At the Edge of Ireland by David Yeadon Page A

he was a stand-up comedian too…and you could see his wit and timing came through. But then he left after a couple of days and we didn’t hear anything until he came back months later with his family. He did that a few times. And then, on his last visit, he said ‘You’ve made me so much a part of your family, and if anything ever happens to you or your mum, please contact me and I’ll be right here for you.’ But a couple of months later…it was me going to his funeral.”
    Adrienne paused. Her eyes were moist but tears refused to leave the sanctuary of her eyes and she smiled: “Y’see—it still hurts. Even after all this time…”
    â€œSometimes the death of a close friend makes people go off and fulfill a few of their dreams, their life fantasies, before it gets too late. But you stayed on here,” I said.
    â€œWell—you’re right. And I sort of mixed them up a bit. Y’see, this place is not a family obligation—I love it here. I just enjoy people so much, and despite all the routines, you never know what each day will bring. And I have my adventures too—hill walking in the high Atlas Mountains, in the Himalayas. I finally went to our Skellig islands too—the hard way—climbing all those seven hundred steps to the top of Skellig Michael, where the monks lived in those tiny beehive huts. Most fantastic place I’ve ever been to. I just wanted to lie down on the ground and cry…It’s wonderful to realize what we’ve got right here in front of our noses. I love it all so much. Even if I go to Cork for the day, when we get back to Glengarriff and the whole of Bantry Bay just opens up…my heart just goes aaaaaghh! What a place! I need so little. I enjoy life. I’m not interested in a lot of money. I just want to be surrounded by good, interesting people and maybe help bring them together a little. Beara attracts who it needs. There’s just so much…right here!”
    â€œThat’s what I’m beginning to find out about Beara—layer upon layer—right here…”
    Adrienne laughed softly and said, “Yeah, right…layers…”
    Then she looked directly at me. (A disconcerting habit of hers. It was almost like having someone step inside your head and root around for a truly responsive self.) “Have you got a few minutes? I’ll show you some layers right now, if y’like!”
    I had no idea what she was referring to, but one does not reject such an invitation from a lady of charm and charisma.
    Adrienne led the way up creaking stairs to the family house above the pub. Then she opened the door on the second floor, held it open for me, and I entered a totally time-warped room. I was back in the 1920s—maybe the end of World War I. Even possibly somewhere around the end of the late Victorian era, if the crush of furniture and trinkets was any indication. Certainly the profusion of gracefully aged armchairs and settees, beautifully carved wooden side tables crammed with photos and family memorabilia, and dark somber oil paintings on the walls above a cheerful peat fire set in an elegant fireplace made it all feel like a refined drawing room in an affluent Dublin town house.
    â€œMy grandfather started a store here around 1860 and then later, despite objections from other family members, he got one of the first official licenses to sell Guinness in this part of Ireland. Before that, you mainly got your porter and your uisce beatha —your ‘water of life’ whiskey—from illegal stills and in shibeen shacks. So we did pretty all right and then my grandfather made a nice living out of supplying the British navy, who had a base across the channel there on Bere Island until 1939. He had his own bakery here behind the pub, and up in the garden he had the official powder house for the troops. So we had a nice life, which is fortunate, because he had ten children