CC 74: Pirate Byrne and the Great Philosophers

The ‘fort of thorns’ lay behind trees that half-stood like a row of long broken broomsticks, trying to hide it from attacking armies; but these trees were too old and frail to manage that, so you sometimes got a full glimpse of the castle, and you could almost hear it admonishing them for being too slow and letting the people see through.   ‘Come on, get with it, trees,’ ordered Cuchullain’s Castle.  'You’re supposed to be covering me.’  ‘Sorry, we’re trying our best.  We’re not as quick on our heels as we used to be,’ shouted back the once fearsome old sentries.  

Cuchullain must not have been able to afford new trees.

Ownership of the castle remained a point of dispute in a town that was no stranger to conflicting reports, and certainly not shy of creating more.  Cuchullain got his name to it eventually, as he usually did; such an ego he had on him, that man.  But it was the Pirate Byrne who most historians agreed built the castle sometime in the 18^th Century.  So it wasn’t necessarily Cuchullain’s, and the Pirate wasn’t necessarily a pirate; put that in your whistle and toot, ye of stalwart faith in stuff.   Though not a pirate by definition, Byrne was a rascal who held great wealth (anyone that loaded had to be a pirate, back in them days), and was known for always keeping his home well-stocked with booze – special brews from across the sea, ales and wines from faraway lands – which made his home a target for drunken bandits.  They’d often come calling on a late night when the inns were closed, and the Pirate Byrne would come out with his pistol and blast at shadows.  The trees were in place maybe for that reason.  To guard the booze from marauding drunks in the night. 

Having arrived at the house on Mount Avenue, and seen the taxi driver off to provide legs for the legless, I looked into the field adjacent to the house in a bid to see Maeve Lodge, but it wasn’t visible in the dark.  The giraffe-neck lamps above Mount Avenue illuminated the road, but did only partial lighting of the field, the beam only reaching as far as the head of a horse in the clearing, slowly dipping and lifting, dipping and lifting, in a befogged melancholy.  The night had resigned itself to whispering spirits in the air, too woebegone to let us view any of these infamous buildings.

Francis Pollard owned the house we were entering.  I’d never met the chap, and I got the impression Geary was smitten with him when he introduced us.  Geary was always smirking, and turning his nose up at everyone and everything, even if he liked you, but with this man, Francis Pollard, he got all puppy-eyed like he was the president of the fan club or something and felt a deep privilege in being able to introduce his idol to others. Francis met us at the door, and he was very friendly and welcoming.  I’d been worried whoever owned the place might throw a wobbly over them bringing a trespasser like me who hadn’t been officially invited by the host.  But he was okay. 

‘Get in and make yourselves comfortable,’ he said.  ‘Beers in the fridge.’

Luckily Jane had swiped a bottle of wine from Mitchell House before we left, so it didn’t appear as though we were turning up empty-handed. 

Moments after being introduced to Francis Pollard, it occurred to me that I'd seen him before.  I could have sworn I’d seen him in the kitchen at the Klerkins’ Christmas party last year in the yellow house.  We’d said hello, and he’d shown me where the drinks were.  He was friendly back then too.  Now he was doing the same thing again except in his own home.  He had a hairy face on him and a great philosopher look.  Now that we would get more acquainted, I figured I might find out which of the great philosophers he really was.