Chapter 52 - Hibernia



I cannot claim to know much about anything, particularly in the case of the island of Hibernia, but I know it is beautiful, and reputed to be so, both in the North and the South. Twenty or so years ago, some of the island seemed largely untouched by man. As Dad drove through the country roads, we would only see the occasional car fly past us at incredible speeds. I was unsure if there was a set speed limit on Hibernia’s narrow lanes, but it was apparent that nobody other than my father, was driving at less than sixty miles an hour. In the night, the fast cars' back lights, were like fireflies that disappeared beyond the trees in a millisecond. There were other interesting visions in Hibernia’s night-time. We once saw an abandoned burning caravan on the roadside. "Bet they're uninsured," Dad said. 

Molly and Dad would often visit Kathleen. There were very few signposts in Kathleen’s part of rural Hibernia, so Dad would rely on Molly’s guidance. When they reached Kathleen's house, which she shared with her husband, it became customary for all to visit a pub across the road, and drink Guinness until last orders; or join a lock-in, if possible. I once had a chance to accompany the group. That night, when we left the pub and returned to Kathleen's house, Molly stood outside with me as I tried to examine the almost pitch-black landscape. There were no streetlights, just the light from the house, and the pub. Molly lit a cigarette. I joined her. 

Despite Hibernia’s beauty, certain parts of the island have witnessed bloodshed. Statistics from various sources, reveal that over 3,500 lives were taken during The Troubles, and 52 percent of those were civilians, both Protestant and Catholic. 

"This is IRA country you know. They are said to train here," Molly told me that evening. Whether Molly’s comment was true, or a yarn that she felt compelled to tell me, in order to observe my reaction, I will never know. 

"Should I be worried?" 

"How the fuck should I know? I’m a Mormon," Molly replied, quite abruptly. 

"Do you panic when you're near a British army barracks? I know I don't." 

"I can think of better places to be." 

"The foot-soldiers, on either side, particularly at the start of The Troubles, were poor young people. Or boy scouts, as someone once described them. Be they Catholic or Protestant, I believe both groups have been conned by some powerful people. 

“Anyway, times are changing, they’ve got Blair and Clinton sorting things out now. They’re good-looking men aren’t they. I would, if it weren’t for yer dad.” 
Dad slipped out to see us, “I bet the people of twenty-first century Northern Ireland will set a good example for the rest of the world,” he said.

We put out our cigarettes, and entered the house. Father Ted was on the television. My father told me that most Irish households constantly had Father Ted on, and I believed him. 

After a few hours of the great comedy, we returned to Molly and Dad’s rented farmhouse on the edge of a quagmire, with a copse of fir trees behind it. For a short while, their stay there was idyllic, but this ceased. Dad thought that he would be able to ply his trade on the island as an independent businessman, but again he was greeted with disinterest. Perhaps there was too much competition in a then booming economy.

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