As Time Went By
It was a spring day—sometime in April, I think—when Jack once again took me back to his home. This time, we brought Julian along. Jack picked him up once a week from his former girlfriend. I knew almost nothing about her, and I never dared to ask. I simply waited, silently and patiently, hoping one day he might speak of her on his own.
The weather was perfect for kite flying. In the garden next door, their dog Eddie—a scrappy little mutt with boundless energy—darted back and forth like a bullet. We prepared a paper kite, Julian and I holding tightly onto the string, while Jack stood ready, waiting for just the right moment. He gave us instructions to hold steady as he dashed across the garden to send the kite soaring. And that’s exactly what happened. Julian and I stood near the house, watching as Jack sprinted full-speed down the garden, only to stumble near the end and vanish into the tall grass.
We both burst into uncontrollable laughter. The only thing visible was a tuft of his hair sticking out above the green. That was Jack. When he finally stood up, brushing clumps of grass from his clothes, he wore an exaggerated pout—annoyed that we’d laughed, but secretly enjoying the moment.
On another occasion, he took us to a beach near Wexford. It was stunning. The drive took nearly an hour and a half, but the reward was a long stretch of sand framed by rugged cliffs and tufts of dry grass. Seagulls wheeled freely above us, and the rhythmic crash of waves lent a sense of calm. Julian and I set about building a sandcastle. Though the sun was shining, the wind carried a sharp chill. Jack gently applied sunscreen to his son's face, placed a cap on his head, and wandered off toward the shoreline.
We’d barely finished the foundation of our castle when Jack returned, declaring that it was time to leave.
“But why? We’ve only just arrived,” I protested, unable to hide my disappointment.
“He shouldn’t be out in this kind of wind for long. It’s already getting too cold,” he replied tersely.
He tried to coax Julian into leaving, taking his hand. But Julian resisted, sat back down, and continued building as if Jack hadn’t spoken at all. As Jack grew firmer in tone, his son grew equally stubborn.
“But I want to build the castle with Teri!” Julian said with conviction.
At that moment, I noticed Jack’s expression harden. Not wanting to become the cause of a conflict, I gently intervened.
“You know what? Let’s go home to grandma and grandpa. We can build a different castle there. What do you think?”
Julian looked up at me quietly, searching my eyes as if for reassurance. Then he smiled, took my hand, and softly replied, “Okay.”
He walked back with us like a little lamb, not uttering another word the entire way.
That afternoon, we played football in the garden. Jack, Sean, Julian, myself, and of course Eddie, who gleefully snatched the ball from under our feet at every chance. We ran until we dropped into the grass, laughing and exhausted. But when Jack tried to pass the ball to his son, he was met with an unexpected refusal.
“No, I don’t want to play with you, Dad!” Julian said, turning firmly toward me.
“And who do you want to play with, then?” Jack asked, bewildered.
“I want to play with Teri!”
And there it was again. I had no idea why Julian had taken such a liking to me. But it felt as though—perhaps even unknowingly—he was trying to communicate something deeper. I couldn't help but feel for Jack. I imagined it must have hurt, though he said nothing. That simple, spontaneous moment from a child struck a chord in me. There had to be something beneath it.
As time passed, I gradually became accustomed to the Irish way of life. I met so many wonderful people and found myself falling in love with Bagenalstown—a picturesque little village where everyone seemed to know one another. The customs were new to me, but comforting. Once someone recognized you, they'd greet you on the street the very next day. It was a far cry from life in the big city, where not even a stray dog might give you notice. Everything here was more intimate.
The local shop became a familiar routine. We had our own butcher, a small bank, a few boutiques and a newsagent. There was a pizzeria, a cozy café, and even a small library. But it was the riverwalk that truly captivated me. I spent countless hours there, watching the slow, peaceful current. The sky would cast ever-changing shades across the surface, and the water sparkled as if made of silver. Majestic trees lined the path, and local families would sometimes come and sit beneath them.
Even the grass seemed ten shades greener than what I knew from home.
A railway ran through Bagenalstown. The train passed daily, taking passengers to Carlow, Dublin, or Kilkenny. I adored those rides. I would gaze out the window, watching pastures blur by, dotted with horses, cows, and sheep. The landscape shifted constantly—from sprawling fields to the distant slopes of Mount Leinster and the Blackstairs Mountains. The Irish air felt entirely different—cool, damp, yet strikingly fresh. At times, I could even smell the sea, as if it had carried itself inland from the coast. The rain was warm and fragrant, as though steeped in wildflowers. And after the rain, the world always felt reborn.
This village, without effort, had rooted itself in my heart. It felt as though I had lived there forever. Summer sunsets were something magical—Skies set ablaze in hues of orange and deep gold, while ivory clouds drifted slowly across the horizon. After a storm, rainbows often appeared—sometimes even two at once. I always took that as a sign of double luck.
On the river, flocks of ducks and swans floated gently by. The whole scene felt almost impossibly romantic—if you looked at it through the eyes of a child. And in many ways, I still did.
I had grown fond of Irish culture: their Celtic legends, their fiercely independent spirit, their love of music, and their deep connection to the land. I loved Ireland with all my being. Though my job was far from ideal—physically demanding and poorly paid—I was thankful for every moment I had there.
Marketa, by contrast, remained withdrawn, indifferent to everything around her. It saddened me, but in time, I came to accept her ways. She was simply different, and perhaps never truly felt Ireland the way I did.
I, on the other hand, often joined the traditional music sessions at Lawlor’s pub, where a group of older local men would play. Mike Byrne, an eighty-year-old gentleman, was the liveliest among them. He played the tin whistle with the grace and charm of someone half his age. He taught many of the local youth how to play both the whistle and the bodhrán. He had even taught Jack, once upon a time. I tried learning myself—bought my own whistle and gave it a shot—but my lack of skill was evident. My attempts produced little more than squeaks, and I quickly gave up.
Now and then, I visited Mr. Long’s pub. He always greeted me with warmth and kindness. Sometimes he’d sit beside me during lunch for a brief chat before returning to his duties. He owned the entire establishment, so his attention felt like an honor. When he was too busy, I would walk his massive German shepherd, Sheeba. She was a towering creature who would pull me along like a rag doll on a leash.
Weekends were lively. The local youth would flood into Phelan’s, so packed it was nearly impossible to breathe—especially when a band was playing. Others headed to Carlow, drawn to the city’s vibrant nightlife.
But I also witnessed Ireland’s darker side—frequent street fights and senseless brawls, often ending in blood. The Irish are fiercely combative, down to their core. I saw it firsthand. More than once, I found myself caught between fists, trying to pull people apart. But it was hopeless. One night, I was in the middle of a brutal fight, desperately trying to separate ten men, when bystanders yelled at me to stop—pleading with me to get out of there. They couldn’t watch. They were afraid for my life.
And yes, I was afraid. But doing something—anything—always felt better than standing idly by and watching people destroy each other.
That was life in Bagenalstown. At times, achingly beautiful. At others, undeniably raw.
copyright©2025
Žádné komentáře:
Okomentovat