Olly Buckle
May 26th, 2012, 08:28 AM
this is pretty new, I have been over it a couple of times, but would be grateful for any nits or comments.
Dinner had been very pleasant, the coffee was good, the evening was summery and the talk turned to summer evenings on holiday, and then, specifically, to Ireland. It seemed we had all had an experience of it, and agreed, when the weather is good there are few places to match it; when the weather’s good. After a little further reminiscing someone turned to Mathew who had been sitting on the sidelines,
“Have you ever been Matty?”
“Once, many years ago,” was the reply, “We went touring in my old Triumph Roadster. Beautiful car, convertible with dicky seats, a bench seat right across the front, an aluminium body with big headlights on steel wings, and running boards; the eighteen hundred version rather than the two litre. That car was my only love and total obsession for a few years. It being a convertible was hell at times when it rained. It was the sort of Irish rain where you couldn’t tell where the rain stopped and the puddles began, and everything ended up wringing wet, but you are right, when the weather was good, it was glorious.
“I remember one summer evening with the top down, driving into Dublin. We were unsure we would be in time to find a place to stay for the night, and wondered if it might not be wiser to stop at the first place we saw doing bed and breakfast. It was a long, straight, slightly downhill stretch of road. A seemingly endless meadow ran alongside it with a river gleaming in the distance as though it was the sun that had liquefied it. There was no sign of habitation, when I spotted someone pushing a bike down the hill. It seemed wise to ask, he was the only human we had seen for some time. I should have known, pushing a bike downhill. We pulled up next to him and I said ‘Good evening’ in my very English accent.
“As he turned I saw that he was a man of late middle age, and although it had been a red hot summer’s day, he was dressed in a heavy duty, three piece, dark brown, tweed suit with a good quality, collarless, cotton shirt. His trousers were held at the ankles by cycle clips, and on his feet he had highly polished, brown boots. I could see his woollen socks between clipped trouser and boot, and somehow knew, if he had been rushed to casualty as an emergency admission, under it all there would have been a complete set of decent, thermal underwear.
“ ‘Good evening to you too Sir’ he said, ‘And a beautiful day it has been, I was just walking down here enjoying all the flowers in the meadow that the sunshine has brought out, the scents carry the hum of the insects visiting them, and the birds are singing their little hearts out, bucolic bliss; how can I help you Sir.’
“It was just as he had said, with that slight haze starting to rise off the meadow, and everywhere alive with the hum and buzz of nature, but I was young and impatient, and my mind was filled with the necessity to find a safe haven from the rapidly approaching night.
‘Can you tell me how far it is to Dublin please?’ I asked in my middle class English accent.
“ ‘Ah, Dublin is it, to be sure?’ He really did say that , it was a sort of filler while he gathered his thoughts to consider the unexpected demand. Then he continued, ‘If you follow this road down to the end you will find a T junction where it meets with another, larger, road. Right opposite you, set up against the bank under the hedge, is the sign pointing off to the right. That is the sign that directs you towards Dublin, you only need to turn right there and follow that sign and your nose as far as you can go, and the road will take you all the way into Dublin.’
“He gave me a look of triumph, as though he had just imparted directions to the lost covenant, esoteric knowledge that only he could provide, and even I, brash young fellow that I was, had the grace to be gentle as I explained to him that I had a fair idea of the direction I needed to go in, but wanted to know how far it was.
“Again he paused for a moment in thought, then said slowly, his accent broadening, ‘Well, I should tink it is about eighteen mile’. Then, looking behind me at the Roadster throbbing with power and gleaming in the fading light, his eye brightened suddenly and he added, ‘But in a big, fine, motor car like that you might even make it in ten.’ “
We accused Mathew of making it up, but he swore it was true.
Dinner had been very pleasant, the coffee was good, the evening was summery and the talk turned to summer evenings on holiday, and then, specifically, to Ireland. It seemed we had all had an experience of it, and agreed, when the weather is good there are few places to match it; when the weather’s good. After a little further reminiscing someone turned to Mathew who had been sitting on the sidelines,
“Have you ever been Matty?”
“Once, many years ago,” was the reply, “We went touring in my old Triumph Roadster. Beautiful car, convertible with dicky seats, a bench seat right across the front, an aluminium body with big headlights on steel wings, and running boards; the eighteen hundred version rather than the two litre. That car was my only love and total obsession for a few years. It being a convertible was hell at times when it rained. It was the sort of Irish rain where you couldn’t tell where the rain stopped and the puddles began, and everything ended up wringing wet, but you are right, when the weather was good, it was glorious.
“I remember one summer evening with the top down, driving into Dublin. We were unsure we would be in time to find a place to stay for the night, and wondered if it might not be wiser to stop at the first place we saw doing bed and breakfast. It was a long, straight, slightly downhill stretch of road. A seemingly endless meadow ran alongside it with a river gleaming in the distance as though it was the sun that had liquefied it. There was no sign of habitation, when I spotted someone pushing a bike down the hill. It seemed wise to ask, he was the only human we had seen for some time. I should have known, pushing a bike downhill. We pulled up next to him and I said ‘Good evening’ in my very English accent.
“As he turned I saw that he was a man of late middle age, and although it had been a red hot summer’s day, he was dressed in a heavy duty, three piece, dark brown, tweed suit with a good quality, collarless, cotton shirt. His trousers were held at the ankles by cycle clips, and on his feet he had highly polished, brown boots. I could see his woollen socks between clipped trouser and boot, and somehow knew, if he had been rushed to casualty as an emergency admission, under it all there would have been a complete set of decent, thermal underwear.
“ ‘Good evening to you too Sir’ he said, ‘And a beautiful day it has been, I was just walking down here enjoying all the flowers in the meadow that the sunshine has brought out, the scents carry the hum of the insects visiting them, and the birds are singing their little hearts out, bucolic bliss; how can I help you Sir.’
“It was just as he had said, with that slight haze starting to rise off the meadow, and everywhere alive with the hum and buzz of nature, but I was young and impatient, and my mind was filled with the necessity to find a safe haven from the rapidly approaching night.
‘Can you tell me how far it is to Dublin please?’ I asked in my middle class English accent.
“ ‘Ah, Dublin is it, to be sure?’ He really did say that , it was a sort of filler while he gathered his thoughts to consider the unexpected demand. Then he continued, ‘If you follow this road down to the end you will find a T junction where it meets with another, larger, road. Right opposite you, set up against the bank under the hedge, is the sign pointing off to the right. That is the sign that directs you towards Dublin, you only need to turn right there and follow that sign and your nose as far as you can go, and the road will take you all the way into Dublin.’
“He gave me a look of triumph, as though he had just imparted directions to the lost covenant, esoteric knowledge that only he could provide, and even I, brash young fellow that I was, had the grace to be gentle as I explained to him that I had a fair idea of the direction I needed to go in, but wanted to know how far it was.
“Again he paused for a moment in thought, then said slowly, his accent broadening, ‘Well, I should tink it is about eighteen mile’. Then, looking behind me at the Roadster throbbing with power and gleaming in the fading light, his eye brightened suddenly and he added, ‘But in a big, fine, motor car like that you might even make it in ten.’ “
We accused Mathew of making it up, but he swore it was true.