that the word ‘shearer’ sounded like ‘sharer’. So, for some, this advert included the sentence,’…plus competitions for lambs, wool, and sheep sharing.’