The tale of the Goatskin Rug

The tale of the Goatskin Rug

Mick's Hotel is situated at the end of the village, not far from the
Lake Shore. During the spring and early summer it caters for anglers,
many of whom return year after year to fish for the famous brown trout
for which the lake is famous. Due to their diet of fresh water shrimp
the flesh of the Lake Trout is actually a delicate shade of pink. It is
also extremely good to eat, particularly when smothered with butter,
lemon juice, sea salt and black pepper and wrapped in wet newspaper
before being baked in the oven. Landlord Mick - always the patriot -
swears that the type of ink used by the local newspaper imparts a
special flavour, which makes Trout the most popular item on his menu.
He procures large quantities from local boatmen during the last weeks
of the summer and stores them in the Hotel Deep Freeze room to be
produced for special occasions during the long winter season.

From September to March the village goes into quiet mode. Mick relies
on the local pub trade and the occasional dinner function to carry him
through the dark winter days. The ground floor of the little Hotel is
laid out in an "open plan" fashion with the public bar to the right,
the little reception desk and restaurant straight ahead and to the
left, a comfortable lounge with a blazing open turf fire. In front of
the fireplace there used to be, for many years, a magnificent pure
white goatskin rug of which Mick was extremely proud. He maintained
that the skin belonged to the finest goat ever to win the title of King
Puck at the famous Travellers Festival, held annually in a neighbouring
county. The goatskin rug alas is no longer there and it would take a
brave man to enquire from Mick as to where the rug ever went. But I'm
going to tell you??..

The village was buzzing with excitement. The local M.P. had recently
become a government minister and Mick used his powers of persuasion on
the county branch of the Government party to hold their annual dinner
dance in Mick's Hotel. It was rumoured that the Prime Minister himself
might well attend and Mick and his little team spent days preparing for
the big event. It seemed everybody in the county wanted to attend and
tickets had to be limited. as space was at a premium In addition the
public bar was also given over for dining space. The locals were
advised to stay away for the evening. It was to be the biggest social
event the village had seen for many years and Mick was as proud as
punch.

The entire population of the village, or at least those who couldn't
get their hands on a ticket, lined the street that evening to see the
VIPS arrive. There were oohs and aahs and camera bulbs flashed as
familiar faces were spotted emerging from the stream of chauffeur
driven limousines and shiny black Mercedes Benz.

Inside the Minister and other guests of honour stood around the
lounge's blazing turf fire. The gentlemen, smartly attired in Dinner
jackets and the ladies, looking glamourous in long dresses, sipped
their Irish whiskies and gin and tonics as they warmed themselves
inside as well as out. Mick was in his element. He had never
entertained such a distinguished gathering before. Many admired the
magnificent Goatskin rug and Mick was happy to relate the tale of how
and when he acquired it.

Martin "the Miler" was a regular Public Bar customer who regularly
supplied the Hotel with Trout. "The Miler" was a bit on the simple
side, not quite the "full shilling", and was inclined to believe
everything he was told. His drinking companions persuaded him that if
he kept up his "training runs" he'd one day be good enough to compete
in the Dublin Marathon. His cottage was a good five miles away up the
Lake road and as he didn't have a bicycle it was custom to trot in and
out to the village each evening.

He had forgotten about the big dinner and as usual pushed in the front
door promptly at nine o'clock and turned right for the bar. Spotting
him from amidst the distinguished gathering in the Lounge, Mick - never
a man to mince words- called out "No locals tonight Miler, come back
tomorrow!" The Miler about turned and scuttled outside to be greeted
with howls of derision from his fair weather friends who were eagerly
watching the turn of events through the open windows of Murphy's pub on
the other side of the street.

The dinner gong had just sounded when the front door again burst open.
In came the Miler at a fast trot but this time he wheeled left until he
landed fair and square on the goatskin rug. Down came his trousers as
he proceeded to answer a call of nature in full view of the horrified
guests before reordering his clothing and making good his escape.

The Miler was banned for life and had to find a new local, and the
Goatskin rug was never seen or spoken of again - at least within the
four walls of Mick's Hotel?

THE END

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