It was three o clock in the morning when I heard the ominous creak of floorboards from the downstairs living room.
I carefully peeled away the sodden bed sheets and instinctively made to swallow the involuntary heave that followed as my own scent hit me. This has been the way of things since the ‘87 market dip.
I tiptoed slowly across the landing, hugging my dressing gown around me and thinking lurid, feverish thoughts about what was soon to occur.
I made straight for the bathroom and eased the cupboard where I keep the face masks, deep pore cleanser, and shotgun. I slipped the former inside my dressing gown.
I paused, choked on my own odour again, and went back for the gun, ‘in for a penny’ I muttered, and immediately my thoughts drifted to my Secretary’s whereabouts. I wondered whether there was any way she could handle this mess and then whether I was referring to my state of hygiene or the apparent break-in downstairs.
I chuckled gently at my own play and then began to cry deep and sorrowfully into the shoulder of my designer dressing gown. Soft, high quality cashmere wicked away the regret that only a downturn in the market brings.
I carefully peeled away the sodden bed sheets and instinctively made to swallow the involuntary heave that followed as my own scent hit me.
I tentatively tiptoed downstairs, hugging my dressing gown around me and thinking lurid, feverish thoughts about what was soon to occur.
It didn’t take me long to find the culprits. Two hulking men were huddled over my luxury cream leather corner piece discussing the logistics involved in its transportation. I quickly identified these men to be felons of the classical variety – the sort of chaps that might lock you in a wardrobe or give you a playful bonk on the head.
In any case I was in no mood for a one-year suspended sentence and a £34 fine so I lowered my weapon and offered the two lads some hot coffee and a scented bath. They gratefully accepted my offer and there ensued one of the most wonderful evenings of my entire life.
We chatted for what felt like minutes but must have been a considerable number of hours as it was light outside by the time Michael (the leader of the pair) excused himself and retired to my wife’s bedroom. The shock of our initial encounter must have played a part but truthfully, after my chat with Michael and Daniel, I felt as if I had an extra spring in my step and a renewed zest for life. I positively skipped up the stairs to my bedroom that evening, certain that I had made two friendships that would last a lifetime.
When we arrived in Killarney, Daniel’s face was a picture of satisfaction and tranquility.
Fast forward 12 years to the present day and to Ireland, where me and my brother Matthew, joined Daniel and Michael on a cycling trip. We started our journey in Killarney, County Kerry, from where we dodged cement trucks along the Northern section of the Ring of Kerry to Cahersiveen. It rained all day and the roads were extremely busy which made for an utterly miserable experience.
With spirits low in the evening, I suggested that we retire the Ring of Kerry and instead find a more pleasant route to Killarney, away from the main roads. Matthew agreed and promptly plotted a nice 70 km route back via the Balaghisheen, a 5 km, 249 meter ascent which myself and Michael agreed looked splendid. Unfortunately Daniel was in a rather downtrodden state after Fridays exploits, and so he arranged for his grandparents to pick him up and drive him to Killarney with his things. This was a bitter blow to the group but we all wished Daniel well, confident that we would return stronger.
The route to Killarney was glorious with only a few light showers. After conquering the mighty Ballaghisheen, we sheltered from the 90 mph winds behind a rock and gobbled our lunch (a breakfast bap with a filling of mushrooms, hash brown and egg). We even had time to play a quick game of snooker. All those evenings in the working men’s clubs paid off for Michael who comfortably beat myself and my brother 6 frames to 3. After all bets were settled the knave had made a small fortune, and let our tyres down for good measure. We laughed it off, but I could Matthew blamed me for the loss and tried, clumsily, to extort a fair few pounds out of me himself. This lead to quite a heated argument which threatened to overshadow the whole afternoon however, and quite fortunately, we noticed a fellow cyclist had dropped a medium sized banana! We gleefully added it to our own supplies and couldn’t help but feel fate was on our side afterall.
Shortly after our brief interlude we stumbled across an organised bike event, The Ring of the Reeks, which traverses the scenic McGillycuddy Reeks. My brother and I were keen to tag along but Michael was drunk and restless after his win and wanted to get into Killarney as soon as possible to splurge his winnings and gloat in front of the local women.
Matthew was in such a state of fury after back-to-back losses he could only mutter “Ring of Reek” for the best part of 90 minutes.
When we arrived in Killarney, Daniel’s face was a picture of satisfaction and tranquility. The rest had surely done him good and he was in rare spirits. We drank and ate well that night, eagerly awaiting the next day’s cycle to the Dingle.
The day was generally clear and the cycling, while of the leisurely variety, was consistent with few hitches. We arrived at Inch Strand at around 1 o clock where we ate our sausage and bacon bap on the seafront, before following the coast round to Minard Castle where we met a kindly old Irish couple who offered us 12 Irish pounds to take Daniel on as a full-time farm hand. Although Michael was extremely keen we politely declined and continued our journey through Lispole to the Dingle where we rested a little before having a few ales at Dick Macks and a fine meal of boxty and coddle at Fentons.
Daniel decided that, instead of taking the scenic route we had planned, he would like to take the path of least resistance on our final day of cycling. It was therefore agreed that Michael (by this time referred to only as ‘The Beast’) would accompany him back via the motorway while my brother and I cycled around the Dingle Peninsula and took a slightly longer route home.
The following day, after filling our saddle bags with mashed potato and cabbage, we took to the road. The scenery around the Dingle is truly magnificent, with stunning vistas, picturesque hamlets and abandoned villages. We made short work of it, barely stopping to take in so much as a glance at anything other than our weary legs endlessly spinning round and round. After returning to the Dingle, we had a coffee, photographed a young Crow (which had soft downy feathers and would surely have made a nice pet) before setting off for Killarney. Before long, we had started up Connors Pass, a rather brutal 7 km 402 m ascent. We stopped at the top for a handful of mash before embarking on the treacherous descent. From there, we cantered along at a nice steady pace, stopping only once in the village of Blennerville to swallow our breakfast baps (bacon, sausage, egg) and to warm our blood in the sun. From there, we made our way uneventfully through Batterfield to Killarney where our journey ended.
We discovered The Beast and his stooge in a local ale house, and drank together late into the night, swaddled in bonhomie, irish folk music and deep satisfaction. I had to use a very expensive, high quality cashmere handkerchief to dry my eyes, but, this time, these were tears of a different kind.*
*In the passing 12 years, financially, I have found my feet again and clear well above the average household post-tax. This allows me to enjoy some of the finer things in life, e.g. carbon bicycles, cashmere handkerchiefs, and careless stakes at the snooker table.