Ehmad swept into the dorm with a loud sigh. His hands hung by his waist, dragged like a teenager’s, unwillingly. “What’s up dude,” he said nonchalantly, sitting heavily on the opposite bunk and sighing again. “Urgh…Fuck this!” He said it as if I knew what he was talking about, as if I knew him, which I didn’t. “What’s your name?” he asked and I told him, “I like your hat. It looks like it would be worn by a paedo or a creep or a cool guy.” I thanked him tentatively.
He got up and leapt restlessly about the room. He came over and picked up my book, read out the title slowly then tossed it back on the bed. He had emerald, spiralling eyes stained red by cannabis. A thick black quiff escaped his brow.
An American wearing jeans and black leather shoes sauntered in. He lay on the next-door bed, crossed his shoes and pulled out his phone, scrolling with his index finger. “This is Neeco,” Ehmad said to him, “He’s a cool dude.” I was glad it was that of the three, “We’re gunna go for a smoke. You wanna come?”
“Nah, I’m good bro,” he replied without looking up. I got the impression these two were already friends though something made me wonder if the American thought me and Ehmad were already friends too. Ehmad spoke to people as if he’d always known them.
He sighed again and clapped his hands on his thighs. “Fuck! Let’s go Neeco. We gotta go to the river,” he sighed, “The girls will tell on me otherwise. I don’t give them attention so they get annoyed with me.” We walked out of the dorm, through the kitchen and past some women playing a board game. They took no notice of Ehmad. “See,” he said once we passed, “They suck, so I don’t give them attention.”
At the river he told me he worked for Vodaphone. He said he worked remotely from Ireland during the week and would fly to Birmingham at the weekend and go to Redditch and stay with a friend. It seemed a strange story. He jumped onto the low wall above the stream and peered down at the prattling water, “Isn’t it weird,” he observed, “that the river sometimes is so brown during the day like it’s full of shit?”
Once back in the room, he roused the American and they made a plan for dinner. Ehmad wanted steak, he felt he deserved a steak. “Fuck yeah,” the American agreed. I said I might meet them in a pub somewhere later, muttering something about dietary requirements.
They left and I followed shortly after to the shower. The corridor was long and narrow. The outer side was exposed stone with big arched windows. The building must have been an old warehouse or mill or something. A middle-aged Irishman stumbled out of the bathroom. He asked where number ten was. I pointed, a little warily, to our dorm and he clapped me on the shoulder. The seat was down and there was urine all over the toilet. I grimaced and went into another stall. When I came out of the shower a few minutes later he was still outside the door, rattling the handle.
I opened it for him, “Aye, tanks mate,” he slurred. I couldn’t work out if he was drunk or not. He didn’t smell of booze but I was a little worried I might get punched at any moment. He sat on a bed and said through one eye that he was there to climb Croak Patrick for his mum and sister. “I’ve only got one day to do it,” he said, G-ing himself up, “If I don’t do it I’ll be really angry with myself…” His look suggested that getting to the bottom in the morning was the real challenge.
The restaurants in Westport were empty but the pubs were full. That came as no surprise. Neither did the fact the pubs were full of Americans. By the door to one, a certificate read Best Musical Pub in Ireland 2022. The windows were steamed, the atmosphere warm and merry. I went in.
Two men were preparing instruments while the barman with a white shirt pinched by a black bow tie wheeled around collecting empties. He entertained as he went, “Oh where you folks from…Nebraska?…Do you like hockey?” They did, so he launched into a tale about his famous friend in the NHL. There were Oos and Ahhs, “Yep…” he grinned proudly, listing his other famous friends, “the whole shebang!” He finished with an anecdote, wheeling away on the punch line to impress some other folks.
One of the musicians tapped the microphone. He was wearing no shoes. His white feet were placed neatly together on the dark floorboards. He inhaled deeply, drawing his chest upwards to the beams, and looked about the room with an intense stare. “Welcome,” he crooned with a sonorous timbre, “to the Thursday night sing-along…” There was a whoop. “Oh I think you can do better than that!” and he stole a point to the loudest in the crowd.
He was a unique, captivating performer, somewhere between a strange songbird and a pirate in an operetta. He would whip his hand across in an Arghhh-like motion and his piping, which was exceptional, was played with fitful jerks. His chest hair bristled through his mostly unbuttoned shirt and his eyebrows were like lightning rods, pointing down to his sharp, bushy beard.
He picked out punters and asked where we were from. I said England. “That’s ok too…!” he joked and everyone laughed. Then he cried, “This one’s dedicated to all the lunatics!” and he howled like a wolf at the moon. “You’re laughing coz you know!” and out came all the best of the Irish songs.
There was an English couple next to me and between songs we chatted. They’d been in Ireland for seven weeks living in a van. Will said he’d had one pint of lager in that time, the rest had been Guinness. “You should try Murphy’s,” I said. It was my new favourite drink, even though I’d had my first pint that evening. Alice couldn’t drink it because it wasn’t vegan.
There was a break in the music. The piper wiped the sweat from his brow. Will and Alice told me they’d driven 18,000 miles since March. They’d have done more if their engine hadn’t exploded. It was the thermometer in the diesel fuel protector. They’d gone to five mechanics who patched it up before, eight grand later, they found a specialist who sorted it for good. “I’m never going to a mechanic again,” Will laughed.
The piper rolled onto his tiptoes and coughed, his chin raised to the microphone. “This one is dedicated to…” he looked around the room, and flicked a point at us, “the English!” And with it they rumbled into ‘Fields of Athenry’. Whoops of gowaan the IRA filled the steamy bar and rang with the tremulous tenor of his voice. There was no hostility. Only a gladness that we could drink together in peace.
We rolled out when the songs were all sung, well serviced by the Murphys. As we stumbled, a man from Kildare with a bald head and big teeth put his arm around me and said cheerfully, “Commiserations for Athenry!”
Will and Alice said they’d look out for me on the road the next day, maybe they’d be passing. They’d give me a ride if they were. The dorm was empty when I got back. Ehmad and the American were still out, the Irishman too.
The next morning I got up in good time. The heavy curtains kept the room dark. The Irishman was asleep - it didn’t look like he’d be making it up Croak Patrick - and Ehmad was asleep too. In the bed next door, the American was splayed on his duvet with his back to the room. His leather shoes were still on, his hoody too. His jeans were pulled down to his knees and his pale arse shone in the dark.
Well, here’s to all the lunatics I thought, and I left into the morning.