by Ben Aitken
I keep Jeff talking. It’s not hard. He says the world has changed and not for the better. He says the best government was Labour after the war. Says children used to be free, but now they’re trapped in technology. On the bright side, Jeff got a bit of money in his uncle’s will and spent it on cruises. He’s happy to admit he’s been around the block, but says that things have slowed down since his wife’s ticker started playing up. He tells me they got married late (they were 23) and saved 750 quid over the next two years and bought a house.26 He tells me not to look at him like that, says if I want a house, I just need to stop buying avocados and save my money. He says my generation think frugal is something that goes on toast. He says they go to Southport every Friday, without fail. They have two meals, lunch and dinner, then come home. ‘It’s our day,’ says Jeff. What about the rest of the week? I ask. ‘Ooh, we’re busy.’ He says he’s only loved one person his whole life. He’d do anything for her. Anything, he says. And where is your wife, Jeff? ‘She’s in the queue.’
The call comes for Killarney. I upset the driver because there’s no label on my luggage.
‘Is that all you’ve got? A wee backpack?’
‘It is.’
He smiles. ‘I’m not used to the likes of you. On ye get.’
The coach is full. Our driver, Frank, says he’s Scottish and he’s got the personality to prove it, and that if we cannae understand him, then we’re welcome to request a transcript from head office. We set off along the North Welsh coast to Anglesey. I give a nod to Llandudno and its various rabbit holes. That was March, and this is May: the other end of spring. We arrive at Holyhead, whence the ferries go. I get a text from Nan. ‘I can imagine you now.’
Security wants a word. Frank tells us not to look guilty. ‘I know some of ye have committed crimes against millennials, but try not to let it show on ye faces.’ Security sticks its head in and says, ‘Hiya, Frank.’ And Frank says, ‘I’m not telling ye, it’s nothing to do with ye.’ They both laugh and we drive onto a boat called Ulysses. We get off the coach and find our way to areas, decks and lounges. A lady called Chris trips on the stairs. Just a stumble. Her friend Carole and I help her up. Chris looks at me and then at Carole and says: ‘I might do that again later.’
I spend the first half of the crossing up on deck. The early rain has cleared and it’s bright. We’re not the first to cross this sea on a jolly. The Celts did it a few thousand years ago, then the Vikings, then the Normans and Welsh and English and so on. Plenty have popped over, and not one of them welcome, I would have thought. The very first people of Ireland wouldn’t have crossed this sea. They moved to the country during the Neolithic period, when Ireland and Britain and Europe were of a piece. Then rising seas intervened, and now Ireland and Britain are chips off the old block. So it goes.
I sit with Chris and Carole and a man who’s not on holiday. The ladies just had lunch. Chris says she likes mango chutney, but not with curry, while Carole says she likes peas, but not mushy ones. The man, when it’s his turn, says it’s not normal me being on such a holiday. I say it used to be normal to lobotomise republicans, so perhaps normal’s not what it’s cracked up to be. He’s not persuaded, and continues to stare at me as if I were a six-foot oyster, then says, almost in conclusion, that I remind him of his daughter.
‘Oh yeah?
‘Yeah. You’re an idiot.’
Then the man falls asleep – from mental exhaustion.
Chris shows me a picture of her grandson, who’s into tofu and crashed two cars. Then she shows me a picture of her granddaughter, who’s eighteen and wants to be a vet. And then Carole shows me a picture of her black grandchildren. ‘Well, creamy,’ she says. ‘Like creamy coffee. They’re not black, but I’m meant to say they are. They’re gorgeous anyway. I love ’em. Their dad’s South African. He’s gorgeous as well.’ Then she leans in and asks, sotto voce, ‘Is it racist me saying such things?’ I tell her it’s racist only if she thinks all creamy people, black people, white people, Cornish people – whatever people – are bad or worse or inferior for being creamy, black, white or Cornish etc. ‘Oh they can be bad all right,’ she says. ‘But it’s got nothing to do with them being creamy.’
