The summer sun is beating down on the small town of Clara, County Offaly, in Ireland. On sunny days, the intensity of the humidity makes it unbearable to stay outside for more than an hour straight. It’s June 25th, 2019, and I entertain myself with yard work at the Railway Cottage, a stone cottage built in the 1800s for railway workers. It was at one time a very sturdy structure that housed local families for decades. The cottage now stands almost decrepit after years of neglect from its current owner, with only the walls and foundation still completely intact.
I am feeling exhausted after spending hours outside completing minor home improvement projects. Between ripping off invasive vines that were eating away at the walls and trimming the tall bushes along the driveway, I feel like I accomplished a lot for today. I don’t pay any attention to the time, but it can’t be any later than 3:00pm. When there’s no rigid work or school schedule to abide by, there’s no practical reason to watch the clock. I hide under the outside umbrella as I bandage my scraped and bleeding knuckles. I want to leave the cottage for a minute and seek refuge from the midday sun. I grab my book about Irish bird folklore and head towards the town center with no set destination in mind.
Seven hundred ninety steps and six hundred meters later, I wander into Baggot’s Back Door. I order an iced tea, snag a barstool along the bar counter under the air vent, and begin to decompress. I hear someone nearby ask me a question. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting and another moment to register who is talking to me. The lad seated three chairs down from me asks me where I’m from. I grin and ask him, “How do you know I’m not from here?” He laughs heartily, saying, “I’ve lived here all my life, I would know. Your accent gives you away. You could pass for Irish if you didn’t speak.” I laugh politely at his remark and begin to open my book. The lad orders me a pint of Guinness and tells me, “My name’s Paddy Finn, never forget!” I raise my glass and thank him for the pint.
Paddy is 1.82m (6 feet) tall, has greying hair, and speaks with an orotund voice. When Paddy talks, I can’t hear anything else in the place including the music by Flogging Molly playing in the background. I straighten my posture in an attempt to make myself taller and meet his height sitting down. No amount of adjustment can make up for the height difference. Paddy politely asks me if I’m staying at the Railway Cottage, and I confirm. Everyone in town knows where others live based on the name of the house. No places in Clara have numerical addresses except for one chemist (pharmacy) on Kilbride Road. The Railway Cottage is infamous among the locals as a place where tourists from overseas stay for weeks or months at a time.
Paddy moves from his seat and sits down on the barstool next to me. Two other lads in the pub approach him to say hello and start a conversation. I do my best to mind my business and keep my nose in my book, but Paddy and his group make a couple attempts to include me in their conversation. I eventually get the hint and put my book down to engage in their banter. The three of them talk in-depth about Irish music and how it has impacted them throughout their lives. They take turns telling me to write down the names of all the artists and songs they mention. I am having fun serving the role as their notetaker for the afternoon. In the middle of the conversation, Paddy looks at me and tells me, “Never forget Paddy Finn!”
Thirty minutes passed and the people accompanying Paddy begin to leave Baggot’s to walk to the next pub directly across the street to continue their craic. Paddy continues talking to me and the patient bartender about music, sharing stories of when he played a few instruments in a couple small bands. He goes on to talk about traditional Irish tunes as he orders his fourth or fifth drink. Meanwhile, my first pint of Guinness is still mostly full and beginning to turn lukewarm. I ask him questions about how the town was different when he was a kid and about some of his earliest memories. Paddy goes on to explain his childhood and music, asking me still to take notes.
Paddy finishes his drink and announces he is walking to the Mill House. He asks me if I want to join him and more of his friends down the street. I thank him for the invitation and conversation but decline. He once again tells me, “Never forget Paddy Finn!” The bartender approaches me once Paddy leaves the building and says, “Don’t mind him, he’s no harm to anyone. If anyone ever bothers you, let me know.” I thank the bartender and feel more at ease as I finish off my iced tea. The place is not as lively without Paddy and his group present. I am beginning to feel restless and decide it’s time to get back outside.
I take off from the pub and walk to the Clara bog. I make sudden stops in random spots along the country road to enjoy the scents of nettle and moss. I don’t count my steps this time. The sun is beginning to make its descent as I stroll undisturbed along the bog boardwalk. The only sounds I can hear are the soles of my shoes impacting the path with each step I take. I get ready for another tranquil night alone when I notice I can’t recall what happened throughout the day. I ignore my concern and believe it’s only due to fatigue.
I forgot about Paddy Finn, but not on purpose. Brain fog invades my mind and memory for most of 2019. I don’t remember specific days or events unless I’m reminded. Fortunately for me, Paddy finds me on social media one year later. While messaging him, I suddenly remember that fortuitous day in Clara and the words he told me: “Never forget Paddy Fin!” I tell him via an online message that he did a good job of finding me. He responds, “The internet makes the world so small.” That it does, and I don’t think I’ll forget Paddy Finn again anytime soon!
Lizard's Deviant Travels 