The tarmac curved aspiringly up to the horizon. It was immaculate, gleaming black like it were in a catalogue. It went where it pleased and the landscape answered its every command. Serpentine bends, quarried walls, sharp embankments.
There was hardly a car in sight. Occasionally a lone vehicle would approach the sequence of roundabouts. Its rule abiding rotation, indicators blinking in the gloom, seemed unnecessary given its solitude. I’d watch it approach and watch it pass and wonder if any would stop for me.
Westport lay in the valley below. The shimmering road was a vivid contrast from the gnarled stone walls and peeling gates I’d passed to reach it. I’d left my whiteboard in a previous driver’s car and, unable to find a replacement, had settled for a cardboard box. I tore a piece off and wrote Castlebar, tucking the rest under my arm for later. Tiny flecks on the cardboard betrayed the feather-light rain.
It was still before 10 when Michael stopped. His hair was curly and black as the road he drove on. He gave me a cheerful greeting. The car glided along the tarmac silently as we took off.
I told Michael about my night in Westport and the extraordinary piper I’d seen. “Ohh him,” he recalled at a stretch, “Did he have his feet on him?” I confirmed that he wasn’t wearing any shoes. “Yeah that guy!” He laughed, “I’ve seen him before…You’ve gotta see him to believe him don’t you? He’s a real character.” Michael’s father in law drank in that pub. I said I’d have to go back.
“He used to be a really good footballer I think,” Michael continued, plumbing his memory, “Back in the 80s. Yeah he was a real player apparently.” I wondered what happened. “Oh I don’t know,” he replied, “Probably the drink got to him and he moved away or something. Ireland in the 80s was too expensive for anyone to live.”
I remarked that it wasn’t exactly cheap now.
“Have you been to Dublin?” He asked, shooting a glance my way, his emerald eyes catching the light. I said I had and that it’s a great city. “Really?” He retorted, “I hate it! It’s the worst city in the world in my opinion.”
“Why’s that?” I’d heard lots of people chastising Dublin so I wasn’t surprised.
“It’s expensive…It’s got a bad vibe…It’s just got no charm,” he was quite impassioned, “Now Galway! Galway’s got charm, but Dublin,” he grimaced, “Ah it doesn’t have any of that.” He said the homelessness and violence put him off mainly. He’d never lived there and he never would.
I asked if he’d lived in any other cities.
“Yeah I lived in London for a time. That was the final straw really. I couldn’t stand it. The tube! Getting on that every day crushed my soul like.” He curled his fingers and twisted. He was a decorator there working for his mate’s business but it never suited him. “I’m an outdoorsy, barefoot in nature kinda guy,” he laughed.
Now he works with high functioning autistic people in Castlebar. It was incredibly rewarding, helping people get into society by developing courses for them. He’d recently set up Mayo’s first anime course and his boss had sent him to learn how to build video games. He told me all this enthusiastically and it was clear he loved it. “I’ve been doing it about a year,” he said, “And before that I was doing residential autism and before that I worked in Lidl…! So it’s been quite the change.”
We arrived at the junction and Michael wished me all the best. The road was still brand new, cutting a perfect trapezoid into the hillside. Two slopes connected by the tarmac below and a dead straight bridge above. I was rushing east across the country so was keen for a quick ride. There were more cars now at least.
A BMW honked its horn a hundred meters away. I jogged along the verge towards it, hand on my hat. The driver beckoned me in but the door wouldn’t open. I tried several times and he looked around the driver’s seat for a button to release it. After a long and awkward minute, he eventually managed to stretch across and open it from the inside.
He apologised. I’d have to have my bag on my lap too he said, the rest of the car was full. I squeezed in and we set off. “Aye it’s not my car. No idea how the doors work…” Barry had a red, impatient-looking face with jowls that hung like steaks. It looked like everything pissed him off.
It transpired he’d been out late last night. “I was coming home and I hit a fuckin great deer. A big stag like. Meter long antlers and all. I got out and thought it had got away but looked with a torch and saw it was frenched on the floor…”
I wondered if that was why he looked pissed off.
We turned off the main road onto a narrow track, crowded with bushes. Again it was a stark contrast to the new road. “Sorry I’ve just got to drop something off.” We turned again through a gate and bounced up to a black wooden barn. The bumper scraped on some stones as he braked hard and leapt out. I joined him and helped ferry some things from the boot. There was an abandoned bath turning green on the grass. Another man emerged from the barn’s dark aperture and directed us. They exchanged sparing words. I took a large battery from the footwell of the passenger seat and handed it to the man.
“Oh not that,” Barry interceded, “That’s the new battery for my lawn mower…” I put it back in the footwell and pulled my bags on top again and we bumped out of the farm yard, back to the road.
Barry told me he owned lots of vending machines. “Westport, Castlebar…all fuckin over.” He said it with a grumble. He was driving to refill some now and had an app that told him when they needed doing. “You only make a few quid from most of em,” he confided, “It’s the ones in the gym that make you all the dough. Low calorie stuff you know, people coming out after working out.”
“Is that what the Grenade bars are for?” I asked, pointing to the pile of boxes in the footwell which, along with the lawn mower battery, my rucksack and the excessive heating were making the journey very uncomfortable. He said they were. “I hope I haven’t crushed them!” I added.
“Ah you’ll be alright mate,” he said.
He was turning off the main road so he let me out by a T junction. One of the bars fell out with me as I hauled myself out. The metallic blue wrapper looked like a jewel against the black pitch. “Keep it,” he said and I waved him off. I was the middle of nowhere, no towns nearby, not even a house. The traffic came fast from far away, soaring along the tarmac. There was nothing but the brand new road for company. Not yet anyway.