Sarah Das Gupta
We had been very lucky that Autumn when we decided to hitchhike round Ireland. The Atlantic coast can be notoriously wet with rain blowing in from the sea. Yet, we hadn’t experienced a drop of rain since we landed on the ferry from Fish Guard to Dublin. My Indian boyfriend had been desperate to visit Ireland, after reading James Joyce’s Dubliners and Ulysses. As university students in London, we had no spare cash. So, we took our chance and decided to hitchhike. Friends at college told us there was little traffic outside the major towns but the Irish were extremely generous and hospitable, usually being willing to offer a lift, especially to penniless students!
That late September morning, we set out from Killarney. We had spent a great time boating round the famous lakes and had visited the popular Blarney Castle. Here you can kiss the Blarney stone, while leaning backwards over a sheer drop. It is supposed to give you the gift of eloquence. I noticed Ashok was not too enthusiastic when it came to my turn.
“You already talk enough,” was his ready comment.
“Yes, to be sure, women shouldn’t kiss the stone,” added the man at the ticket kiosk.
That morning, we were hoping to hitch a lift up the beautiful West Coast to the city of Limerick where we had arranged to stay for a few days. Standing on the main road early in the morning, we felt more and more despondent. There was little traffic. Several drivers stopped as we stood at the side of the road, waving our yellow and blue scarves as we hopefully thumbed a lift. A car would pull up and we would race to open the front door. Only for the driver to lean across and explain, “Sure, I’d help you, but I’m only going up the road, so I am.”
Half an hour passed and we were still waiting. Just as we consoled ourselves by pulling a packet of cheese sandwiches out from our rucksacks, a battered old van shuddered to a halt.
“I’m going to the market at Dingle.”
“Yes, that would be wonderful if you could drop us there.” Ashok sounded as if Dingle was the best destination in the world at that moment.
I nudged him on the shoulder, whispering, “We don’t want to go to Dingle, wherever it is.”
Too late. He was already clambering into the front seat beside the driver who pushed his seat forward, gesturing to me to sit in the back of the van.
As we wheezed off up the road, I realised I was not alone in the straw at the back. There were at least two hundred, day-old chicks, running loose around me. Tiny balls of fluff on pink legs, they cheeped loudly as they ran over my feet or settled on my lap. In the front, Ashok and the driver were deep in conversation about British rule in Ireland and the effects of the potato famine of the nineteenth century. Ashok then went into detail about the massacre at Amritsar and the record of the British in India. Every so often, they glared at me, marooned among the horde of chicks, as if I was personally responsible for British Imperialism. I was by this time desperately holding my nose. The smell of chicken muck was almost unbearable. My boots were covered in chicken shit. I couldn’t wait to get out, but I feared the reception that would meet me in a café or bar.
The van turned left off the main road. Ashok explained that Sean was going to drop us off half a mile further up the road to Dingle where we would have a panoramic view of the coast. We could then walk back to the main road and, hopefully, thumb another lift. It was a relief to get out into the open air. Hopefully the sea breeze would blow away the worst of the chicken stink. Sean drove off with his fluffy cargo, having solved the complexities of Irish and Indian history, largely at the expense of the English.
We walked to the edge of the cliffs which looked out over Dingle Bay. The view almost made the chicken ordeal worthwhile. The sun had come out and the sea was the deepest blue. The bay stretched out several miles. Tiny boats with white handkerchief sails were dotted over the expanse of blue. I took out some wet wipes from my rucksack and succeeded in cleaning my boots and sponging my jacket. After spraying myself with a cheap but powerful perfume, mysteriously named “Arabian Nights”, the farmyard odour had largely dispersed. I ignored Ashok’s claim, “That perfume’s ghastly. I think I prefer the chicken variety.”
Half an hour later, we were back on the main road. The traffic had increased but we had the same problem, most of it consisted of local farmers travelling a few miles to the next village. After a frustrating hour of friendly locals telling us, “I’m only going to the next village, so I am. ‘Tis a busy road, so it is, very busy. You’ll soon get a ride, you will.”
We had almost resigned ourselves to catching a local bus, when a large cattle truck suddenly stopped. A redheaded young man rolled the window down.
“We’re hoping to get to Limerick,” Ashok sounded despondent.
“Sure, I’ll take you halfway. You can always get a bus into Limerick City.”
I climbed up the step into the lorry. I think there may still have been a whiff of chicken around me. The driver quickly directed me to the back seat while Ashok climbed in beside him. I could hear an animated conversation at the front as Ashok and the driver discussed Oliver Cromwell’s policy in Ireland. They seemed to be in agreement. Both vociferously condemned Cromwell to hell. Every ten minutes, they would turn angrily to me and query, “What about Cromwell then?” I found they didn’t really expect an answer. I could drift off to sleep, and just murmur, “awful”, “disgusting”, or “unbelievable” every ten minutes or so and then go back to sleep.
I don’t know how long I had been drowsing when I felt a powerful butt in my back. Half asleep, I turned, expecting the ghostly figure of Cromwell, returned from the seventeenth century, to join the discussion. I was surprised, to say the least, to be faced instead by an enormous and demanding pig’s head. Its wet snout was pushing and prodding my back and slobbering over my hair.
“What on earth have you got in the back?” I asked, trying desperately to suppress a scream and pull my hair forward out of the pig’s reach!
“Don’t worry, it’s only Bridget, so it is.”
“Well, could you please have a word with Bridget and ask her to stop slobbering over my hair?”
“She’s got a lovely nature. She’s probably a bit hungry. I’ll pull up for a minute and find her lunch.”
