It had been almost four years since Tony Arrowsmith had first visited Shannon in the County of Limerick on the west coast of Ireland. He remembered it as though it was yesterday.
He recalled looking out of the window of the Aer Lingus 737 as it had descended towards Shannon Airport. The watery sun reflecting a silver sheen off the broad Shannon River. In the bright green fields he could make out the cows grazing and the small clusters of farm houses and barns.
The plane bounced on the patchy clouds as the motors whined and the pilot lowered the undercarriage. A few moments later they landed with a bump and the plane taxied towards what appeared to be a surprisingly big terminal building. It was just after 9.30 in the morning when he disembarked. There was a one hour time difference with France.
His first impression was the provincial air of the airport, a panel announced Shannon Airport as the biggest duty free shop in the world, curiously another sign indicated the way to US immigration control.
Arrowsmith showed his passport and collected his bag which he had checked in at Paris Charles de Gaulle airport. He walked through the green gate towards the exit from the customs area to the arrivals meeting point. The automatic doors slide open and amongst the small waiting crowd he saw his cousin Pat Kennedy who lifted his hand in a wave, a broad smile on his face.
“Welcome to Shannon Tony! It’s nice to see over here at last,” he said in a firm voice lisping the s very slightly
“Nice to see you Pat, I’m pleased to be here!”
Pat took Tony’s bag and led him through the corridors towards the car park. The airport crowd for the most part had the slightly shabby look of country folk, many of the men had the prematurely grey hair of the Irish that Arrowsmith recognised from his mother’s family, they also seemed to be well built perhaps rather overweight.
“Sorry the weather’s not better, they say it will be fine tomorrow.”
Arrowsmith chuckled to himself, ever since he had been a kid on holiday in Ireland, he remembered his aunts telling him the weather would improve. It was a carefully concealed secret of the Irish Tourist Board that it rained two days out of three in Ireland. That was a statistical fact and that was why Ireland was so green...and damp.
Pat showed him to a top of the range black BMW, he put the bags in the boot and then opened the front passenger door for Arrowsmith. He switched on the CD player for some background music and then the air-conditioning, as if to demonstrate the cars appointments.
“So how are things then Pat?”
“Fine, everything is fine. I’ve fixed up some meetings for you with the National Investment Board.”
“Is that necessary?” said Arrowsmith a little taken aback.
“Yesh,” he replied. Arrowsmith noticed the lisp again.
“It’ll do no harm, they’re good friends of mine.”
“Okay,” Tony shrugged, as Pat said, it would not do any harm.
“What are we going to do today Pat?”
“We’ll head out to the house to drop off your bags then we’ll have some lunch.”
Kennedy’s house stood about a mile back from the Shannon, the land falling away to the river giving a magnificent view across to the low hills that spread away to the south of County Limerick.
The house was a late eighteenth century Georgian style gentleman farmer’s residence. It was a splendid house partially covered with climbing ivy. A fine gravel covered driveway led to the main door of the house, the driveway was lined with tall dark conifers that were set back from the well maintained grass borders of the lawn.
He parked the BMW at the foot of the steps leading to the main door and led Arrowsmith up, pausing and turning at the top to proudly show him the view. Away to the left in the middle distance were the ruins of what appeared to have been a fortified castle.
“What’s that?” asked Arrowsmith pointing to the ruins.
“It’s an old Norman castle, it’s supposed to be haunted,” replied Kennedy rather seriously. Arrowsmith smiled to himself the Irish were superstitious, they saw ghosts and banshees everywhere.
He opened the door into the large entrance hall and showed the way into a large lounge. There was a fire of logs and turf that burnt brightly in the carved stone fire place. The house was warm and comfortable, elegantly furnished with heavy period furniture.
“What can I get you to drink John?”
“Oh! Let me think, I’ll have a scotch and Perrier, no sorry, perhaps that should be an Irish whisky,” he said with an apologetic smile.
“No problem, have a Blackbush with Kerry spring water, that’s our Irish mineral water.”
“Fine.”
An slight elderly woman appeared at the door dressed in a blue house coat.
“John, this is Mrs Kelly, she’s our housekeeper, been with us for a long time. She’ll show you up to your room.”
Mrs Kelly smiled.
“Nice to meet you Sir, Mr Kennedy has told me a lot about you. It must be nice to be home after all those years,” she said in a soft Irish brogue.
Arrowsmith smiled, ‘home’ he thought to himself, he did not think of it as home. He remembered his parents had always called it home, even fifty years after they had left Ireland.
He had always considered Ireland with mixed feelings, it was a place where the country cousins lived, who were naive when they were not downright backward, on the other hand there were the tender memories of his grandparents who had been already very elderly when he was a child, who had loved and spoilt him in their homely way. He remembered the smell of his grandfather’s pipe tobacco, the turf burning in the fire, the steaks his grandmother had fried for him with onions and Irish potatoes she had freshly dug from her vegetable garden. He recalled the smell of the fresh morning rain and the cows, yes the smell of the cows, the taste of country butter and home-made bread.
“So, Sláinte,” said Pat lifting his glass, “That’s good health in Irish.”
Arrowsmith lifted his glass and sipped his whisky, it had a rough edge as Irish whisky always did. He stood with his back to the fire, it was nearing the end of June, but the weather was cool with a damp twinge in the air.
“Where’s Susan?” asked Arrowsmith.
“She’s in town, she’ll be home this evening,” Pat replied without any further details.
“I’ve booked a table at Brury Castle, you know the country club, for half-twelve, so when we’ve had our drink and you’ve freshened up we can be on our way over there.”
Chapter 8
A Caribbean Cruise
Offshore Islands Page 7