Today, we met our first Pilgrim walking with a donkey. This young Swiss lad had walked to Santiago, with his donkey, all the way from Basle and was now walking back home! It was going to take him over a year to do this. Not long afterwards we met another Pilgrim walking with equine company. He was a Spanish guy who was walking with his ”family” – a Shetland Pony named ”Pearlita” and a parrot named ”China“. The parrot was travelling in a cage on the donkey’s back. On one of the photos you can also see a brolly sticking out of one of the donkey’s packs. There is no shortage of characters out here on The Camino.

I saw the Japanese contortionist again today; she’s still blanking me.

                   Pearlita and China

Doctor Dan – I think I’ve got some sort of Dutch Elm Family Tree disease. After talking to grandpa Anthony on Tuesday about compiling the O’Connell ancestry report, I came away with about a dozen names and many useful detecting clues. By Wednesday evening, I had 101 names in the O’C tree. Then the fun(gus) spread. When I did a head count on Thursday night, I had 430 directly related descendants of Anthony’s granddad in the O’Connell tree (or is it a forest?). They’re turning up everywhere. New York, Brisbane, Belfast, London and even in Accrington!!

The best part is that two descendants living in the Bronx married into the Italian Capone family. We always knew that Con was a musical gangsta, but now some more research is needed to locate his relationship to dear old Uncle Al, the infamous tax-dodger.

Saw your cousin Dick in the PO, and he sends his regards. I told him all about your encounter with the donkey with the brolly. He says that we have enough donkeys in the parish. Very true. There’s two in the field just by our place – or is he referring to Hughie and Maurice? Anyway, he says that he would be in touch but he’s not so good with computers. This is worrying. Dick’s day-job is dishing out Euros as a clerk in the South Sligo Credit Union, using a COMPUTER. Perhaps this is why some of our more prudent parish OAP’s still invest their savings at the Credit Union and never seem to run out of credit. An Irish Bank cannot claim back over-payments. There is no economic crisis around these parts – so long as you’ve got the price of a pint.

Big traffic incident in the village. Was it not on the Reuters feed? I was dawdling down the hill through the village in my people-carrier (or van, as the locals call it) when old Touch-up Tommy pulled out of his hiding spot down the side of Quinns on his old New Holland. I had the right of way. Main road. Thirty cars a day. Tommy just steamed out, straight in front of me. No head turn – another stroke victim. I slammed on, having been doing 20mph. So did Tommy doing even less. Major catastrophe averted. He owes me a Guinness.

Let’s not talk about cross-Channel soccer this Saturday. The slump and Embarrassment of Ewood continues.

Best laugh of the weekend has been provided by the fact that the TV quiz show which is the antithesis of University Challenge now has its own Irish version. Yes – I’m talking about Family Fortunes – and over here it’s presented by Mincing Alan from gaytime TV, who soon looked like he wished he’d never accepted the contract.

I am sure that the producers rigged this first showing by asking some questions which were bound to draw cringe-worthy answers. The first question was “name a part of the body which has three letters”. Easy one to start us off. There’s the main limbs and a few facial features, and The Meehans from Limerick did manage “arm” and got control of the board. As we eagerly waited for the bravest contestants to mutter “bum” and “tit”, we were alarmed to hear the second Meehan’s proud answer. “Knee” she said.

Next intellectual question was, “name something you can smell but can’t see”. The Meehans dove in again with “perfume”. Nice one. They also managed “gas”, and we started to titter and cringe …. but the Meehans could go no further. So it was over to the Mahers from Dublin to STEAL….

“What can you smell but not see?” asks mincin’ Alan again. Old Jimmy Maher had no problem. “Yer fart”, he says. Then up the line we went. Fart – a fart – a fart, they all say. Alan gives the Maher captain the choice, “You can have a fart or give us a different smell”. “No, Alan, I’ll have to have a fart.”
“Okay, let’s see if your fart is up there”. Bingo. Second most popular answer. “And your fart has won you a bonus prize – a four star hotel weekend break in Sligo town”. I just wish Alan had thrown in “complete with colonic irrigation spa treatment”.

The Mahers didn’t make it to the Big Money finale, but Alan waved them off saying that he loved their farts. The Friday night debut show was so good they repeated on Saturday evening at prime time, up against Premier League soccer on RTE. It was no contest.

