By Maria Burroughs
Mammy always said it was rude to be late. And here I am once more, speeding down Ladyswell Road, calculating not if but how late I will be and stressing over how long the group will wait for stragglers like me. Developing my extraordinary excuse to avoid having to tell the dull truth that I’d left home late, I hit the sluggish traffic on Bank Place, where on the bend of the road the former County Dance Hall slowly comes into view. An image of mammy in her best Sunday dress waiting at the entrance forms in my mind, she’s looking up and down the street for her date who by now is ‘officially late’. I feel her embarrassment, her frustration, her anger at being passed out by her giggly friends whose beaux arrive on time. I see the memories that drive her to share her thoughts on being late and strangely I relax, nothing that happens tonight will outweigh what she felt at that moment.
Calmer, I navigate the roundabout and start along Main Street and catch sight of the Rock with all its ghosts, looking majestically down on tourists milling in the streets below. Cars drift forward avoiding distracted pedestrians wandering across the road without a care, more worried about where to eat than their safety. Marking my progress along the road, the slow start, move, stop, start, move, stop movements remind me of family parties, waltzing with daddy holding my hands high and guiding my feet on top of his. Both of us laughing at our clumsiness and Daddy whispering don’t tell mammy. In my head I’m playing the Blue Danube, the only waltz I know.
Abruptly this all stops as I near the Lower Gate Square and the slow traffic dance is shattered as we race for pole position and once more it’s every man, woman, child and car for themselves. There is no negotiation on who has right of way, who has the most pressing need to go first, we drivers aggressively nudge forward claiming more and more space in the lines of traffic circling the square of grass. We map our path, note our exit, navigate the claustrophobic closeness of the other cars, our movements jerky and tense until we exit the melee, a winner on the right road. Released from the oppressive car tango, I press my foot to the floor and build up speed, feeling the freedom of the road in the few minutes it takes to reach the Bohereen Bocht turning.
My first sighting of Hoare Abbey is fleeting, my attention is now on parking the car and recovering my camera bag from the messy jungle of shopping bags in the boot. I manage this in quick time and stepping back from the car I admire the beauty of Hoare Abbey against the setting sun, its gold, amber, orange rays enveloping the monochrome reaming walls of the ruined building. I run into the grounds, greeting the group members, take off my camera lens cover and start snapping the scene in front of me. The only rush now is to capture the sun before it sets.
