said.
We drove in the stream of traffic out of the city the next weekend. It didn’t build any speed till it got past Lucan, and even there we found ourselves continually shut in behind slow trucks and milk tankers.
“Ireland will soon be as jammed up as everywhere else. That’s what’s wonderful about the rivers and lakes. They’re empty. Isn’t it exciting to be spending the whole weekend away from people?”
“People are all right,” I said morosely.
“There’re towns and villages that we can put in at. That’s what’s wonderful about the Shannon. You have a choice. You can be with people or get away and there’re pubs up lanes or a few fields from the river. There’s one in particular that we must visit in a village past Carrick, the man is fat and lovely and he’s always in good humour.”
After Kinnegad the road emptied and we drove steadily and fast. Outside Longford a great walled estate with old woods stretched away to the left and children from a tinker encampment threw a stone that grazed the windscreen. In the distance, between rows of poplars, the steel strip of the Shannon started to flash.
“There it is—the Shannon River,” she greeted excitedly. “They said they’d meet us in the first bar on the right. That’s it. Over there. The Shannon Pot.”
We had hardly time to look around the big lounge, a large pike preserved in a lighted glass case above the bar, the only sign of a connection with water, when a man in a well-cut worsted suit came up to us and enquired, “Would you be the people from the magazine?” When we told him we were he shook hands in the old courtly way, standing far back and bowing. “Mr Smith, the man who owns the boats, asked meto apologize for him. He meant to be here himself but was called to England the day before yesterday on sudden business, but he said all the information was here in these brochures, and if there was anything else you needed to know for the article to just leave word and he’d phone it in as soon as ever he got back. I’m supposed to see,” he smiled, “that you lack for nothing on the voyage. I’m known everywhere as Michael. And how was your journey down—good?”
“It was easy. We drove down,” I said.
He then introduced us to the barman, a young man in shirtsleeves.
“What about something warm after the journey? The evening is fine but it’s chill enough,” and we all had hot whiskeys. We had hardly touched them when another round appeared without a word, and then another. We started to protest but Michael waved our protest aside as if it was an appreciated but thoroughly unnecessary form of politeness. “We better see the boat first,” I had to say firmly, “then we can come back here.”
“The boat’s just across the road. There’s nothing to it,” he said and led us out.
The boat was across the road, a large white boat with several berths. It had a fridge, a gas stove, central heating and a hi-fi system. The Shannon, dark and swollen, raced past its sides. Night was starting to fall.
“There’s nothing to these boats,” he said and switched on the engine. It purred like a good car, the Fibreglass not vibrating at all once it was running. “And there’s the gears—neutral, forward, neutral, reverse. There’s the anchor. And that’s the story. They’re as simple as a child’s toy. And still you’d grow horses’ ears with some of the things people manage to do to them. They crash them into bridges, get stuck in mudbanks, hit navigation signs, foul the propeller up with nylons, fall overboard. I’ll tell you something for nothing: anything that can be done your human being will do it. One thing you have to give to the Germans though isthat they leave the boats shining. They spend the whole of the last day scrubbing up. But do you think your Irishman would scrub up? Not to save his life. Your Irishman is a pig,” he said. Only for the speech I’d not have noticed that he was by no means
We drove in the stream of traffic out of the city the next weekend. It didn’t build any speed till it got past Lucan, and even there we found ourselves continually shut in behind slow trucks and milk tankers.
“Ireland will soon be as jammed up as everywhere else. That’s what’s wonderful about the rivers and lakes. They’re empty. Isn’t it exciting to be spending the whole weekend away from people?”
“People are all right,” I said morosely.
“There’re towns and villages that we can put in at. That’s what’s wonderful about the Shannon. You have a choice. You can be with people or get away and there’re pubs up lanes or a few fields from the river. There’s one in particular that we must visit in a village past Carrick, the man is fat and lovely and he’s always in good humour.”
After Kinnegad the road emptied and we drove steadily and fast. Outside Longford a great walled estate with old woods stretched away to the left and children from a tinker encampment threw a stone that grazed the windscreen. In the distance, between rows of poplars, the steel strip of the Shannon started to flash.
“There it is—the Shannon River,” she greeted excitedly. “They said they’d meet us in the first bar on the right. That’s it. Over there. The Shannon Pot.”
We had hardly time to look around the big lounge, a large pike preserved in a lighted glass case above the bar, the only sign of a connection with water, when a man in a well-cut worsted suit came up to us and enquired, “Would you be the people from the magazine?” When we told him we were he shook hands in the old courtly way, standing far back and bowing. “Mr Smith, the man who owns the boats, asked meto apologize for him. He meant to be here himself but was called to England the day before yesterday on sudden business, but he said all the information was here in these brochures, and if there was anything else you needed to know for the article to just leave word and he’d phone it in as soon as ever he got back. I’m supposed to see,” he smiled, “that you lack for nothing on the voyage. I’m known everywhere as Michael. And how was your journey down—good?”
“It was easy. We drove down,” I said.
He then introduced us to the barman, a young man in shirtsleeves.
“What about something warm after the journey? The evening is fine but it’s chill enough,” and we all had hot whiskeys. We had hardly touched them when another round appeared without a word, and then another. We started to protest but Michael waved our protest aside as if it was an appreciated but thoroughly unnecessary form of politeness. “We better see the boat first,” I had to say firmly, “then we can come back here.”
“The boat’s just across the road. There’s nothing to it,” he said and led us out.
The boat was across the road, a large white boat with several berths. It had a fridge, a gas stove, central heating and a hi-fi system. The Shannon, dark and swollen, raced past its sides. Night was starting to fall.
“There’s nothing to these boats,” he said and switched on the engine. It purred like a good car, the Fibreglass not vibrating at all once it was running. “And there’s the gears—neutral, forward, neutral, reverse. There’s the anchor. And that’s the story. They’re as simple as a child’s toy. And still you’d grow horses’ ears with some of the things people manage to do to them. They crash them into bridges, get stuck in mudbanks, hit navigation signs, foul the propeller up with nylons, fall overboard. I’ll tell you something for nothing: anything that can be done your human being will do it. One thing you have to give to the Germans though isthat they leave the boats shining. They spend the whole of the last day scrubbing up. But do you think your Irishman would scrub up? Not to save his life. Your Irishman is a pig,” he said. Only for the speech I’d not have noticed that he was by no means
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