Today is All
Saints Day. I don’t believe I qualify; yet. Today was the start of my training
for some marathon in the far distant future. What to do? The Prodigal decided
to take a walk to Mosstown Harbour, Kenagh just to stretch the legs. I brought
China, my faithful hound on the trip just for moral support. China has reached
the ripe old age of 17 dog years and this equates to 100 years if he were
human. Sometimes I believe he is more human than myself. At any rate if he can
do it so can I! We reached Mosstown Bridge after less than 2 hours which is a
distance of 7 miles. It took about the same time to return but the leg muscles
were complaining. Not about speed for the next couple of months; endurance.
The
walk to Kenagh is ‘All along the banks of the Royal Canal’. The song of the
same name was made famous by The Dubliners and was penned by Brendan Behan in
1954 and first sung by the author himself as an intro to his play “The Quare
Fellow”. The song is used to introduce the play, a story about the
occurrences in a prison (in real life Mountjoy Prison where Behan had once been a guest) on a day a convict is due to be
executed. The triangle in the title refers to the large metal triangle which
was the daily alarm clock in Mountjoy Prison to rouse the rascals. ("The
Auld Triangle went Jingle Jangle"). The triangle still hangs in the jail
on a metal gate. It is no longer used, though the hammer to beat it hangs
beside it. History lesson for today over.
November always reminds me of my Auld Fella. A complex man and more. His
name was Edward and it’s fair to say that he was more Hyde than Jekyll. Not
unlike myself the old man was a martyr for the gargle and could be very
difficult when unduly under the influence. Unpredictable is an understatement
when applied to him when he was ferrying whiskey or porter, or more often than
not, both.
He was born in 1922 and lived to be a remarkable seventy two years
considering his lifestyle. Hugely intelligent without education; formula for
frustration. In his later years he spent repetitive countless hours with his
right hand propping his chin and fondling a Sweet Afton just thinking,
thinking, thinking. His great love was strong ‘tay’ liberally laced with John
Power’s whiskey. At the start of day it was mainly Lyons tea with a dash of the
Crature but as the day progressed there was always a juxtaposition of content.
Curiously, each November, the old man would take the pledge and go ‘on the dry’
for the holy souls. If they exist they have probably acknowledged his sacrifice
on many occasions since he joined them.
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