Chris tells me that she and Carole share grandchildren. At first I wonder if this is some kind of division of labour, some kind of babysitting initiative, but it turns out one’s son is married to the other’s daughter. Chris says it’s a nice thing for friends to share. Another thing they share is a village near Leek in Derbyshire, and another still is widowhood. Their husbands both died four years ago – one of colon cancer and the other of pulmonary fibrosis. Chris says she was tempted to bury hers in his overalls, seeing as he was never out of them. Carole says she scattered hers in Rhodes because he liked it there. ‘I went to a medium not long after and she told me that John says thanks. Then she asked if I had a message for John. I said yeah, tell him to wear sun cream.’ I ask if life’s been hard since their husbands died. They share a look. I take it to mean: not as hard as you might think.
I ask about their village, their area, how it’s changed over the years. Carole says that Levison Wood used to live in the village but doesn’t anymore, if that’s what I mean. And they’ve lost the Duke of Wellington to Tesco, which sounds about as unlikely a turn of events as is possible. Yeah, it’s all changed, they say, it’s all different now. It used to be raspberry and vinegar for coughs, and if you broke your nose you were told to rub a dock leaf on it. The kids have changed as well. Chris says her granddaughter comes over and just sits there on the couch messaging her boyfriend. ‘Massaging her boyfriend?’ says Carole. ‘No, messaging,’ says Chris.
‘Can’t you confiscate her phone?’ I say.
‘You can’t,’ says Carole. ‘They’d walk out. They’d go on strike. They’d get social services on to you.’
‘You’ve got to let them alone,’ says Chris, ‘and go with the flow. It’s the modern way.’
‘But don’t you think they’re missing out?’
‘I do,’ says Chris. ‘And more to the point, I’ve met the boyfriend and don’t see what all the fuss is about.’
We disembark at Dublin and head south-west. An hour later, we enter County Limerick, famous for a type of poem. Frank encourages us to compose our own and send them forward for his inspection. I do as I’m told.
There was a wee fella called Frank
Who couldn’t decide who to thank
For the luggage that he
Was presented by me
Because the label was unhelpfully blank.
Then Frank gets all educational on us. He says the island of Ireland is like a saucer, with a flat central plain surrounded by low hills and mountains. He says the island is at once divided into 32 counties – 26 in the south, and six in the north – and four provinces – Ulster, Leinster, Connacht and Munster. Ulster is often used as a synonym for the north, explains Frank, but in point of fact Ulster contains nine counties, three of which are in the south. Killarney, if we were wondering, is in the county of Kerry and the province of Munster. South Munster means Desmond and – ‘bear with me’, says Frank – it was the Earl of Desmond that led some famous rebellions at the end of the 16th century, against whosoever there was to rebel against – most likely the English. The population’s growing these days, says Frank, but that wasn’t the case for a long time. It was 8 million in 1841 and about half that 140 years later. One hell of a famine and an awful lot of emigration help explain the slump. Then, Frank lifts the mood – or alters it at least – by saying: ‘As we approach Killarney, folks, I can tell you that Meghan and Harry have had a baby boy.’ Ah, that’s nice, they say. Isn’t that good, they coo. ‘They’ve called it Gary.’ Silence.
