The old man is into his second whiskey on his last evening at The Tasting Room. In the morning, he will leave for a walkabout in the British Isles. His favorite bartender, he calls her ‘Slick’, is feeling a little frisky this evening. Says, she will miss him. Touches his shoulder as she delivers his third bourbon. His phone buzzes.
Ms. Sam, “I’m still in California. Diagnosed with breast cancer today, being admitted to the hospital for further tests. No lunch in Kilkenny this week. May never return to Ireland.”
Slick notices the old man wiping a tear from his cheek.
“What’s wrong?”
He tells her.
“Sorry. You still gonna go? “
“I have not yet caught an Atlantic salmon on a fly.”
Slick runs out of whiskey. She takes him home anyway just because. Puts him in an Uber to Dulles in the morning. Aer Lingus first cabin. The old man never bothers to learn how to watch the movie. He knows this may be his last adventure. He does not have a return ticket.
Sam left Ireland and returned to the States two weeks ago. She decided to get a proper physical exam while she was there. And to seek a divorce from a husband she has not seen since moving to Ireland. Her husband does not want to be a divorced husband. She wants to be married. Four years ago, Sam bought a cottage at the end of a one lane dirt road overlooking a river in southeast Ireland. The perfect escape from the Hollywood film scene. Bought a setter puppy and a fly rod, hooked up with the farmer down the road. She settled into the peace and quiet of the rural Irish countryside.
Sam is independent and thinks of herself as a bit of a tough cookie. Her momma was good- looking. Here, Daddy led a Hemingway life, big game hunting in Africa and India. He taught her to shoot and to ride a horse, to walk softly in the woods, and to listen to the birds. She was ten years old when he took her to Mexico for deep-sea fishing. Sam grew up privileged with a view of the Pacific, developed a love of bird dogs, and learned to be true to herself. She was her daddy’s girl. But she looks like her momma.
She and the old man met six months ago online. They both have an interest in writing, and history, bird dogs, and, fly fishing. They share their writing, hopes and aspirations daily. She became his most helpful critic as he shared his early stories with her. She shared her novel. The one shebegan before she left the states and will never finish. Their conversations became personal. Then intimate. She is returning to Kilkenny in late September and agreed to meet for lunch.
Southeast Ireland was the home of her hero, her love, not the farmer, but instead a military man of distinction. It was his life she wanted to immortalize in her novel. The one she will never finish. He had served with honor in the War of the Papal States during the War of Italian Unification in 1860. His bravery and heroism inspired American bishops in Rome to recruit him for the Army of the United States during the American Civil War.
Sam has walked the battlefield at Gettysburg three times, where her hero fought as a cavalry officer. An officer under General Buford held off the rebel attack that saved the battle for the
Union. Sam traveled to Montana and spent a week contemplating the battleground at the Little
Big Horn River, where the only survivor was his horse Comanche. They found Tuck, his Scottish Staghound, on Custer Hill, dead. She traveled to Auburn, New York, visited his grave, and prayed in reverence to the man Chief Sitting Bull pronounced to be “the bravest of the brave.” When Sitting Bull died at Wounded Knee, he wore the Papal Medal he scalped from the chest of the last man killed at the Little Big Horn. Sam obtained the pocket watch he wore in his last battle. Upon her arrival in Ireland, she returned it to his family.
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The Aer Lingus plane parks as far away from the taxi rank as possible. He finds a reasonable hotel room rate in the heart of The Liberties near the Teeling Whisky Distillery. The taxi drivers have not yet started working.
There is only one driver looking for a fare. The old man asks him if he knows the hotel. He turns down his music and shakes his head yes. A local morning radio show announces the number of construction cranes disturbing the skyline every day. Today the count is one hundred-sixty-five. Dublin’s economy is in full bloom. It is still early in the morning, and his room is not ready. The staff says they will take care of his duffel and backpack. He can come back in a few hours. The old man needs to walk off the jetlag. He thinks St. Patrick’s is to the left as he exits the hotel. Dublin is dynamic, with cracking weather, markets full of shoppers, and pubs full of beer drinkers. The park benches next to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral are all occupied, with folks enjoying lunches on blankets spread on the grass. Smiling young mothers push their carriages through St. Stephen’s Green. They pause by the benches to check their charges and exchange pleasantries with their friends.
The hotel has no Irish employees that are visible. Isabela, from Brazil, recommended a lunch beginning with roasted butternut squash soup topped with sour cream, followed by a large beef burger with a house pickle, mayo, caramelized onion, and jalapeno cheddar cheese on a brioche bun. Guinness refreshes his body and memories. He needs to walk about five miles. The staff of the hotel were all from somewhere else. The faces of Ireland have changed.
The blare from the cabby’s horn did not drown out his cussing. The old man, distracted. Looked the wrong way crossing the spider web of streets at the Bank of Ireland corner. The intersection is confusing, and the traffic is coming from the wrong direction. He could have looked the wrong way on any other day. Today, he did not look and took a step too far.
The old man had not noticed her standing beside him.
She grabbed his arm, jerked him back to reality and away from the front fender of the taxi. “Much obliged, ma’am,” with a slight head bow as they stepped onto the first of the two pedestrian islands. She cursed the city traffic. Yelled something ugly back at the cabby. Said she is from Tralee and does not like city traffic. The old man apologizes for being a dunce, and could he buy her a drink by way of a thank you.
She cut a fine figure. Her straight, dark red hair flowed free to below her waist. Dressed in a dark blue, deep V-neck silk dress splattered with printed yellow medallions that fell above her knees. The outsized sleeves caught the breeze. It accentuated her every move. She takes his arm to help him onto Merrion Street.
