I hate that Rosslare-Fishguard run. When the weather is rough it’s a nightmare of sea and sick, and even at its best it’s a miserable business. You leave Rosslare as day is falling and reach Fishguard in the thin dawn-time, the time when it’s easiest to die, and you still have to face that long journey Clackety Clackety, Clack, Clackety Clack all the way across England and the south of Wales. There are two antidotes, sleeping and drinking. I’ve tried both and neither works.
In October the crowds are less. I found a quiet place to sit, comfortable enough, and thought I might sleep. I tried not to think of why I was going, time enough to worry about that when I reached London. So I lay back and closed my eyes, but that uneasy feeling wouldn’t go away. They try to start the engines discreetly so that at first you don’t notice but soon the whole world is throbbing to that dull pulse that beats against your brain and your stomach. I don’t get sick, not physically, I just go crazy and can’t stay still in one place.
In the bar I happened on a fellow called Connery from Clonmel. He played the tin whistle and we sang. There was also a North of Ireland fellow named Shaw and a young woman with him. Connery was young and worked in a hospital somewhere on the outskirts of London. He was full of fun and music and porter, and he was on his way back after a holiday at home and maybe the fun and music and porter were only to keep his heart up. ‘Buachaill ón Éirne’ was one of the songs.
Trouble and sorrow are brewing for me in the glen
More bitter by far than the black malt brewing of men
No shelter from pain but the leaf of the green bough above
And a twist in my heart is to see in the distance my love.
They have a pipers’ club in Camden Town, I think he said Camden Town. He explained in earnest detail how to get to it; I’d be welcome there any time. Well, it’s some place to go, when Cluain Gheal Meala is far away.
We were last to leave the bar. The boat had docked and then Connery couldn’t find his luggage. He didn’t look to me to be the kind of fellow would have luggage, but he had. We searched the whole place, deserted by this time, and there didn’t seem much chance, but we found it, a hold-all kind of thing, biggish and awkward, with a zip and two handles on top. The zip was open, but this didn’t seem to put him out at all, and when I picked the thing up, it clinked. He told me what was in it – large bottles – wrapped and not very well wrapped in old newspapers. And – I’m not making this up – spare ribs. God! Sad songs and large bottles and spare ribs – Ireland.
The Customs and Immigration men saw him coming and sort of shook their heads resignedly and he sailed through, but they stopped Shaw and the woman and took them away somewhere. It was October, no big crowds, and we found an empty carriage and spread ourselves and settled down with a bottle of stout apiece. I suppose if the spare ribs had been cooked we’d have started on them too.
Shaw found us. There had been some trouble, we never found out the full story except that she wasn’t his wife but someone else’s. After sampling the stout he went away again to find her and I suppose to make up whatever differences there were.
Then the ticket-collector called on us. Connery started searching for his ticket, found the large bottle was in his way, looked around for some place to put it and saw the ticket-collector’s outstretched hand. The poor man must have been inexperienced; for the next fully three minutes Connery searched with great care through all his pockets, taking out the contents and examining them and putting them all back before moving on, while the ticket-collector fumed there like an eejit holding the large bottle in his hand. One up for Paddy and a victory over the might of the Empire exemplified in the ticket-collector with his natty uniform and his little neat moustache. Irrepressible humour, ineluctable melancholy. He found the ticket eventually, where he knew it was, in the first pocket.
Later, we each stretched out on a seat and went asleep, with our overcoats over us. I slept anyway, I’m not sure if Connery did. I woke up some time because I was cold, and he had the window open and his head out and was being sick.
We reached London at last. Peter was waiting for me, and I can tell you I was glad to see him and glad that he had a car to drive me to his place. Connery wanted to give me final directions for the Pipers’ Club and he assured me over and over I’d be welcome but Peter had parked his car somewhere nearby and the parking time was nearly spent and so I had to say a hasty goodbye to Connery. The last I saw of him was there on the platform at Paddington, struggling with his luggage and with his legs, and trying to keep his coat shut against the cold. I should have offered him a lift but it was only afterwards I discovered his hospital was in the same direction I was going. He had lost his tin whistle and I never saw anyone look so bereft and forlorn. I could have asked, couldn’t I?