I’m watching the sun rise, vast and slow, through the glass wall of my friend’s West Cork clifftop eyrie.
A silver morning haze hangs over the ocean.
That sky will be blue within the hour.
A perfect day to hitch back to Galway.
My friend drops me on the Bandon Road. I’ve looked at the map, and decided that getting through Cork City might be tricky. Cut up to Mallow, a few backroads, sure, what’s the rush boy? You’re in Cork, d’ja’know?
My first lift comes from a nice guy in a Citroen Van, who wants to talk about my accent.
Then a lawnmower man pulls over, almost crashing into the transit van who also decides to stop for me.
My friend Susan reckons it’s something to do with my relationship with the Goddess of the Road. Whatever it is, I’m glad it works. Yer man tells me I should go to Cork City, but I feel it’s time to leave the main road, time to walk a few miles in the early morning sun.
A little old lady takes me three miles, saying “Oh I know!" over and over again. She drops me by a hedge, where I marvel at the beauty available to the hitcher.
What other form of transport offers you such a place? A gentle rush of flowing water from invisible grassy depths; birdsong; all the time in the world.
And then some.
No cars.
A farmer with the hairiest nose in the world stops his ancient Nissan Bluebird, tells me I should have gone to Cork City, and drives me one mile.
I never walk and hitch,. What’s the point? But I do walk until I find a good place to hitch. After a few miles around bends where the road is lined with hedgerows, I come finally to a small straight stretch.
Hitching is only empathy. Think like a driver.
The first car stops, and I am in a metal box with a mad woman.
"Don’t mind me - I’m late. Where are you going? Mallow? Oh I am going to Macroom. I can take you to Macroom. Mallow? But I am not going to Mallow? Why are you on this road? Where are you going? I am turning for Macroom. Don’t mind me, I am very late. Why are you going to Macroom?”
She lets me out.
Ahhh.
As she wends her crazy way, I laugh out loud. I am in the most glorious place.
A river deep and blue
rolling verdant hills of velvet pasture
meadowsweet and cow parsley
crows cawing in the tall trees
wild cherry blossoms and bumble bees.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
A woman approaches, walking. I smile, and understate the obvious.
"Lovely day!" to which she replies in a way that only a very small number of exclusively Irish are able
"We’ve got it too soon, so. Too soon, that’s what it is!"
She passes me, no eye contact, no hint of a smile. Astonishing attitude, yet a catalyst for me to enjoy the sunshine all the more.
Another short lift, from a charming man who talks of childhood bacon and cabbage. After he drops me off, I eat a chocolate bar watched by a herd of cows who come to make me feel guilty.
Horror of horrors, a truck crawls up the hill towards me, engine screaming in the redline howl of second gear.
Please don’t let him stop.
Please please, ple - oh shit. The truck is going so slowly, I'm walking along beside the open door, as it crawls along with its load of grit.
"Where you going? Mallow? Well, throw your bag on boy."
Over the next twenty minutes I employ various Zen techniques to turn this nightmare into a, like, positive experience, man.
Oh look how well I can see over the hedges, and how much time I have to watch the cows ruminating.
All life is the scream.
The engine scream.
And the rattle.
The scream and the rattle and the fact that he insists on shouting at me over this cacophonic duet.
I’m left at a dusty crossroads, where I stand for hours and hours and hours. There are two pubs (closed), a garage (who knows?) and a hair salon (closed), but apart from a woman in slippers and a very friendly dog, I see nobody.
No people. No Cars.
I begin gently hallucinating in shadeless sunshine.
Maybe I'm tripping.
Maybe Ireland is Spain.
After decades hitching, I know not to feel despair, but that crossroads pushes me close to it.
It’s taken me six hours not to get to Mallow.
A fast car with a yellow-shirted builder takes me to the outskirts of Mallow, where I climb up a steep bank and scramble onto the edge of the N20.
Aharrr, Jim Lad, look ye at all them cars!
A walk to the next exit ramp, and a lift to Charleville immediately.
"In all fairness, now, in all fairness, I have to say, I have to. How old do you think, in all fairness, a turkey might live for, as much as you can say, in all fairness?"
Maybe I am mad, and they are all wonderfully sane.
A sales rep wants to turn a bad day into a good one, so he takes me to pick up his child and girlfriend, and then drives me all the way over to the other side of Limerick, just so that I can swiftly pick up a ride.
I do, in a transit with a guy who tells me he’s not slept for three days. He decides to drop me at Shannon Airport, (what is that socks smell?) where Victor picks me up, and tells me of Nigeria as he whisks me to Ennis.
The sun is drooping a little, my legs are falling off me, and it’s a long old walk through Ennis. I pray, just in case Susan is right about my Goddess.
She’s right. A car suddenly pulls over, blocking the traffic, and the lady in it asks me if I know the road to Gort. I tell her I am hitching on it. She tells me to jump in.
I’ll be in Galway before dark. That pint...
The very amiable Philip picks me up from Gort, whisking me around, to buy a wheelbarrow and borrow an electric planer.
From Kilcolgan I am delivered to Galway by a man with a fixed babyface smile, who speaks of pouring the concrete for his house tomorrow, and how since yesterday he is the proud father of Rebecca.
Finally, I’m walking along the Eglington Canal, towards that Galway City pint.
As I enter Taylor’s Bar on Dominic Street, the last drop of light drifts from a long day’s sky.
©Charlie Adley
22.07.2025
2 comments:
Taylors garden...
The concrete refuge. Yeh, Anon.
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