Chapter 78: For Fear of Getting Stuck

Louisburgh to Westport

Last year I only hitchhiked in three countries: Britain, the US and Ireland. I had no trouble in any of them. Rides came fairly quickly, the longest wait was little more than 2 hours, the average wait about half an hour. In Britain, perhaps because I’m the most familiar with it, I have a sense that I’ll get picked up eventually, or at least that, if it doesn’t seem to be working, I must be in the wrong place. All I need to do is move. That feeling prevents any real anxieties about getting stranded far from home. In other countries, where I’m less familiar, the feeling never really goes away.

You can sense when a place is good. You may not get a ride quickly, but you can tell from the way the drivers interact with you. If they make eye contact, smile, or give a signal, you feel it’s only a matter of time. If no one looks at you at all, you may be in a bad spot.

The emotions of the roadside are easily forgotten when reflecting on the page, but when you’re there, confidence ebbs and flows, final destinations are moved, brought closer when nervous, pushed further when not. Where you’ll spend the night remains the ultimate question, the ultimate fear that lurks, but it’s washed away and forgotten as soon as a car stops, replaced by the excitement of the ride and an entirely new person.

Time passes irregularly when you’re waiting for a lift. It tracks the passing traffic. Sometimes quickly, slowly, steadily. If you’re by a traffic light, it passes in waves. Each green light slips away one by one. It’s the same on long straight roads as you watch the cars approaching from afar, focused, wondering if one will stop. Then it’s gone and you flick to the next. It’s meditative. Sometimes there are no cars at all. From Google’s omniscient eye, it may have looked like a main road, marked with a thick coloured line, but once there on the pavement, there’s nothing to be seen.

It was a road like that that evening in County Mayo. The impression of darkness was spreading in the air and the rain had stopped. Louisburgh was a two-pub village, though it felt bigger. I was on the edge in front of a row of pebbledash bungalows. There was a church opposite and some sort of college with a fresh tarmac drive. The flagpoles out front were unemployed. I had decided to try that exact spot because there was a speed bump. Any passing car would be forced to slow down and consider. But I soon felt foolish. There were no cars.

After 15 minutes I saw one approaching through the village. It looked like a nervous animal, its two orange eyes creeping up the street. I got myself ready, presenting a perfectly shaped thumb and a perfectly shaped smile. The car didn’t reach me. It turned up a side road and disappeared, leaving me once again, alone.

It’s not murdering psychopaths that a hitchhiker fears most. It’s moments like these, stuck as night approaches without your bag - I’d left it in a hostel in the town I was heading. It was ten miles to Westport but walking that far on these roads could easily be lethal. I was in a village, so I could knock on a door should worst come to worst. It would be embarrassing to inconvenience the person who opened but it would at least be a last resort and that was a comfort of sorts.

Another car approached. I’d been there 20 minutes by now which is a long time when no cars go by. It moved as tentatively as the last but this time it didn’t turn off. No, it was definitely coming past. A flutter of excitement as I extended my thumb. The headlights nodded over the bump. This was the decisive moment. The bumper scraped the tarmac. The car accelerated. The driver didn’t even look at me.

It was a long time before I had any luck. When Liam stopped I felt like kissing him.“Ohh,” he chuckled, “That’s alright! I’m going to Westport so it’s no bother.” He had thinning black hair and a stubbly beard. His zip was done up to his chin. I didn’t kiss him.

The car was warm and the radio played imperceptibly. Liam was returning from work. He was a builder and had been working on the island of Inisturk, home to the smallest primary school in Ireland. It has just four pupils and the teacher is father to half of them. Liam had been building a dam there.

He was enjoying Inisturk even though the commute was long. He said it was beautiful. The boat there takes an hour usually but was longer today because of the weather. There had been an American couple onboard, one had a guitar, and the sea was mighty choppy.

It turned out Liam had lived in Essex for a time. It felt a long way away now but he knew many of the places I grew up. He told me fondly how he was once picking up some concrete slabs in Bishop’s Stortford. As he drove around the roundabout they all slid to one side and his van ended up on two wheels. He’d always remember the Bishop’s Stortford roundabout. I said I would too. It’s where I did my driving test.

The evening had turned a turquoise shade of blue. The sky, seen open for the first time in hours, was glowing. It seemed deeper than usual, as if you could see further into it.

Liam was driving home to his wife. They’d been parents for seven weeks. I said it was a funny coincidence, the person who drove me down there had also just had a kid. “Oh no way!” He smiled, “What are the chances of that?”

“How it’s been?” I asked. If there’s one thing young parents like to talk about it’s their baby. “Sleepless?”

“Oh it’s been alright you know,” he said cheerfully, “But I’m a heavy sleeper…and I haven’t got breasts! It’s been a lot harder for my wife like. Oh speak of the devil…”

He picked up his phone. “Kelly! How are ya?… Oh don’t worry I’ll cook something… Yeah I’m just on my way home now… How is she?…”

He put the phone down a moment later and I asked how the baby was. “A bit scratchy,” he said gently, “She always gets a bit scratchy when she hasn’t slept.”

Liam changed the subject - he clearly wasn’t like most new parents - and soon we were talking about hurling. He was a good player and played in Castlebar for one of the county teams. Mayo’s a football county though, he added modestly. “It’s got bad land you see. Counties with bad land play football. That’s what I always heard anyway.” He explained it had to do with how dry the land was. You needed drier ground for hurling to pick up the ball.

The clouds over the estuary had turned orange though the sky was still an ethereal green. I thought of Inisturk and the tiny community there. It reminded me of the film Banshees of Inisherin. I asked Liam what he thought of it.

“Errr,” he pondered, with a pained expression, “I thought it was a bit…you know…urgh what’s the word…” he searched for a long time, “…Cliche! Yeah I felt like I’d seen it all before you know? It wasn’t very….argh what’s the word…” he searched again, “It wasn’t very original like. I was disappointed. ”

We talked about it for a long time. He said the island was made up and it was pronounced inis-shear. “I got an arty friend in Galway who said there were loads of stories going on in it and all that. But there weren’t. There was only one. My mother thought the same. Yeah, I was disappointed, I’ll be honest with you. But eh that’s just me ranting.”

We passed Westport harbour and drove along a high stone wall behind was a big house. Liam walked through the grounds sometimes. Soon we were in the town centre, running along the buildings’ pretty facades. Someone told me once the houses are painted nice colours to cover up the fact they’re made of cheap plaster. Either way, they looked beautiful.

Liam dropped me by the heavy stone arch that led to the hostel. He wished me luck and I him. The anxieties of earlier were all gone, replaced by the warm relief of return and a buoyant gladness for meeting someone new. Such is usually the way.