No, he cannot buy her a drink. She is eager to get on her way to the Canadian embassy. This is her fourth time, the second time today. The red-haired lady from Tralee needs a visa to travel to Ontario, where her father is on his deathbed. The blue dress clings to her body. The old man takes exception to being turned down for a drink, and with empathy repeats his offer. She still held his arm as they entered the bar in the Shelbourne.
“What is your name?” he asks.
She orders a dry gin, whatever, from one of the several waiters who are eager to ask for her preference. Anxiety is abated after a couple more gin-whatevers. He keeps pace with gin and tonic with a lime wedge. He tells her about his visit to the Rose Festival in Tralee ten years ago and says he regrets he did not meet her then. She tells him about growing up in Canada, fishing with her father. He tells her how much he likes the blue dress. She tells him how close they became after the passing of her mother. He tells her how the blue dress complements her dark red hair. She tells him how disappointed her father became when the large Walleye got away She tells him how much she wants to hold her father’s hand at the end.
The lady from Tralee continued to talk her way through more gin. Bolstered by gin courage, she felt she could face the Canadian bureaucrats with style and grace.
“Thanks for the courage.” A farewell embrace. “No problem.” Two ships passing in the night, looking for a place to fall apart. “Nice try” hushed to himself. He thought about finding a pub and grabbing lunch. A plate of steamed prawns being served three bar stools down changed his mind. He switched to white wine with the prawns. The old man snaps a photo of the mural behind the bar and sends it to Sam. Wish you were here. How are you?”
Gin and tonic have a different reaction in the old man’s brain, different from Tennessee whiskey, that is. He becomes nostalgic. When he was last here, the place was swarming with hen parties. No such luck on this trip. Pickings are slim at the bar. Matters little. Nothing is going to measure up to what just left. Slumped into an overstuffed lounge chair, his mind drifts. He tries to keep his eyes open, orders another wine, to keep from being deemed a vagrant. He does not need to delve into memories.
It may have been the gin, but thoughts from his first visit to Ireland flitted in and out of his mind.
The goats on the Old Course at Lahinch, The Malton in Killarney, Claire serving a single malt with lamb meatballs…before flashing to Emma at Ballynahinch Castle, where he did not catch a fish. Otherwise, he had a great time. Witnessed the marriage of a local couple, a five-piece band provided the entertainment. When the priest pronounced them man and wife, he stood up for the Irish national anthem. The red-haired lady slid lithely onto the barstool next to the old man, her green eyes glistening, Canadian visa approved. Plucking the last prawn off his plate, she puts her arm around his neck, lays her cheek on his, “Let’s celebrate.”
She tightens her grip on his arm. They turn right onto St. Stephen’s Park Road. There is no destination. There is the here and now. They cross into the park, pass the iconic bandstand, and pause by the Yates Memorial. She recites a few lines from memory:
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
She slips her arm around his waist. He feels her warmth and remembers. They slow their pace at the Temple Bar. Grab a glass of wine and a bench on the quay. Embrace with passion.
Tourists stare. They quickened their pace to the Mont Hotel.
“Good evening, Ma’am, welcome back. How was your day?” The Mont’s doorman looks
at the old man, smiles, and gives a slight tip of his hat.
“Thank you, Alfred, I’ve had a successful day.”
The old man locks the room door and turns on the light.
“Ah, ha,” he says out loud when he sees the blue dress lying in a heap on the floor. He turns the light off.
The old man awakens to a cloudless Irish sky. He is alone. It is almost 8:00am. He hurries
to the coffee shop. She is not there. Alfred is working the morning shift.
“Good morning, Alfred. Have you seen the lady from Tralee this morning?”
“I put her in a taxi to the airport thirty minutes ago.”
“Thank you, Alfred.” The old man returns to the coffee shop and orders an American coffee with milk. He stares at it without taking a sip. He checks his phone. There is no response from Sam.
“Is the coffee to your liking sir?” The hostess asks.
He takes a sip. It is no longer hot. “Yes, it is fine. I’ll have another cup please.”
He drinks this cup with purpose.
“Alfred, the ferry to the Isle of Man sails from the harbor in 30 minutes. Do I have time to make it?” Alfred whistles a taxi forward. Tells the driver, “Dublin harbor and step on it.”
Freddie Miller Jnr. is the driver of the taxi that responded to Alfred’s whistle. The old man is his first and last fare of the day. Freddie is heading to Belfast for a fly-fishing match. His Irish team will do battle with a team from Scotland.
“You must be going to the Isle of Man. It’s the only ferry this time of day.”
“Yea, a last-minute decision. This is a side trip. I heard there may be a salmon run this week. I am heading to Scotland hoping to fill a bucket list by catching an Atlantic salmon on the fly.”
“Feck all fishin’ in Scotland this summer, so it is. Best o’ luck to ya bai!”
“My Manx mates tell me they expect a decent run off the north end by weeks end. This is the week of the TT Race. It might be difficult to get to the north end.”
Freddie opens the glove box of the taxi, stops at a traffic light, turns, and pins a fly on the lapel of the old man’s tweed jacket. He called it a ‘daddy long legs, said he tied it himself last night. “This might help”
That is when the old man found the note in the breast pocket of his jacket. A cocktail napkin from the bar at the Shelbourne. The handwritten note read,
I will rise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore…
#14 Cottage, Red Roses,
Lake Simcoe, Barrie, Ontario.
Come visit,
Tralee