A Surprise in Ireland

There were four of us that summer.Four of us with four bikesHoping to get a train to the ferry.But this was England and we were toldIn no uncertain terms that we could notExpect to get four bikes on one train –Lord what fools these cyclists be!And so two cars did their bit to clogThe clogged-up road on the way to Holyhead.Dun Laoghaire seemed to proclaim its IrishnessWith its dislocated spelling –But off we went into the land of saints.

There’s surely not much the world can offerBetter than a warm gentle wind behind youWhispering you’re not old as the bikeTakes you down a road by the sideOf a wide, shining sea.The sun seems to melt the time in your headAs your heart settles to a steady beat,And your stomach tells you it’s time to eatWhen you’ve rode the cycle miles away.In Kilkenny at the B & B I heardA lovely lilting voice:‘Is it to get away from the womenThat you’re biking?’Not a feminist then, I was tempted to ask -But he was surely a good Catholic man;He sang a hymn of praise to the local Guinness.And his wife made us an unexpected mealWhen we’d washed away the day’s sweat.Then we searched for the inevitable pub:But it was shut, so we walked away -‘Come on back lads, sure we’re not shut for you,It’s just the travellers you know.’Out night was filled with sweet music, chatterAnd pints of the local golden Guinness.

Two days later, beginning to acclimatiseTo the bike-friendly Irish –A motorist actually stopped as the four of usStudied a map and asked if he could help -A far cry from being cursed at in England.Friendly words can lift the spirit all rightBut aging flesh is still found out byThe undulating road.When we wheeled into a village for the nightWe were dead tired, and David said:‘Look here, a different sort of cenotaph.’I had a fancy that we had ridden intoAnother world, like Gulliver’s, challengingOr threatening the familiar world we knew -For the names inscribed in stone had been‘Soldiers of the IRA’.

I’d heard times without number the old refrain:One man’s terrorist is another’sMan’s freedom fighter – And‘I’m off to Dublin in the green in the green’Filled many a tap-room when I was young.But the folk singers belting it out –Beery passionate exuberancePrompting the boozers to sanctify‘The echo of a Thomson gun’,Were safely out of sight of the poor sodWith the shattered knee caps.They would never see a woman wailingFor a dead husband or a murdered son.We stared at the small, neat monumentTo the mixed blood-and myth figuresOf my safe English life - the broguish-roguishIrishmen of enchanted Ireland,And the Paddies of the building and bomb site.

‘Sure I can guess what you’re thinking lads.’The four of us turned to face a bearded Goliath.His accent betrayed he was local, but his bulkWe found, like a whale shark, belied his gentility.His name had to be Patrick, and my first thought,Before my mind began to work, was – a brickie.The flow of words which followed, rich withQuotations from Shakespeare, Aeschylus and Joyce,Put a damper on my innate prejudice –I just hoped my thoughts didn’t betray me.And then he walked towards the monument:‘See there fellers, my father and uncle,Shot they were by the Black and Tans.To most English blokes that’s just a drink,Guinness and bitter – a mixed race of a drink . . .’Laugher now – ringing out like bellsCelebrating the relief of an occupied city.But his story was a grim one –The soft, Irish voice told a tale of menDressed in a kind of motley disguisingThe fact that they were simply murdering thugs.‘Sure it was Kant who said that out of theCrooked timber of humanity nothing straight was made.He was right you know lads – but some,To be sure, are more warped than others.’I will always hear the tone of his voiceAnd marvel at its measured calm.We talked and laughed and swapped storiesThen turned to read again the names inscribed –Names neither English nor Irish butThe names of men.