Gateway

Alastair Carmichael

Places change. People change. I remembered Lisdoonvarna as a sleepy little village, where cows and geese wandered freely around the main square, the streetlights were switched off at night and the most popular mode of transport was a jaunting cart pulled by a donkey. Today the usual kids in noisy little cars thrash up and down with loud sound systems pumping out mating calls through distorting speakers. I was on holiday in Ireland and had made a trip to the village to track down Donny Salmon, the man who had taught me to drink poteen and play the spoons when I was just fourteen. The poteen had slipped down hotly yet easily, but when I awoke thirsty the following day and drank a large glass of water it really kicked in. I have no wish to repeat the experience. Lisdoonvarna is now 'The Gateway to the Burren', which is a vast area of limestone sticking up through the soil, and looks exactly like that. I had stayed there long before this type of Gateway had been thought of, and it now crossed my mind that a more realistic title for many of these places would be 'You'll be glad to get out of here to the nice bits along the road'.

I found the hotel where I had previously stayed, in the centre of the village, and slipped into the dark and welcome coolness of the bar. The village was quiet, resting in the noonday heat, and the bar was empty save for two elderly gentlemen slumped on high stools and very much the worse for wear. I explained that I had been there before, and asked if they knew Donny. The more crumpled of the two replied at some length, but the combination of his broad accent and copious alcohol rendered him unintelligible. His companion interpreted, saying that Donny had died some years ago. Death has a habit of being a surprise and, although I had only met Donny a couple of times some forty years before, I was still saddened. Even in death people like this are still a small part of your life; you would probably never have met them again anyway, and once the initial surprise wears off they are still there, still alive in your memory.

I still play the spoons occasionally, but only when drunk. I have the same approach to dancing and singing and I would be doing the world a favour if I stayed off drink altogether. Donny had been, at one stage of his life, a taxi driver. The more inebriated gentleman paid him a somewhat dubious compliment, at least by today's politically correct standards, by saying that he 'could drink a barrel of Guinness and still drive his passengers safely home.' I don't know how Donny died, but I hope it wasn't at the wheel.