The morning began early. Unfortunately. It was a rough start. I don’t know what time Declan and I finished up around the table but either way, I still felt drunk. I rolled out of bed, showered and crammed my rucksack.
Declan was already up and in the kitchen. “Good morning,” he greeted cheerfully, suggesting that he was in a better state than I. Breakfast was begun, bacon under the grill, and he poured me a glass of orange juice which I drank so rapidly it verged on rudeness.
It was time to leave Ireland. I had a flight at three. Dublin was only an hour away but as with any journey with a deadline, it was pressurised. A hangover didn’t help. Or maybe it did. Being drunk certainly eases things…
We ate our breakfast and loaded the car. Declan had to go to Dublin himself to meet his daughter, a student at Trinity, and he was taking his nephew down too. He offered me a lift but it wasn’t going to quite work. Instead, he took me to the road out of town, the one that ran northeast to Slane and on to Drogheda. From there I could drop down to the airport. I’d need two lifts I reckoned.
The outskirts of Navan were shining with a pale light. The rain was gone and the sky was thinly veiled. The sun made the squares of suburban pavement glisten. A good day to be hitchhiking I thought. Shame it was the last.
I was sad to leave Declan, though it was a swift goodbye since we were both in a rush. We shook hands and exchanged emails and promised to link up one day in London. I tore a piece of cardboard from my shrinking box and wrote Drogheda on it.
Not long after I was in a hybrid SUV with white leather seats. The driver was called CJ, the passenger Ajul. They were on their way to Drogheda to look at a house. CJ did most of the talking. He said he was a big cricket fan and used to play a lot. His team was made up of all generations, kids to older gentlemen too, but they’d pick the teams based on who could get to the games. There aren’t many cricket clubs in Ireland so away matches were far.
He doesn’t play any more but he umpires instead. That takes him even further afield, Dublin, Cork, Belfast, he said. There was a moment of silence before he added, “It’s a beautiful country. Especially when the sun’s out.”
The sun was out that day and he was right, it was beautiful.
The road we drove was an historic one, tracking the banks of the Boyne. We’d already passed Newgrange, the Stone Age monument that’s older than the pyramids and now we were passing Slane Castle. Built by Scottish protestants in the 1600s, it’s since found more fame as a rock venue. It’s hosted everyone from the Stones to Bowie and Bob Dylan. It’s a natural amphitheatre with a capacity of 80,000, which means when it’s full it holds more than 1% of Ireland’s population. A few months before Harry Styles had filled it.
A little further on we came to the site of the famous battle, eponymous with the river. It was hard to see, the main sight was on the other side, but I looked out through the windscreen, above the tiny statue of Ganesh on the dashboard. A red and gold trinket swung from the mirror.
We continued along the northern bank, where William of Orange took a blow to the shoulder and nearly died, and past the ford over which the battle was fought. Fate could have fallen on either bank that day. Funny how history plays out, snaking like the river from then to now. Had that blow been a little nearer the heart… who knows?
CJ and Ajul left me on the north side of Drogheda. I had plenty of time to cross the town. It was only just past 11. Besides, there was plenty of public transport links to the airport which is always a reassurance.
I crossed the river, past rusting trawlers, crumbling warehouses and developments that looked like they’d been shiny not too long ago. The hill on the other side, was steep and the suburbs never-ending. I gave up trying to reach the edge and stood in a bus stop until a Toyota people carrier stopped. It had a funny upright shape and a large sticker saying Thug Life on the back. It was full of a family and there was a fierce bark as I pulled back the door. “Make friends with the dog!” The father at the wheel called.
Once I was in and we were away it became clear the father did all the talking. He had a huge beard and his long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, grey whispers escaping. He was large and made larger by the leather vest he wore. It said ‘Mother Earth’ in white letters on the chest.
I asked his name. Mother Earth he replied.
“Where are you from?”
“China…” he let out a laugh, “No, I’m joking. I’m from Poland.”
Beside him was his wife and in the back with me, a son and daughter. The daughter and I sat on the seat facing backwards. She was on her phone, I was craned around to the front, with a soon stiff neck. The dog, Cabba, laid his head on my bag peacefully.
Mother Earth told me he loved travelling. “I’d live on the road if I could,” he exclaimed, telling me about their continual road trips across Europe, “If I had enough money to travel always, I would. It is only money. Fuck the home!”
Fuck the home - I thought it was a rather less poetic version of Baudelaire’s horreur du domicile. Clearly Mother Earth was driven by the same impulse. Either way, it was home where I was heading and Dublin Airport wasn’t far now.
Mother Earth pointed out the grey hump of a mountain in the distance. That’s where they were going he said. Wicklow. He and his friends met to drive motorbikes there.
When he wasn’t taking his family to watch him and his friends drive motorbikes, Mother Earth worked as a truck driver. He liked the job but thought he worked too hard. Two days a week would be better than the four he did. That would leave more time for the things he wanted to do. He didn’t want life to be about work.
The family watched the road unchanged. I wondered how involved they were in his ‘fuck the home’ philosophy. From their dour demeanours, I’d have guessed not entirely.
“There are many beautiful things to see on the road,” Mother Earth pronounced. He had the traveller’s way of pronouncing things wisely, “But on the road, you learn so much that you cannot see. It’s impossible to explain to people how much you learn when you are travelling. You see different nations, different behaviours. You get a big surprise, every time.”
We came off the motorway and I got out in the airport’s placeless outskirts. The bright sun had gone now and the usual Irish greyness had been restored. A rabbit nibbled the lawn under the howl of landing planes. I found a McDonald’s and had my last ever. Home held a diagnosis that would mean I’d never have gluten again. I’d had my last Guinness too, last beer, last Murphy’s. At least there was no better place for it. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help thinking a small ‘fuck the home’…
But it was only a fleeting thought. I was looking forward to getting home, getting out of the rain for a while, not worrying where I’d be sleeping or if I’d get there before dusk. Home has a lot going for it one way or another. It’s not romantic, scintillating, or surprising, but maybe that’s why I like it.
Besides, if I began to feel the impulse that fired the bedridden Baudelaire, or the family-ridden Mother Earth, well, there’s never a lay-by far away.
Mother Earth was right about the road at least. You get a big surprise. Every time.