Gearoid, yet again you’ve got us in stitches – which is what some of my fellow walkers will soon need if the foot blisters don’t heal. 

          My Left Foot

A great night’s sleep. I’ve just eaten a gargantuan breakfast, feel refreshed and ready to hit the road again. Before leaving I’m going to visit the Cathedral opposite the hotel. This town is the place where ”The Miracle of The Cock” occurred (stop sniggering at the back).

The story goes that in the 14th century, a German 18-year old named Hugonell, from Xanten, goes on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela with his parents. A Spanish girl at the hostel where they were staying falls in love with him; Hugonell denies her advances. Angry at this, the girl hides a silver cup in the German’s bag and informs the authorities that the young man has taken it. Hugonell is sentenced to death on the gallows, in accordance with the laws of Alfonso X of Castille.
Mourning the death of his son, the parents sadly decide to examine their son’s body, still hanging on the gallows, but suddenly they hear his voice. He tells them that Santo Domingo de la Calzada has kept him alive.

His parents quickly go to see the magistrate in order to announce that a miracle has taken place. The magistrate, who is at the time eating dinner remarks: “Your son is as alive as this cock and hen that I am about to eat” – and at that moment, the two birds jump from the plate and begin to sing and crow happily.
In the cathedral of Santo Domingo there is a hen house worked in stone, inside of which, for the last 500 years, there has always been kept a cock and a hen.

Great story Dan. Sounds like a load of bull, with a bit of cock thrown in. Cock & bull. Just like the miraculous stories regurgitated in our local tavern for the benefit of disbelieving pilgrims, passing through.

I’ve been very busy over the last 36 hours. Sue has volunteered me to compile the O’Connell family tree. It’s Con’s 50th on the 18th, with a surprise (I don’t think so) party organised at the Cock on the 19th. I made an appointment to consult with Anthony & Maura, the parents of Con, both in their late 70′s but fit as fiddles in mind and body. That is a help to any genealogist. A planned one hour consultation yesterday turned into two hours as Anthony told me many great family history tales – and then he brought out the Powers Gold Label. I had been determined to stay ‘dry’ for a few days after the exertions of the Killybacside Olympics, but a few pushy and insistent mentions of “Ah, g’wan” saw my Lentan intentions fall at the first temptation.

Got home (eventually) and got the Family Tree growing vigorously today. Then old Uncle John got a thirst at about 4pm and jumped in my car as I went to the PO. I couldn’t leave him on his own, could I? We met Joerg the German in the Cock; a lovely man with wild blond hair. A keen surfer and fisherman. He has eight rod-caught wild Moy salmon in his freezer at his remote home up the mountain. This big – they are. The funny thing is that Joerg the Kraut speaks with the most refined English accent in the parish. He was brought up somewhere posh in SW England. It is quite strange to listen to Joerg have a conversation with old Hughie in the corner by the fire. Hughie, born and bred in Sligo, talks pure indecipherable gobbledygook, whilst Joerg talks like Prince William on an Irish pub crawl.

This English language barrier led young Paddy, the barman, to criticize my Lancs-cum-Irish dialect. He reckons that I say the word ‘look’ in an amusing way, to him. I say “loook” and he says “luck”. I argued that my pronunciation was correct, and he had been influenced by US TV and a year or two of Aussie emigration. I asked him to say, “Go take a look in the brook for the fish on the hook”. It became go take a luck in the bruck for the fish on the huck. I conceded that my Wheelton-born mother would still say – go take a loook in the brooook for the fish on the hoooook – whilst my softened version (if not socialising around Chorley) is now – go take a looook in the bruck for the fish on the huck. Paddy thought he had won the argument. But I asked him – would you woo a Chinese lesbian, or wuh her? Point taken, he said, but he’d prefer to foooook her. “Nice one,” I said, “That’s really cul” [coool].

Joerg lawfed, rather politely, and ventured, “My word. That’s one for Gearoid’s next buck.”

