… day two o’me journey to enlightenment…
… landed in infamous Coxtown, tole Donal ta find a humble retreat wit dirt floors n stone walls, so he booked us at five star Coxtown Manor… da boys wreaked havoc in manor bar, vowin to live up to da village name… Eamonn tole 2 hot lasses he’d buy ’em drinks if dey smooched, so dey started mackin on each udder, went on for five fookin minutes…
… but i wood have none of it, recited me mantra in a dark corner, searchin for truth…
… day tree, headed for Portnoo to mind-meld wit da seals n sea lions n gulls n selkies… Aidan, Donal n Eamonn was riverdancin on me last nerve, soze i ditched em in Mountcharles, hitched a ride wit fella name o’ Clondy Hacken, took me to his one room hut in Dunkineely, which he shares wit his wife Fiona n five teenage daughters… dat night, dey all kneeled at me cotside n stared me to sleep… took all me strength to resist… sailin on da choppy waters of celibasea…
… Clondy woke me at 4 am n tole me i had to put in a day’s work at his net makin factory to pay for me lodgins… da teens, followed me out da door, trailin at me feet like kitties sniffin after tuna…
… Clondy taught me how to make landing nets, live nets, turtle nets n castinets… dese aint da fishnets i’m used ta… fingers bled… hid out in corner booth at mac’s pub, prayin fer rescue…
… next mornin, hitched a ride in Darney wit a gypsy caravan, tinkered lamps n pots in Bruckless, performed a puppet show on da streets of Ardara, protested in front of a farmhouse in Sandfield over dare shameful mistreatment o’sheep (dey don’t like when ye spraypaint ’em!)…
… camped along d’peaceful shores o’Lough Fad, trendy body o’water dat’ll soon be so yesterday… lass callin ‘erself “Beeswing” was undressin me wit her piercin eyes, but i was savin m’self for dat selkie in Portnoo…
… gypsy “Jimmy O’Boner” slipped a tab o’sometin called Regenerect into me Kilbeggans, had to sleep dat noight amidst da trees o’Clooney Forest, next to gorge, engorged…
… soon escaped da clutches o’Beeswing & caravan… crawled on blistered hands & scraped knees into Portnoo… taken in by family only spoke old irish, kept starin at me n mutterin, “muid maraigh tusa”…
… finally found out what “muid maraigh tusa” meant, seems dey were plannin to kill, den eat me… soon foun m’self shivershakin inside abandoned dingy on da beach, da light o’Roan Inish glowin like a beacon on da horizon…
… part tree o’me trilogy tomorrow…
Seamus
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