I wondered, somewhat anxiously, how the sow was to going to have her “lunch”. Not ham sandwiches, I hoped. To my horror, the driver, whose name I gathered was Patrick, handed a bucket to me from the front of the lorry.
“Just hold this up for her. If I leave it in the back, it’ll tip over.”
As I looked at Bridget’s “lunch”, any appetite I had, vanished instantly. The swill, which came almost to the top of the battered metal bucket, was a green slime in which lumps of unidentifiable objects floated and sank. The smell was certainly worse than the stink in the chicken-scented van! I had a horrible feeling it would not blend well with the “Arabian Nights” in which I had drenched myself.
Bridget loved her lunch and boy, didn’t she show it! Her snout dripped with green liquid; strange-shaped, solid lumps stuck to her mouth and jaws. Every minute or so, she would shake her head vigorously. Drops of green slime landed on my hair and jacket.
Finally, she reached the bottom of the bucket. After snuffling around inside, she lay down in the straw for her afternoon snooze. Thankfully, I dropped the bucket over the back of my seat.
For the rest of the journey, I was entertained by Bridget’s snores behind me and the voices of Ashok and Patrick in front. They seemed to have exhausted the debate about Cromwell and passed on to the problems of Northern Ireland. The snores on the one hand and drone of voices, on the other, must have sent me to sleep. Suddenly, I was shaken awake. The cattle truck had pulled over into a lay-by. Ashok was shaking hands with Patrick, before climbing down into the road. Half-asleep, I almost fell down the steps. As Ashok caught me, he remarked dryly, “Someone enjoyed her lunch!”
Patrick with his “Sleeping Beauty” disappeared round a sharp bend. Maybe her “prince” would come? Sitting on the edge of the lay-by, I had to sacrifice a whole bottle of water in an effort to wash away the unsavoury signs of Bridget’s lunch. I sprayed my hair and combed out bits of something or other. I did not want to identify their origin!
Ashok was standing by the road hoping to hitch a lift into Limerick. This time we proved lucky. A smart black saloon stopped. A suave, grey-haired man in a smart suit leant over to open the passenger door.
“I guess you’re going into Limerick City?”
I heard Ashok chatting to the driver as he beckoned me over. I sighed with relief as, for the first time that day, I sank into a soft, leather seat. The driver, who had introduced himself as Joseph McCarthy, saw me looking around anxiously.
“Are you comfortable there at the back, young lady?”
“Yes, it’s a lovely car. I was just checking you didn’t have any other passengers.”
Ashok explained about the chicks and Bridget which amused Joseph. He turned, laughing and reassuring me, “I’ll have to make up for my compatriot’s poor manners!”
About half an hour later, the scenery had changed. The view of the sea on the left and green fields to the right, gave way to bungalows and the occasional shop.
“We’re coming into Limerick here. There’s been quite a lot of development recently. Now, my appointment’s not till tomorrow morning. I’ve got a little treat for you two, a touch of Irish hospitality. I’m going to take you out to the airport to show you the duty-free shop. What do you think of that, eh?”
There was a moment of silence. The thought of trailing round a shop full of Irish whiskey and leprechauns was not immediately appealing, especially as we had no spare cash. Ashok recovered enough to reply, “That’s a very kind offer, Joe. But we wouldn’t dream of putting you to such inconvenience.”
After a drive of over 24 kilometres, I was getting nervous. Surely the airport was not that far out of Limerick? Then we passed a sign, “Shannon Airport.” Of course, I remembered it was Ireland’s only international airport, apart from Dublin.
“We don’t have air tickets,” Ashok reminded Joe. “I only have my passport with me.”
“That’s fine, so it is. I’ve got friends working here. Your Indian passport is fine.”
For about an hour we wandered around the large duty-free area. Apparently, it was the first such shop in the world, opening in 1947. As well as the usual souvenirs, there were beautiful Aran jumpers and sweaters in traditional colours, intricately woven baskets, delicate enamelled jewellery. Unfortunately, all were well outside our price range. Then we found a large book shop where we settled down to browse away the afternoon.
“I think we should look for Joe, it must be getting dark and we have to find the student hostel in Limerick.”
Reluctantly, Ashok replaced a Stephen King novel which he was almost half-way through.
“Well, my guess is he’s propping up the duty-free bar!”
His guess proved only too true. Joe, looking rather less suave, had taken off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and was deep in conversation with two American tourists.
“Sorry to break into the conversation but we really have to get back to Limerick.” I muttered awkwardly.
“Yes, our flight to New York’s due in less than an hour.” The blond woman gave me a grateful look as she began to pick up her hand luggage.
As soon as Joe stood up, Ashok shot me a meaningful glance. Getting him to the car park would not be easy. Twenty minutes later, with one of us on either side of him, Joe staggered his way to the car.
“Do you think he’s in a state to drive?”
“No, but we don’t have much choice. The last bus has gone,” Ashok said, looking at his watch.
The 24 kilometres back to Limerick were the most hair-raising I had ever travelled. Once in the car, Joe seemed to drive by instinct. Ashok remarked, “He’s used to driving half-cut. It’s almost second nature.”
Somehow, we reached the city centre. Joe drove off as if he knew where he was going.
“That was certainly an interesting way of seeing Ireland’s Atlantic coast!” laughed Ashok as we watched the car’s rear lights disappearing into the night.
Sarah Das Gupta is a retired teacher now living near Cambridge, UK. She taught and lived in Kolkata for a number of years. She started writing after an accident last year when she was bored in hospital. Her work has been published in magazines from UK, India, US, Canada, Mauritius and Croatia.
Featured photo by William Murphy (Flickr)
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