I’m exploring a village in County Roscommon, a quaint little place
on the banks of the Shannon. I’m strolling around, trying to catch
the atmosphere like I’d try to catch a tan. It’s Summer, there’s no traffic,
a few boats on the river, some hall doors are open, the shops are quiet,
if a bee stirred that would be the height of it.
It doesn’t take long to get around the whole village.Countryside laps
to every backdoor, the church on its ground is silent as a tombstone,
the Shannon drags itself painstakingly by, and the sun’s heat has settled itself down
among the clouds. In the fields the hay is saved, somewhere a cow is yawning;
and an old man drives past in a tractor, going three miles an hour.
I know this, because he is half way to the shop, when I decide to make a race of it.
There is quarter of a mile at most, straight road, and, walking, I’m already gaining
on him. He’s past half way, moving incredibly slowly. I’ve covered half the distance
between us. He’s three quarters way, I’m over half way. I’m almost level, almost level
when I reach the shop.Later I discover, locals call him The Terrorist.