there’s always Lisdoonvarna

By Coolhermit

Sun, 06 Sep 2020
  • 167 reads
 

there’s always Lisdoonvarna

 

we camped by the strand at Louisburgh, Mayo
next to a toilet block with Izal paper and
clean fresh water from an outdoor tap -
full-flushing five-star beach-bum luxury
weather-battered farmers
in weather-beaten fedoras
driving weather-beaten Toyotas
pressed weather-beaten faces to windscreens
checking the sea stayed nice and clean
“lovely weather we’re having”
“aw sure look it”
“wet the tea?”
“don’t be troubling yourself”
Hattie a yankee Irish wannabe,
wouldn’t hear of it,
“go way outta that”
we drank tea all day
and shot the breeze
Louisburgh was ‘Sunday closed’
we found a shop, door ajar
bought matches, fags,
and ‘is there a bar?’
a man in the hand-me-down
tweed his father wore,
and now his turn, pointed to
‘Phelan’s’ above a pub door,
“the quare fellah did that in ‘54
a favour for me ma and da,
I’ll open when you get there”
“do you sell the black stuff - Guinness?”
“Guinness, you say? that’s a new one on me”
Hattie, immune to irony, sniffed -
she could be sniffy that way -
“it’s a dark stout brewed in Dublin”
Phelan’s filled with bachelor suits,
and men of all ages over forty -
with hair arranged in rococo coifs
defying gravity and the laws of physics -
warming up for the annual
Lisdoonvarna, matchmaking festival
Phelan noting I was running short
nodded at me, I shrugged,
he winked, pulled two pints
then a fair few more
“Credit Union opens on Tuesday, Sláinte agus táinte!”
we headed next day to Roonagh’s Quay
to hop a ride on the Clare Isle ferry
as I passed Hattie a smoke
my hand travelled higher
on her thigh than was proper
what with her mind
on her driving and all
she smiled as
a shudder ran through her
smiling and shuddering -
that’s how I remember her
telegraph poles are rare
on the road to Roonagh’s Quay
we missed them all… bar one,
the one that mattered
I crawled from the debris
moments ahead of a deafening
spreading Hattie, and camper,
all over the road
every autumn I detour
on my way to Lisdoonvarna,
I nail a wreath to the pole
that put paid to our life together
then drinks at Phelan’s,
your man pulls pints of black
in sets of three
for absent friend,
for him, for me
“you'll be off to Lisdoonvarna?”
I nod, and hand my slate
to clear that crazy night
he pats my arm, shakes his head,
“sláinte, next year, soon enough.”

 

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