* First posting...

aegis

Hi all -
First posting, and I thought I would post this little story. I'm just starting to write regularly, and this was one of my first little pieces. Thought it would be a good a place as any to start.

Any comments welcome.

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I was sitting in a bar in the most boring county in Ireland. Don't blame me - I didn't say it first. Look it's right here, in my guidebook: "Roscommon is undeservedly known as the most boring county in Ireland." It begs the question that if Roscommon isn't the most boring, then which one is, doesn't it? Certainly, it's not a great start to your entry in a world-renowned travel book.

I had crossed the mighty Shannon in pouring rain on a late May evening and I was wondering what on earth had brought me here. Over the previous year I had cycled down to Wexford and up to gray Giants Causeway, to the glorious gardens of Powerscourt and the bustling streets of Kilkenny. But now, on this trip, setting off for the wilds of Mayo and Galway I had come to fell that I was journeying into my own heart of darkness, on a Raleigh 18 speed.

Somewhere west of Lucan I felt I had entered the Badlands. The sunlight was sucked away, the clouds loomed in the sky, and the rain came down in sheets. Reaching Roscommon that evening, after 3 days in the saddle, was like reaching the end of the world.

I squelched into the first bed and breakfast I could find, in the first town I found in Roscommon – which for good measure doubled as a pub. I stood for a minute inside the door, unsure. The bar was quiet, a low murmur rising from the patrons there. I wasn't sure if it was a welcoming sound, or some low pitched warning. There was a small bar counter at which 3 old men sat, smoking tobacco in various ways. A set of stairs was set into the back wall. Some semi-circular lounge seats, frayed and slightly grimy lay by the opposite wall, occupied by equally elderly souls. I approached the bar.


“Any chance of getting a bed for the night here?”
"Uh huh", said the barman. He continued to look at me. Oooo-kaaaay, I thought.
“Well, then, I’d like a bed for the night.”
"Uh huh", said the barman.
“And a hot whiskey. I’ll have a hot whiskey. Please. Thanks.”

The barman turned to an electric kettle, lifted the plug and slapped it into a socket. He turned to look at me. I felt the immediate need to sit down, somewhere, anywhere. I scanned the scene again, then chose the furthest lounge seat and splashed down. I was hot and bothered and frozen to the bone.

"Soft night out there?"

I hadn't even drawn my breath. Now here was something, a Dali-esque take on local weather. On the far couch sat the local meteorologist. He wore a wry smile on a brown weathered face, crowned by a shock of black curly hair and was of an indeterminate age. In front in him sat a half finished pint of Guinness, I think. As I had ventured west on my other forays from the city I had noted that the pint glasses of the pubs I passed through were never helpfully emblazoned with the name of the product within, which I always felt was a considerable help in the late hours of a long night in Dublin. I felt however that Murphys stout would be too exotic for these parts, never mind Beamish.

"It's a wet night out there", I replied.

He seemed momentarily confused. Then:

"It's a soft night all right." The smile played on his lips again. Then:
"I take it that you're not from around here?"

My hot whiskey suddenly arrived with a thud on the table in front of me. The barman’s shadow loomed over the table for a moment longer than necessary, then disappeared. Suddenly I felt armed, no longer vulnerable. There is nothing worse you can do in a bar in rural Ireland then walk in, sit down and do nothing. Nothing could possibly attract more attention. The bitter taste of the whiskey mixing with the sugar was refreshing.

"I'm...ah...cycling to Galway, from Dublin. I'm just passing through."
"You're from Dublin then?"
"That's correct". A pause, then:
"Well, you come a long way to get wet, that's all I'll say."

Another pause. Talking to one of these old souls, I felt, was like shouting into a big black hole; whatever you said got swallowed up, echoes and all. You could not have anything of any great worth to say, but you would be encouraged to part with it anyway.

"Where is your rothar anyway?"
"Parked outside. Ah...there's no chance of it being taken, is there?"
"Ah no. No bother there. I'm sure they'd leave you the frame, at any rate."

He finished his pint in one gigantic gulp. In a moment the barman had appeared with another, setting it softly on a new beer-mat. Over the top of this glass I could see that my weatherman was now studying me closely. I had no idea what to say to him. We sat there for a very long time, in silence. I began to nurse the last of the whiskey and wondered how to get out of here and where to go next.

He suddenly began to examine me with a new intensity. Here it comes. I thought.

"I would think my son is exactly your age. You'd be in your late twenties, I'd guess."
"Um...yeah…28 years, actually.”

A really now pause now. Jesus, I can’t just leave it at that! Got to say something…

“So, what…um…does your son do?”

This was a conversation winner, surely, I felt. He peered at me closely and his face became inscrutable. I detected a building fury. A small puddle had begun to appear on the floor between my legs, the last of the rainwater that has drenched me earlier. To any outside observer this was starting to look bad.

“My son”, he began, “is no longer my son. He’s divorced me.”
“I…I see.” I stammered. “Actually no, I don’t. I mean…”
“My son”, he began again, “has divorced me. Now, tell me, have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“I believe I haven’t. I…”

“It came today. In the post. From Ecuador.”
“I…”
“A letter you see. Formally divorcing my missus and I. It’s a damnable thing.”
A pause - was this supposed to be my cue? He was still peering intently at me, eyeballs now straining at the leash, a flush red blossoming on his face. Good God, who wouldn’t divorce this man? Best to play safe though.

“I…I…yes! Yes, it’s…a…strange thing all right…very unusual. First I’ve heard of such a thing.”

His face sprang back into shape, the wry smile returned.

“I thought as much. Strange gasun he is, don’t you think?”
“Ah...well, I couldn’t really say that I....”
“Gallyvanting around the world. It’s a wonder that he hasn’t gone soft before this.”
“Ah…Gallyvanting would do that all right.” Whatever the hell ‘gallvanting’ was.

He was now looking at me with a new respect, admiration even. I felt I had been welcomed into some of club. Suddenly the barman was at my elbow.

“Your room”, he intoned, “is ready”. He returned to the bar. I sprang to my feet.
“Ah…it was a pleasure to meet you, but I’ve got to go.”
“You’ve got to go all right. Well best of luck to you.”

Outside the rain had intensified. I gathered my gear, locked the bike and returned the pub. The barman stood silent before me, keys jangling in his hand. He turned and headed up the stairs, without a word.

ColinM

I really liked that.

It smacks of quality.

Your use of the weather as a major character was excellent, and I know I can identify with meeting characters like the potentially unhinged porter drinker who must be appeased at all costs.

Well done!

Shad0r

Good stuff, that was an enjoyable read.

DapperGent

Nice piece.

A pleasure to read.

DriftingRain

It was a great read...you should post more stuff.:D