Galway, the City I Love to Hate
I drove into
Galway the evening of April 23, 1998
with two friends. This was the ninth
day of a Spring trip to Ireland and
two days before my departure home to
the United States. I was working on
a book about holy places - 'thin'
places - and there to interview
authors and take photographs of
featured sites. April 24th
would be my final day in Ireland and
was to include traveling to one of
the Aran Islands to interview author
Dara Molloy, an inhabitant of the
island of
Inis Mór.
We had made
reservations at the
Atlantic Heights
Bed & Breakfast in Salt Hill through
the Proprietor, Madeline Mitchell.
We arrived there at 10:00 p.m. and
received one of the warmest Irish
welcomes of our journey. When I
expressed concern to Madeline about
catching the ferry to Inis Mór the
next morning, she called the Ferry
Office at that late hour and booked
a reservation for me, which included
a bus coming to pick me up in front
of the B&B. The next morning I awoke
to cloudless, clear, blue skies and
looked forward to the grand finale
of this trip - The Aran Islands.
Thus began one of the bleakest,
most frustrating days of my life.
The bus was
scheduled to pick me up between 9:15
and 9:30 a.m. At 9:45 I was still
waiting. Madeline came out, sweetly
made a joke about being on “Irish
time” and phoned Sally O’Brien at
the Ferry Office. The boat was due
to depart for Inis Mór at 10:30 a.m.
I was nervous because I was to meet
Dara Molloy at the foot of Dun Aengus (a landmark on Inis Mór) at
12:30 p.m. I had not yet met Dara.
Inis Mór was a crucial site for the
book. I wouldn’t have an opportunity
to shoot photographs, much less meet
the author if it I didn’t reach the
island that day. My friends were
using our rental car so driving
myself to the port wasn’t an option.
Madeline pleaded with the Ferry
Office explaining that I was a
writer and had to be in Inis Mór for
an appointment. Since the Ferry
Office had scheduled the bus and
apparently there had been some
mistake, they graciously assumed
responsibility for sending a cab to
collect me and get me to Rossaveal
(the port of departure) in time to
get on that boat. They even said
they would hold the boat until I
arrived. I remember thinking … “Hold
the boat? How hospitable!”
The cab arrived
at 10:05 driven by the gracious
Michael Fallon who did everything in
his power to get to Rossaveal
quickly. We did, however, hit road
construction which held us up an
additional fifteen minutes. At 10:50
(20 minutes past departure time) we
finally approached the port, drove
into the car park and sure enough --
the boat was waiting. All forty
passengers were on board with the
captain standing by the gangway
looking out for us. There was a
construction road block prohibiting
us from driving the cab up to the
dock. Michael tried a few other
routes around the buildings but none
led to the dock. He even asked the
construction workers to let us pass,
to which they replied, “no”. Valiant
as he was, my cab driver threw
caution to the win, defied the
authority of road workers, and sped
through the barricade and drove me
up to the dock.
When we pulled up
to the boat, the grizzly captain
looked into the window, scowled and
said, “I have been holding this boat
for twenty minutes and you’re
driving all over the place, taking
your time.” Michael tried to explain
about the barricade, but the captain
interrupted looking at me, “You’ll
have to pay this driver. I’m not
paying him because you weren’t at
the bus stop, and our bus was there.
The bus driver waited ten minutes
for you and now I’ve made these
passengers wait another twenty.” I
tried to reply but by this time the
captain was livid. Michael
interjected that I was standing at
the proper place waiting for the
bus. It didn’t come. When the
captain started to shout, Michael,
in my defense said, “Sir, your
behavior is deplorable!” The captain
shouted something at Michael and
then barked at me, “Are you going to
get on this boat or not? I’m not
making these people wait any
longer!”
The passengers
were all on deck watching this
brutal exchange. I knew this visit
was crucial, but my cautious, inner
voice screamed, “Don’t get on this
boat with this lunatic.” I gave
Michael twenty pounds for the fare.
The impatient captain then picked up
the gangway and threw it back onto
the ship prohibiting my boarding.
Michael begged him to calm down and
let me on the boat. The captain
looked at me and shouted, “If you’re
getting on this boat, you’re getting
on now!” I hopped out of the car and
my temper got the best of me.
I walked over to
the captain, looked up into his
ruddy, weathered face, and in front
of Michael and forty passengers
said, “Nothing is worth putting my
life and safety into the hands of
lunatic. I pity your passengers.” I
then turned my back on the red faced
captain, got into the cab and asked
Michael to take me to the Ferry
Office.
It was there that
I discovered what had happened.
There was a mix up in communication
between Madeline and Sally O’Brien.
The bus was not due to stop in front
of the B&B, but up a block at
Knocknecara Cross. Thus explains the
bus not coming to the place where I
was waiting, and the bus driver
returning to Rossaveal telling the
O’Briens that he had been there to
collect me, waited ten minutes but I
never showed. I uncovered these
facts in the Ferry Office during a
heated discussion with Sally O’Brien
who was defensive to the point of
being rude. In the middle of this
inflammatory exchange, lo and
behold, the grizzly captain emerges
from the behind a partition in the
office. Michael again tries to come
to my defense saying, “How was she
to know she was at the wrong stop.
