The Best Travel Writing 2011 - James O'Reilly [69]
On the last day of my vacation, I awoke at dawn with a deep sense of regret I was leaving a place where I was happy and at peace. I knew in twenty-four hours I would be waking up in N. Ireland where daily killings and bombings would once again cast a dark shadow over my life. I wanted to say goodbye to the Natural and his sister to thank them for their generosity but Patrick Dempsey and his wife advised against it. They said Jimmy and his sister were very private people.
After a final breakfast of small, boiled eggs and fried eel, I walked out into the fresh, crisp air. Out of habit I scanned the surrounding fields, as well as the laneway and hillsides, hoping to see The Natural but I was disappointed. To end my vacation on a happy note I decided to visit the cliffs and gaze over the ocean. When I stepped onto the lane below the cottage, Patrick Dempsey drove towards me from the direction of the sea, stopping in front of me.
“If I was a betting man, I’d say you’re on your way to see a friend of ours,” he said with a big smile.
I replied I was on my way to have a last look at the ocean. He reached out, took my hand and shook it warmly.
“Look here Martin, I know I told you not to call at Jimmy’s but it’s really up to you…. I was just being defensive. I told Jimmy’s sister all about you and I’m sure she’d be happy to see you, if it was just to say a quick goodbye. Don’t expect to see Jimmy. Even when I visit, he always hides like he’s playing hide and seek.”
He paused, revving his car engine.
“Now, away with you. You’ll want to get back soon to all those fine city folk, won’t you?”
He grinned impishly and drove off, waving until his car disappeared from view. Minutes later, I was making my way along a tiny, grass-covered path to Jimmy’s place, marveling at high hedges heavily laden with blackberries that almost hemmed me in. Unexpectedly, the path widened and I found myself at a wooden gate to a clearing that dipped towards a dark two-storey stone house with two adjacent outbuildings. The smell of a peat fire filled the air in smoke rising from a brick chimney above a dark, slated roof. A cockerel and a dozen hens were picking through bread crumbs scattered on a grassy, gravelly patch of ground in front of the house. On a window ledge, a scrawny black cat hissed at me and arched its back. In the blink of an eye, it jumped to the ground, shunted sideways and vaulted over the bottom half of the door into the kitchen. It was at least a minute before I saw Jimmy’s sister standing inside the door, the black cat clutched to her breast. Our eyes met and for a moment, I thought she was going to remain where she was. But, with a smile and a nod at me, she moved the lower section of the door aside and walked towards me, shooing away the cockerel and the hens.
She was a small, wiry woman with jet-black hair plaited at the back. Her eyes matched the color of her hair and her face was ruddy, with deep lines running from high cheekbones to her neck. Like Patrick Dempsey’s wife, she wore a woolen jumper and a long skirt covered with an apron which stretched from neck to halfway below her knees and ankles. Her legs were wrapped in heavy brown stockings and she had brown boots laced high above her ankles.
“You’re Martin, aren’t you?” she asked, almost in a whisper, her right hand outstretched. As I shook it, the cat jumped to the ground and ran back to the house. I still had her hand in mine. Hers was long and slender but it gripped mine tightly. Black eyes were her most striking feature and they shone with warmth and sincerity. She was a little nervous and made no effort to hide it. I began to thank her but she brought her left index finger to her mouth to silence me. She then slowly retreated from the gate. As she walked back to the cottage the cat ambled towards her, his tail erect in the shape of a question mark. She picked him up and took him indoors. I gingerly turned to make my way back