We’re staying at the Eviston House Hotel on New Street. My room’s on the second floor and has got everything I require – namely, a mattress and a kettle for tea. I flick through the channels but there’s nothing much on, only repeats of EastEnders and the news. I opt for the former. It�
��s an episode with only Dot Cotton in it. As far I’m aware, Dot’s lived in Albert Square since the Crimean War. Here she is now, at the kitchen table with a hot chocolate, recording a message on a tape recorder for her husband, Jim, who’s either in hospital or dead, it’s difficult to say. I’ve stumbled upon this, but not many people my age and below will have done. They’ve too much control over what they’re doing. When I was younger, you had less control of your intake, less autonomy. I might have been desperate for Gladiators or Blind Date, but TV didn’t care, I had to put up with One Foot in the Grave first, and then Keeping Up Appearances, and then Two Fat Ladies. As a result, I know who Dot Cotton is, who Captain Mainwaring is, who Victor Meldrew is. I didn’t pursue the knowledge, it simply landed on me, like cultural shrapnel. It seems to me that the latest crop of youngsters won’t experience anything by accident – not on a screen anyway. Because they’re able to curate their cultural diet, it’s likely they’ll only ingest stuff they relate to, and avoid anything they don’t. Whereas my generation copped a load of old whether we wanted to or not, today’s youth will be shielded from their elders, and the resultant dislocation will be to the detriment of intergenerational relations. Our cultural diets determine our understanding of the world; they influence and delineate our fields of interest and affection. If we only watch one thing, we won’t recognise others. I won’t labour the point: everyone could do with a bit of accidental Dot.
I go downstairs to the bar – which is more like a pub, really – to see what the crack is. Frank’s here. I tell him he could probably write a book, what with all the trips he’s done. He says he’s seen more people than hot dinners, which doesn’t sound right to me, but never mind. He says he used to do the Moscow trip, and one thing he learnt was that if you parked in the wrong place in Russia in the 90s, you soon knew about it. When I ask him for a highlight, he tells me about the time one of the guests didn’t come down for her breakfast.
‘Was she not keen on it?’
‘No, she was dead!’
We’re joined by Marty, who’s also on our tour. By his own admission, Marty’s a gay Scouser with learning difficulties. He’s also a Catholic postman, and wearing a bumbag and a gilet. I don’t think anyone has ever made such an instantly favourable impression on me. Marty orders himself a gin and orange, then admits to not really knowing the difference between Catholicism and Protestantism, and asks us if we could shed any light on the matter. Frank says he’d rather not get into it, if it’s all the same to Marty. Marty sees where Frank’s coming from, and so changes the topic. He asks Frank if he’s in a relationship. Franks says he is and it’s mostly great, but admits that sometimes life can be easier when you’ve only yourself to worry about. Marty says being gay’s a bit like that; some of it’s great but a lot of the time he just can’t be arsed. Marty doesn’t mind telling us he wouldn’t mind having the odd day off being gay, perhaps even the odd week.
‘Have you thought about it, Ben?’
‘Thought about what, Marty?’
‘Being in a relationship?’
‘I think about it a lot, Marty.’
‘I’d do it part-time if I were you. Who wants a drink? It’s my round.’
I walk down Main Street to the Killarney Grand. It’s packed. You couldn’t avoid a conversation if you wanted to. I start one with Connell, who’s about my age and in an advanced state of non-sobriety. Connell reckons two things: that there’s a girl under his skin and that Irish people are welcoming apart from the ones from Clare, who only welcome people from Clare. Then he asks what sort of holiday I’m on, and I tell him.
‘What the feck are you doing that for?’
‘I can’t say exactly.’
‘For the crack, is it?’
‘Oh, I don’t think they’re into drugs.’
‘Not drugs you—’
‘I’m joking.’
‘Eejit. Will yeh have another pint?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Gas.’
‘Connell?’
‘Wha’?’
‘Can I ask a question?’
‘Course yeh can.’
‘Do you know who Dot Cotton is?’
26 Equivalent to £20,000 in 2020.
14
It’s Judy bloody Garland
I walk down the aisle of the coach with my head bowed. I’m hungover. I’m wearing sunglasses. I’m not even sure where we’re meant to be going. ‘It’s Judy bloody Garland,’ someone says. On our way out of town, Frank points to a few nice buildings and says that if Killarney’s a good-looking place, then it’s no thanks to Oliver Cromwell.27
The Ring of Kerry is a 110-mile circuit that takes in all the county’s hotspots. One such hotspot involves a goat. I’ll let Frank explain. ‘Every August, the people of Killorglin take a wild goat—’ and make it a Lance Corporal? ‘—and parade it around town before getting a schoolgirl to crown it. The goat is then put up on a pedestal in the town square for a few days before being dethroned and returned to the wild, where it no doubt tells all its mates what it’s been up to. You can imagine their reaction. “What are ye oan aboot, Billy?”’ The annual coronation is in honour of a goat who came rushing into the town to warn of the imminent arrival of Oliver Cromwell and his Roundheads. That Cromwell had been and gone by the time of the goat’s arrival, and that most of Killorglin was already in bits, are details the locals prefer not to dwell on.