She was just doing what she was
told.” Sally replied that Michael
was a “Hackney” (term for a native
of that area) and that he should
know better than to side with
Americans who are known for being
demanding and rude.
I interjected,
“Oh, I haven’t even begun to arrive
at rude!” Michael came to my defense
once again and the angry captain,
furious by Michael’s support asked
him if he wanted to ‘step outside’
and settle this matter. When Michael
refused, the captain stated that
NEVER AGAIN would Michael’s cab
company do business with O’Brien
Shipping. The captain also reminded
me that O’Brien shipping was the
only company running ferries to Inis
Mór and that I’d never get to the
island.
Michael and I
turned to leave. I gave this one
final comment to the O’Briens: “I
promise you, I will relay my
experience with O’Brien Shipping to
anyone who will listen, for as long
as I can remember it. I assume when
you’re the only game in town, you
can afford to be ignorant."
After this vivid
display of my arrogant, demanding,
American colors; Michael and I
departed. When we got into the cab
he mentioned that
Aer Aran
flew
small planes to the Islands daily
and perhaps they could be of some
help. We stopped there to see if
there was a chance I could get to
Inis Mór by plane.
When I walked
into Aer Arann, a polite lady warmly
greeted me and asked how my day was
going. I replied, “Not good. I have
just come from O’Brien Shipping
where I was due to get on a boat for
Inis Mór. I had a row with the
owners, didn’t catch the boat, and I
have a 12:30 appointment at the foot
of Dun Aengus with an author I have
never met, whom I will now be
standing up. Is there any chance you
can get me to the Island in time for
that meeting?”
She checked over
the flight schedule, grimaced and
shook her head from side to side. I
took this to mean “no.” Then she
phoned someone and asked if he could
take a plane out to Inis Mór within
the hour. After writing down some
information, she made another call,
this time to someone on the island
named Michael. She asked, “Michael,
I have a writer coming out to Inis
Mór. She needs to be at Dun Aengus
by 12:30. Can you pick her up from
the airstrip and take her down?”
After a short conversation with this
islander named Michael, she hung up
the phone and asked if I could ready
in ten minutes. When I expressed
concern about returning to the B&B
that evening she quelled my worries
by assuring me they’d have a van
ready to take me back upon my return
from Aran. All was taken care of.
Within twenty minutes I was the only
passenger on a small plane that took
a ten minute jaunt to the Island of
Inis Mór arriving in time for
my appointment. Once again, the
hospitality and good will of the
Irish people insured a happy ending.
Once I landed on
Inis Mór, Michael, the islander was
patiently waiting to collect me and
head for Dun Aengus. On the way he
pointed out various points of
interest, specifically how the
islanders built their stone walls
with openings so the wind could blow
through, briefed me on the lifestyle
and livelihoods of the islanders and
provided me with a physical
description that would help me
identify Dara, the author I was to
meet.
I was able to
pick Dara out the crowd that was
descending from Dun Aengus. He was
leading a group of people on
pilgrimage and they were about to
have lunch. I suggested that I
photograph Dun Aengus while they
were eating and meet him afterwards.
He said their lunch would take about
an hour and that I should mind the
time. He said, “It’s easy to lose
track of time when you’re up there.
Time stands still. It’s a ‘thin’
place.”
The Irish have
given the definition of a “thin
place” as a place where the veil
between this world and the other
world is ‘thin’. Dara was correct -
Dun Aengus is a "thin place". Once
on top of the ancient fort, with
endless sky, panoramic views, warm
winds, pristine edges of the sheer
cliffs with waves pelting against
them, then settling back into a
sapphire ocean, it was a timeless
experience -- indelible in my
memory, rendering the frustrations
in the earlier part of the day
meaningless and silly.
In our interview,
Dara referred to Inis Mór as his
‘place of resurrection.’
I returned home
to Washington, DC the next day. Four
months later I received a package
from a used book dealer out of
Portland, Oregon. It was a rare book
on the Roman Empire I had requested
almost a year prior and was packed
in newspaper. I’m always intrigued
by newspapers from different cities
with dated news. I carefully
unwrapped the paper and began to
skim through it. It was the July 2,
1998 issue of The Irish Times.
I pondered why a used book dealer in
Oregon would have a copy of an Irish
newspaper.
As I glanced
through the articles I noticed a
color photo of two fisherman in a
small boat, pulling dead fish out of
the water. The headline read ‘Water
supply is still safe after fish
kill, county council insists.’
One of the fishermen looked
familiar. I was sure I knew this
guy, but couldn’t connect time or
place. I put the paper aside and
went back to my work.
A few hours
later, the photo resurfaced in my
memory. I picked up the paper, found
the picture and read the caption. It
identified one of the men as Mr.
