Last month, it was announced that Wells & Young’s, English brewers of Bombardier, had partnered with Oxford Brookes University to sponsor a beer-writing competition. The goal was to have writers, both in the UK and abroad, submit pieces on “The Joys and Jolliness of Beer”. In the words of food critic and judge, Charles Champion, “We’re not looking for technical writing, campaigning tracts or extracts from guidebooks. Beer is the most sociable drink in the world and doesn’t get fair recognition. This prize is an attempt to help change that.” The winner was announced this past Friday during the Oxford Literary Festival. The winning entry was “The Stonemason’s Table” by Milton Crawford, pseudonymic author of “The Hungover Cookbook“. When it is finally published, I will post a link to it. In the meantime, please enjoy my entry, “The Lonely Walker”. Having left myself about 7 hours to write the piece before deadline, I was grasping for a thread to follow. I had just finished reading the excellent book “Beyond Belfast“, by Will Ferguson, a travelogue of his epic walk of the Ulster Way, so I had Northern Ireland on my mind. It reminded me of a favourite coffee table book I had read, “The Spirit of Rural Ireland“, by Christopher Sommerville, another book about a walker in Ireland, recounting tales of Irish hospitality and culture. My best friend Andrew, who is from Belfast, was staying with us at the time too; my direction seemed clear. So I more or less stole the idea of a solo-walk through Ireland, drew on some of my own experiences and stories from time spent there, and wrote this:
The lonely walker looked skyward and noted the fearsome clouds moving in, or moving back in, as they do in County Fermanagh. A check of the map and a glance around for a non-existent sign-post, a quick sip of water, and he was moving again. He had to move; the light was failing, the air electric with a coming storm, and the village was still at least a kilometre away over hills and fields. All he knew about his next stop, is that it was a village, so no bank, no library, though it did have a football club. But it was in Ireland, so it must have a pub. And hopefully it had a place he could sleep. His tent was damp and reeking of Irish mildew from the repeated assaults of the weather after twelve nights of camping in fields. Blisters burning and stomach groaning for food and drink, he mounted a hill, and as he reached the crest, saw the lights of the village below. As he descended he was amazed once again at how you could literally walk through a herd of sheep, and on to the main street of a village. As the rain started, he identified lights on in three public buildings: The Church of Ireland (the Presbyterians seemed to be taking the night off), the police station, and the pub, The Crown. The storm began in earnest, and he considered his choices. With any luck, he wouldn’t spend the night in the Police station. The church was advertising a pancake supper on their sign (was it that time of year already?), but what about the drink? No matter how sweet the pensioner serving it, church tea was generally slightly more flavourful than the last drops of water in his canteen. And while pensioners might be good for some interesting stories and a game of euchre, he hadn’t spoken to a person other than one rooming-house landlord and the occasional farmer in five days. He needed the pub.
But walking into a pub can be a difficult thing in a foreign place. Regardless, no matter how many awkward stares his road-weathered clothes and unkempt appearance garnered, the weather, his stomach, and his loneliness outweighed his introversion and directed his feet. Up the front steps of what appeared to be a Georgian home, through the heavy oak door. The distinctive smell of burning peat and the sound of clinking glasses and happy voices seemed to wash away the dust and frustrations of the day’s walk better than the cold rain that had chased him into town. A smiling landlord wearing a half-apron and brown waist-coat hailed him from the bar, “Get in, get in, it’s far too wet out there, and the band is about to start again. What will it be? Beer, whiskey? And where on God’s green earth have you been, dressed like that, with a pack that size? Sure you’re not one of those bicycle folk, risking life and limb on our suicide roads?”. Grinning the walker replied “No, I’ve been on foot. And a pint of stout would go a long way right now. A pie or sandwich would be welcome too.” “American, are you? I’ll get you the stout forthwith. Kitchen closed about an hour ago, though,” said the Landlord. “No,” replied the walker, “I’m Canadian, and to be honest, any food would be sufficient, my diet has mainly consisted of things purchased at gas stations and Spar stores.” “Canadian? Sure, we can find you a sandwich somewhere in this place. It’ll have to be chips on the side though, and maybe some champ. Soup will be stone cold, and we don’t have a microwave.” The Landlord smiled as he finished pouring the pint and set it on the oak bar in front of the walker. “Anthony here lived in Canada, didn’t you Anthony?” he nodded at a grey-haired gentlemen wearing a tweed cap. “Aye,” said Anthony, “lived in Toronto for twelve years. 1962-74”. “Really?” asked the walker, “What was your line in Toronto.” “Oh, I was a cop, motorcycle cop, you know? Couldn’t get a driver’s license in Ontario. Kept trying, kept failing. Couldn’t keep the pedals straight. On the fourth try, my Sargent came down with me, tried to “badge” me a pass, but the inspector said it didn’t matter. I was just too bad. So they let me drive a motorcycle instead. Used to accompany parades and funeral processions and that.” “You were a cop in Toronto in the 60’s?” asked the walker, “Did you know a Scot called Pat Kelly, worked vice then the hold-up squad?” “Sure, I knew Pat, used to go to the hockey games with him.” “Pat Kelly is my grandfather” said the walker, clinking glasses with the old man, “you left Toronto six years before he became a grandfather.” As the band started up, the walker’s sandwich arrived, and the conversation turned to his walk, The Giant’s Causeway to Belfast to Dublin along a mainly indirect route. Two young men a few seats down the bar joined in the conversation, saying that they were teachers, and regularly camped in the Sperrins. One called for the band to play “The Rocky Road to Dublin”, in honour of the crazy Canadian walking the Island.
More stout followed more stout as the songs moved from jigs and reels, to romantic waltzes and mournful ballads of battles lost and lovers taken. As the first bell for last call rang, Ena, the fiddler in the band, called on the walker to sing them a song. Walking on legs that were tired from long walking, wobbly from stout, and shaky from nerves, the walker admitted that the only song he knew in entirety was “Seven Drunken Nights”. With a smile, Ena struck up the band and nodded for the walker to start. Working his way through ridiculous verses about a wonderfully clueless husband, the walker quickly went from nervous to confident. Anthony had long since sought his bed, but it wasn’t long until his teacher friends were flanking him, all of them arm-in-arm, the young men shouting out monotone harmonies consisting mainly of wrong lyrics. The dart players had finished their match and were clapping and shouting out insults at the naivety of the poor gormless husband; pancake-filled faithful had come in to join the fray; even the pretty girls sitting to the side of the bar were smiling and laughing at the mess of a performance taking place. As the walker shouted out the final insulting lyric (directed at Wayne Rooney in this rendition), the landlord rang the bell for last call, and the room broke into appreciative applause and laughter. Working his way back towards his seat at the bar, through waves of hands-shaken and pats on his back, he looked up at the landlord. As he set another pint of stout down, the landlord said with a smile, “And will you be taking a room upstairs then? We’ll have a fry ready about 8, if that’s not too late. Just do the missus a favour and have a shower before bed, you’re now covered in Irish landscape and soaked in Irish beer. Your pack might smell like death warmed-over, but that’s no reason you should.”
In a haze of stout and songs, the walker made his farewells to the rest of the pub and allowed himself to be led upstairs, with the promise of a warm shower and soft bed tugging his road-worn legs forward; fatigue slowly trumping the spirit of the evening. Later, clean and fresh, the walker collapsed into bed, smokey roasty malts lingering on his tongue and choruses of songs echoing in his ears; nothing on his mind but a sound night’s sleep, and a mental note to take a room in pubs more often.
