I asked him, ‘Will we head for a walk to the lighthouse? I’ve always wanted to go.’
He responded, ‘Aye, sure it’s up to you. It wasn’t what I had in mind… but if you want to see her, we’ll go.’
My friend and I were walking across the Tom Clarke Bridge in Dublin, and it was there — the red spot on the horizon bisecting Dublin Bay. Quick calculations told us that it would take an hour and a half to walk from Ringsend to the Poolbeg Lighthouse, that famous landmark at the end of Dublin’s Great South Wall. Neither of us could figure out if that meant one-way, or a round trip, but by the time we’d get back, it’d probably be half-time.
We decided to go and see an old friend, The Oarsman, instead. A pint of stout for me, and a cider for my pal. One or two other football fans floated in and out, but not many. This matchday occasion was hardly glamorous. In fact, it was downright depressing: the Republic of Ireland versus North Macedonia for the World Cup Qualifying prize of ‘What Could Have Been’.
Without mentioning it, the phones stayed in our pockets. An unspoken agreement. The conversation was immediately lofty, centring on Tom Holland’s ‘Dominion’ and the claim that Christianity has shaped modern Western civilisation, and how St. Peter’s crusades added a much-needed moral compass to an ancient world of debauchery. Look at us, I thought, two fine scholars altogether.
Then:
‘What about Trump?’
‘Ah, Iran? The whole thing’s wild.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ah now…’
‘What?’
‘Nothin’ ’
‘I know what you’re thinkin’,’ my friend said. ‘You’re thinkin’, “If only we’d have won in Prague, we’d be sitting here, waitin’ on the match.” ’
‘Yeah… ah, f**k it anyway!’ I cried, as the pain from The Spectacular Failure threatened to take hold and consume. We polished off the pints and headed for the stadium, taking the scenic route. This World Cup that we’ve just seen had the potential to feel like that: tedious, slow, ‘never-quite-got-going’. But, for me, it hasn’t been like that. The late nights have been wonderful and addictive. There has been plenty of heavy metal football. Scotland’s utter capitulation was engrossing (“Bleed, bleed, poor country!”). Seeing Croatia oddly grow into the tournament was fascinating (and they were robbed against Portugal, by the way!) Cape Verde’s tale of legitimate contenders, and the inspiration of Pico and Vozinha, was the feel-good factor for us all. I stayed up ‘til half five watching England v Mexico as well, and I’m glad I did; truly one of the best matches I’ve ever seen on the telly, and the night that revealed my true identity as a dirty Anglophile (don’t call the cops). Even though the final was a letdown, the double act of Trumpfantino, caught in the miasma of Argentinian violence, had me nodding in bloodlust at the end. And I’ll say it now – I wish that Argentina had won. To manifest my inner Trump: “Spain? Very boring team. Poor craic.”
***
That night in the Aviva, Caoimhin Kelleher stood in front of us, seagulls circling above him in the dusk, a blue hue clinging to the sky. The smell of curry chips caught my nose, but the belly was full; we’d stopped at The Coachman’s on the way down, just off the M1 by the airport. Oh, what a feed of carvery we’d had: the gravy — great thick black stuff. Roast potatoes that were soft and plentiful. I had dessert as well. And an americano. This is why the walk to the lighthouse had been so appealing and, probably, badly needed.
We’d thought it was ‘Goodbye’ to Famous Seamus Coleman, too, but he’ll stay on for another bit yet. I played on the same pitch as him in an Under-14 GAA challenge match against Killybegs one summer, true story, swear to God.
Afterwards, I picked up a small flag to take home to the wee girl. My pal said, ‘Oh, I must grab one too, or else there’ll be a row.’ We could take our pick in fairness: the crowd (of supposedly 40,000!) had smiled and obliged accordingly during this drab affair, but they’d seen enough.
Outside, a gentleman was becoming irate:
‘I’m not trying to go back inside, I’m trying to get out and onto Lansdowne Road!’, he insisted to the beleaguered steward.
And then, in a firm and terse reply, he was informed: ‘You’re just going to have to follow the crowd out like everyone else, sir… you’re not at the rugby now.’
Not at the rugby? He certainly wasn’t!
***
Walking back to the car, I could see the giant Poolbeg chimneys towering and blinking in the night, with the lonely lighthouse somewhere behind, waiting for another day. Further north, the M1 service station waited. Young children in Ireland tops ran about.
In South Down, the road from Hilltown to Kilcoo has been newly resurfaced, and your tyres glide so smoothly that the friction emits the strangest humming noise — a whine of electricity, from another world, it seems. I swung the car out at Greenan’s corner, and then it was homeward, back through Castlewellan and beyond, to the dark side of the Mournes.