Bill O’Brien. …. I made the
connection ….. Rossaveal .....
the grizzly captain with the red
face and scowling demeanor who asked
my devoted cab driver, Michael, to
step outside.
What were the
chances of Bill O’Brien’s photo
appearing in The Irish Times
in a section used for packing by a
used book dealer in Oregon
ironically sent to a customer in
Maryland who had recently been
verbally assaulted by the said Mr.
O’Brien? I quickly faxed Madeline,
the Salt Hill B&B proprietor, a copy
of the photo inquiring if this could
be the same man I encountered at the
port. She faxed back writing, “Yes,
yes …. the man in the photo is your
attacker! I am absolutely amazed.”
Who can explain
such coincidences? One must wonder
if it all means something. But
synchronistic events continued to
unfold. I was not yet finished with
O’Brien memories or encounters with
rude Irish men in County Galway.
Six months after
that Spring trip, I returned to
Ireland to continue work on the book
about thin places. One of our
authors,
Michael Mullen, a well
known Irish author from Castlebar,
County Mayo recommended I pay a
visit to Tom Kenny of
Kennys
Bookshop in Galway. Michael
was acquainted with Tom and done
speaking engagements at Kenny's
promoting his own books. He
thought Tom could offer solid advice
on promoting the book in Ireland and
Western Europe. Galway became
an important stop for this trip.
Downtown Galway
is crowded with traffic and
pedestrians and parking was a
nightmare. In the pouring October
rain, I finally found a place to
park down by the docks. I walked for
what seemed like hours in cold,
driving rain, trying to find
Kennys. When I finally located the
shop, I entered and asked the
unenthusiastic man sitting at the
counter if he was Tom Kenny.
The man never
looked up, but reluctantly replied
that he was Des Kenny and that Tom
was off for the day. His demeanor
was less than welcoming. Perhaps he
was having a bad day. Perhaps he was
taken aback by my wet hair, soggy
clothes and less than professional
appearance. Maybe he didn’t like
Americans - or perhaps, I bring out
the worst in Galway men who appear
to be in charge.
Despite the
chilly reception from Des, I greeted
him warmly, apologized for my shabby
appearance, and identified myself as
an acquisitions editor from the
United Sates. I continued that an
author, Michael Mullen, had
recommended I pay a visit to Tom
Kenny. Des said, “What author
recommended you come here?” Again I
repeated the name of Michael Mullen.
Des replied with a sarcastic comment
which illustrated that though
Michael may have forged and alliance
with Tom Kenny, his alliance with
Tom’s brother Des fell a little
short.
Trying to divert
the conversation to something more
agreeable, I began explaining that I
was working on a book about Irish
holy places. Des interrupted saying
“When you get the book in print send
us a copy and we’ll determine
whether or not we want to sell it.”
I replied that my intention in
coming to Kenny’s had nothing to do
with selling the book or having
Kenny’s Bookshop sell the book. Mr.
Des cut me off again saying that he
didn’t discuss anything about any
book until he had a hard copy of it
in his hand.
I was being
brushed off, and quickly decided not
to pursue this matter any further
with Des. I handed him one of my
business cards and asked that he
give it to Tom and I would follow up
in writing. Des took one of his
business cards, placed it atop mine
and gave them both back to me,
saying, “Send us a copy of the book
when it’s in print. Then we’ll see
if it meets our standards.”
I was stunned.
The man refused my business card. I
left the store, made my way through
the labyrinth of Galway’s
cobble-stoned streets trying to find
my car in the rain. I was cursing to
myself about wasting two hours,
freezing and having to park so far
away. I was also feeling sorry for
my good friend, Michael Mullen, who
had just had his character attacked
by a gruff book dealer whose
personality and charm ranked below
Fred Flintstone.
As I walked, I
reflected on bad times in Ireland. I
could only remember two.
Coincidentally, they were both in
Co. Galway and both involved Irish
men in family businesses. Then I
remembered three bright sparks all
named Michael: Michael Fallon the
cab driver, my defender who saw me
safely through the O’Brien incident,
Michael the islander of Inis Mór who
collected me, a nervous and
distraught writer at the airstrip,
and calmed me with his stories that
revealed some of the secret
treasures of the island, and my dear
friend Michael Mullen of Castlebar
who showed a sincere interest in the
success of our book and has brought
only joy to my life since. In truth,
these two incidents were flickers in
a blaze of Irish experience rich in
hospitality, warmth and
friendliness. I couldn’t help
pondering all the similarities,
wondering if some greater meaning
would eventually emerge.
I arrived at my
car by the docks. As I started the
car, I looked to left to make sure
it was safe to pull out into
traffic. A huge work boat tied up at
the dock directly across the street
caught my eye. The large letters
sprawled across the hull of the ship
said O’Brien Shipping.
Mindie Burgoyne -
1999
©1999 - 2006 by Padua House, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
Previously published by
Clever
Magazine, 2002.
No part of this work may be
reprinted or used without the
permission of the copyright holder.
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