Short Story: An Irish Sojourn

By JIM PURCELL

      I was staying in Clare, Ireland for a visit when I was 14. My parents were not with me, so when I arrived at Shannon Airport, a security man wearing a really nice sweater took me into the security office and called my parents back in Howell, New Jersey.

  I gave him the number and he talked to my Dad. "Are you sure you want to let your boy stay over here by himself? Someone could knock him over the head and there it is."

   Whatever my Dad said allayed the fears of the man, who turned to me and said, "Well then, go about doing whatever you were doing, I suppose. If you ask me, I think it's a terrible idea but that's it. Good luck, boy."

   There were two things that hallmarked my three-week visit to the Emerald Isle: one was a visit to Clare's Abbey through a bog (which I did not know was a bog until I was ankle-deep in mud) and two, a terrible case of food-poisoning from which I wished to die.

   Clare's Abbey was the furthest thing from a tourist trap. Of course, it was 1981 when I was there and I have no idea if it's changed since then. I can't really envision a gift shop for the place or a sweatshirt reading "I Survived Clare's Abbey." If there were any 'Clare's Abbey action figures,' I am fairly certain they would be small dolls of ticked off monks.

   The abbey was set off by itself down a lonely, dirt country road. It was not especially large, but it was gated up with some pretty high, gothic fencing.

   When I started that day, I woke up at the West County Inn about six o'clock, had breakfast and asked the staff if thee were any 'castles or stuff like that nearby.' I was told by a maid, "Well, it's not much but there's Clare's Abbey. It's out in the country on the other side of town." I asked the maid, Bridget, if it was famous. Bridget was in the middle of folding something when she said, candidly, "Not particularly," and returned to her work.

   Irish people speak really fast, at least that is what I think. I couldn't understand but a few words from some of them. It was an overcast day, but it was nice getting out and seeing things. I asked at least a half dozen people about where to find this country road, picking out a word or two here and there. Finally, I encountered a gray haired Catholic priest in a twead jacket and floppy hat walking along the cobbled street in town. Again, I asked about finding the road. He spoke really fast. So, I asked the older gentleman to slow down like three times. With him speaking very slow and attempting patience I finally caught "...down the street behind the thatch-roofed school..." I was pretty sure he thought I was slow-witted.

   I started walking down the dirt road and after a bit I saw the outline of the abbey. There wasn't a soul in sight. I guess the locals were sort of over the whole abbey thing. The road was kind of winding so I thought it would be quicker if I walked across this green, open field. The abbey was something like a quarter-of-a-mile away. So...with my new, white Nike sneakers and only pressed jeans, I start to walk across the field. At first the ground was fine. and it was a lovely walk. It threatened to rain, but I was 14...and some rain wasn't a big deal.

   The ground started giving away a little bit at a time until I stepped on a spot that gave all the way. I went into the mud to about mid-calf. Until that moment, I really never knew what a 'bog' was. I got the picture all at once. By the time I reached the abbey my sneakers were destroyed, along with my socks, and the bottom of my jeans were caked in mud. But, I was damned if I wasn't going to that cursed abbey after all the trouble.

   When I got there, the place was full of ravens -- really big ones. And, they were scary and practically screaming at me (presumably to leave). In addition, there was a high black, metal fence in open areas of the abbey and signs saying "Keep Out." Being American, and one from New Jersey at that, I yelled profanities back at the murder of crows and told them where to go and threw some pebbles their way. Most of the crows flew away when I did this, and those left didn't seem particularly interested in me. Then, I climbed the fence (it was climbable) and surveyed the small abbey. Actually, it was the most unimpressive abbey I have ever seen. I'd watched enough movies to see some really big abbeys (e.g. Robin Hood). This one looked only liveable for one or two monks -- tops. It wasn't vey nice. It occurred to me that if monks really screwed up they might be sent here.

  After ten minutes or so the crows came back and were pissed. They basically surrounded me along the stone walls of the abbey and crowed menaingly, being very clear about them not being my besties. I got scared and wasn't even sure they'd let me hop the fence again. Inevitably, I did hop the fence, but the ticked off crows didn't stop their complaints about me until I was about 100 feet down the road. Then...as the cherry on this sundae of wonder...it started to rain. It wasn't light small rain. It was big stinging rain.

   I walked through town looking a muddy sight and drew a good share of odd looks. By the time I finally arrived back to the hotel it stopped raining. It only stopped raining when I was crossing the hotel's parking lot a few feet from the door...of course. Despite it being a pretty terrible day, I really enjoyed the little adventure overall. I don't know why I thought that, I just did.

   A few days after my abbey experience I had breakfast at the restaurant in the hotel. I was the first one in for breakfast that day and sat at the counter across from the cook. We were the only two there at 6:30 a.m. The cook was a young man of probably 20 or so. We chatted some and I ordered mutton broth and some bread...it looked good. But, it wasn't. There was nothing good -- at all -- about that broth. It tasted good enough, though. So, when I started getting very sick within the next few hours, it was a real surprise.

   The food poisoning was notable because it was the sickest I have ever been in my life. As I write this I am 52 and have had my fair share of 'sick' during my life. But, nothing ever approached the food poisoning I had in Ireland. Not only were all sorts of things coming out of every orifice I had, but the headache and body aches were so constant and heavy that I could barely crawl out of bed and across the floor to use the bathroom.
 
   I remember contemplating that if someone put a nice, cool gun barrel at my temple I would be glad if they squeezed the trigger rather than go through anymore of that agony. Anything I put in my body, whether it was food or water, came out in the harshest possible ways from a variety of places. The maids dutifully cleaned the room and gave me fresh sympathy, water and lots of towels when they were in. There were no doctors involved and I just called my parents enough to say that I was alive and thinking of them. I said I was thinking of them, but in reality I was just very sick.

   About a day before I was scheduled to go home, I got better. I stayed indoors and played it safe with food and beverages but still boarded the plane home frail and weak. People asked me about my visit to Ireland, and I have always glossed over it '...Wonderful place, really. So lovely....'

   In all, I learned two things during my Irish sojourn: 1. Don't cross random open fields in Ireland, and 2. Never, ever order mutton broth from a menu.