By Kathleen Fahy
Transcript
So, how do we find our way to Cashel? we enquired, tentatively, having first said excuse me, and, sorry for interrupting your work. He was standing by the roadside, a lean, gangly man, a scythe in his hand, peaked gorsoon-style cap askew on his head, straggly wisps of grey hair protruding from under it. A pipe dangled from his mouth. Seventy, and a bit with it, we thought, eyeing him up while pretending to sneak only a casual glance.
We had taken good care to park our Nissan Micra out of range of the briars he was slashing, many of them heading skyward. We waited patiently, my husband Joe, and I, while scythe-man considered our question.
How do ye find Cashel? he repeated. Well now…Resting his scythe against the scrawny trunk of a wayward scough bush, he peered in through the window at us.
…Now, that depends on what ye’re wanting to find when ye get there. He paused, drew on his pipe, took it from his mouth, tapped it against the leg of his trousers, and said, There was a man last week wanted to find Cashel, and ended up in Boherlahan – a terrible mistake. Ye wouldn’t want that happening to yereselves, now?
Indeed, we wouldn’t, Joe, my husband, staunchly agreed.
So, would it be the Rock ye’re heading for, then?
Oh, yes, the Rock, I suppose.
Well, ye’d want to be making up ye’re minds ….
Oh, absolutely. I mean, of course it’s the Rock we want to see, isn’t that right Joe?
I gave him a sharp dig.
Oh…yes, Joe chimed in. Sure, we drove all the way from Mullinahone – just to see it.
Scythe-man took another leisurely draw of his pipe, while his eyes continued to scan us. And then, the all important question, So, how long are ye going to give it? There’s many as thinks they can pay their few shillings to go in, and they’re out the door after ten minutes, sayin’ they seen the Rock. Well, they seen nothing. They might as well have stayed at home, and kept their money in their pockets.
Half a day ye’d want, at the very least, he said. Anything less would be an insult to the great St Patrick himself, who converted all the heathens of Cashel. What’s more, it would show a disdain for, and lack of knowledge of medieval architecture, of which there wasn’t a finer collection anywhere in the world.
Well, those weren’t his exact words, but they conveyed the same message. And did we know St Patrick’s Original Cross was still there to the good? Proud as the Rock ‘twas standing on. He drew himself up to his full height.
There was more to come: A Romanesque church, Gothic cathedral, Cormac’s chapel? Had we never even heard of them? And did we not know they were all to be seen, right there in the heart of Cashel. Cashel of the Kings? And, talking of kings, surely we’d heard of the great Brian Ború, High King and Emperor of the Irish, that lived there and the terrible fate of the crathur, God rest him?
Clearly proud of his home-town, of its world-famous heritage, and its noble incumbents, he proceeded to fill the many gaps in our knowledge, carefully enunciating each word. Then, with a narrowing of his eyes, came his final observation, It might be time ye were hitting the road, if ‘tis the Rock ye’re wanting to see? The day is pushing on, you know.
How could we have said we’d heard Davern’s clothes shop in the Main Street had a BIG SALE (50% off) that we had a wedding coming up next week and not a stitch bought for it; that we were sorely in need of something decent to wear.
Thanking him, profusely, for his time and valuable information, we tore off.
Two rights, a left, then straight on, he called after us.
Will you for Christ’s sake put the boot down, Joe, I said. And drive like the hammers, or Davern’s will be shut before we get there.
We pelted uphill, through Racecourse Cross, praying that there wasn’t a speed-trap – to add to our troubles.
I imagined myself next week at the wedding saying in my poshest Mullinahone accent, I’m so glad you like my outfit. I bought it in Davern’s. Paid a fortune for it.
Well, it’s nobody’s business if I got it for a song in the sale, is it?