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A good dog can be a comfort on a tour such as this: in a place where strange things haunt the hedgerows, and black birds spot the sky.I think it might of been Flann O'Brien who put the idea in my head that there are actually small, lost Counties in Ireland: secret places that don't appear on maps or on main road signs: places acknowledged in the pub by a curt nod, or a raised eyebrow: after which the conversation only too quickly moves back to the game. Anybody who has ever driven these tiny, Irish tracks knows this to be true. And once you've escaped Google, the strange, modern data vanishes: and well: there you are.
My performance was to be held in the upstairs room of a small pub in the village. It took some walking to find it. I was already tired from the weight of the guitars when I encountered a policeman at the threshold. It was quickly getting dark, and I had been nervous about finding the place, and loading in, and starting on time: and was edging for a pint of something, and for a little conversation to relax my day of travels. But he was a large man who fairly filled the passage to the door. Thick arms and legs encased in a rough blue uniform.
"I do not want to be insidious," the policeman said, "but would you inform me about your arrival in the parish? Surely you had a three-speed gear for the hills?"
"I had no three-speed gear," I responded, "the local bus dropped me up at the High Street."
The Policeman made no response to my answer, but looked at me sideways. "Musician, are you?"
He seemed to take a great interest in my hands. "Have you played for a long time, then?"