The Bog Village Museum is perhaps the least auspicious sounding museum (or village) on the planet. In accordance with its promotional signage, the museum gives an insight into how people lived in Ireland in bygone centuries. (Suffice to say they didn’t have Wi-Fi.) In recent years, the museum has diversified its appeal by serving Baileys coffee and toasted sandwiches in a neighbouring building. I order a ‘cheese onion ham’ only to be told they’ve only got ‘ham cheese onion’, like it says on the board. I say very well, I’ll have one of those then, but don’t ever accuse me of being inflexible.
I sit down with Carole and Chris. The first thing Chris does is offer me half her toasted sandwich.
‘I’ve got one coming, Chris.’
‘Well have this until it comes.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’
‘Suit yourself.
‘But thank you.’
‘We missed you this morning. Did you stop out late?’
‘Later than I might have done.’
‘Well don’t make a habit of it because you missed a good morning. We were pulled along in a cart by a pony. The driver was indecipherable. It was very entertaining.’
We continue to the Dingle Peninsula, which is the westernmost point of Ireland, and therefore of Europe. In days gone by, it was mostly rebellious Catholics that could be found loitering in the waters here (James II, Wolfe Tone). These days, it’s a dolphin called Fungi, who was first seen in Dingle Bay way back in 1983. When you consider that most dolphins live to about fifteen, it’s reasonable to describe Fungi as a fogie. And yet despite his advanced age, Fungi the dolphin is yet to display any right-fin inclinations. Frank, being Frank, is quite cynical about the whole thing. ‘The locals inflate a dolphin then charge tourists €15 an hour to see the wee bastard.’
Just beyond the village of Waterville, Frank directs our attention to a sort of craggy island just visible off the coast – Skellig Michael. Turns out there’s a monastery on the island, and it turns out that Frank can’t help but think that when it comes to spreading the word, sometimes religious folk don’t make life easy for themselves. Frank goes on to tell us that the Star Wars films were partly shot on yonder crag, which means that these days about ten boats a day are taking tourists across so they can see what they’ve already seen. We’re told – though Frank might be pulling our leg – that if you look carefully during Return of the Jedi, you can see a monk in the background taking a leak.
Then Frank orders us off at a viewpoint, and he’s right to. It’s an almost fictional setting. You wouldn’t say the land was abounding in anything. It
’s spring and yet nothing much is springing. It all looks rather trim and nibbled. A modest line of hills bisects the scene. If the hill line were a soundwave, the frequency would be low: its dives are shallow, its climbs are slight. Not much of the scenery is associable – can be associated with other things, stuff or ideas. There are some dwellings, and some electricity cables, and of course I recognise the sky; but little else refers to, or harks back, or brings to mind – not with any crisp explicitness – which is what makes the scene peaceful, I suppose. Having said that, the drystone walls that divide the land speak of plunder and seizure; of subjects and spoils; of the planting and plotting of Protestants. There’s less of that these days of course, but still these walls talk, and not everything they say is fit for a postcard. I take a picture of Chris taking a picture. Her pink jacket stands out against the grass and the gorse. She has her phone raised like a candle, and her hair’s the same shade as the sky. Her trousers and shoes look new and purposeful. She’s ready for golf, for the catwalk, for the hills. ‘It’s wonderful we can see such things,’ she says. Ah shut up, Chris. You’re after my heart.
At dinner, I sit with a couple – Sandra and John – and Marty.
‘You alright, Marty?’
‘Yeah I’m good, thanks, Ben.’