The Caged Cock and Hen in the Cathedral Santo Domingo de la Calzada

I had a strange encounter yesterday when I went in the village shop for my daily nicotine fix. For a while, I thought our ever-helpful ‘shop-girl’ Bridie had overdone it on the home-brewed mountain dew. I casually spoke my normal phrase of “20 Bensons please” but she replied with words which sounded like, “D’ya want 20 or 23?”
I tried not to make her feel embarrassed, so I responded with a politely repeated “20 Bensons please”.
“D’ya want 20 or 23?”
“Er ….. great win for Europe in the Ryder Cup. Now Bridie – 20 Bensons please”.
“Oh, the golf was great. D’ya want 23?”
This awkward conversation went back and forth for some time, until Bridie reached into the hidden ciggie shelf below the counter and produced a box of Bensons which made me feel light-headed. It was all out of proportion as though someone had been tampering with my monitor screen ratio settings. It was a packet of 23 B&H.

It turns out that the tobacco pushers in Ireland have started to produce packets of 23 which are priced at a handy ten euros, instead of the awkward eight-sixty-something for 20. I don’t know what the anti-smoking lobby will make of this when they find out. It is clear to me that the Irish government is happy to raise more revenue by subliminally enticing the nation’s smokers to increase their daily intake by 15%. This recession-busting policy is certainly working already in the pubs. I am definitely drinking 15% more lager since the price was dropped to the more competitive price of 3 euros per pint.

So Danny, if you get a wheezing old Irish fella in your surgery and you ask him the obligatory, “how many cigarettes do you smoke per day?”, then do not be surprised when he answers with the mathematically baffling “Oh, I try to stick to 23 a day”.

It was a tiring day for me too yesterday. A quick teatime tipple just about got me over the line. I fell asleep when gay Marcus started taking an interest in Maria’s breasts [Corrie on telly] – but I woke up in time for the one-year anniversary edition of Midwest Radio’s TV Show. Sounds daft, but it’s true. Channel 191 on Sky at 10pm each Monday. A very popular show, especially with lonesome ex-pats. They play videos by ‘legendary’ bands which you never knew existed. The weekly highlight is always Tom Hennigan’s Culture Corner slot, filmed down at his old farm near Killasser. Last night he had us in the re-constructed schoolhouse single classroom, explaining why he got regularly whacked by the vicious master using an array of gruesome (preserved) weapons. Something to do with only having six spoons in the cutlery drawer for a family of fourteen kids, so Tom only ever got his morning porridge during the second sitting – and a whack from the schoolmaster for being late in class after the barefoot walk from Rubble to Killasser. No cosy school runs in the Mitsubishi 4×4 in them days. Makes the Christian Brothers at John Rigby seem as gentle as a Moorslayer.

Ta-ta

Ged , you are becoming famous amongst my fellow Pilgrims as I read out each of your comments to them . Their next ”pilgrimage” will be to Killybacside at this rate .

Groggy start to the week, Dan. Up about 4 hours after you. The local festivities are more exhausting than your stroll in the countryside.

We started our Sunday listening to Mass on the radio. We had no choice. Uncle John has it on “level 11″ on the transistor dial in his granny flat. The hymn singers being broadcast from a church in County Waterford were particularly atrocious today. And the Lord be with you too ….

Then we headed into Tubber for the traditional roast dinner slap-up at Murphy’s Hotel. Sustenance (and a lager refresher) was needed. It was going to be a long day. We chatted with Jackie Dougan at the bar; the retired blind barber. Well – he’s not 100% blind, but he wears extra dark glasses like Roy Orbison and gets helped across the main road. This didn’t affect his popular hairdressing trade for the old men of the parish. Most had very little hair to trim, and Jackie just made a noise with the scissors behind their heads. Never needed to sweep up. The old folk only went in for the chatter. Jackie is/was the local correspondent for the Sligo Champion, so he knows all the scandal.

Next a quick visit to Jamesons old folks’ residential home to catch up with a few old-timers who have fallen by the wayside since previous memorable drinkfests. Sadly most were like sedated zombies. That’s why I’d never do hard drugs. You miss all the fun of drinking yourself into a sleepy stupor. The Jamesons residents just go from lucid to dozing, slurring buffoons 30 minutes after the pill trolley comes round. They miss all the best bit in the middle of controlled alcohol-poisoning. We left a horrendously loud TV room showing the build-up to the replayed Hurling Final on “level 11+1″ when all our former bar-room colleagues were asleep. What an atmosphere they created.

A quick jaunt back down the Ballina Road got us safely into Quinn’s Bar in the village, right on time for the big match from Croke Park being shown on large dual flat screens. Our brave Connacht representatives, Galway, sank without trace again – dejavoodoo – but it didn’t stop the partying. The match became The Henry Shefflin Show, yet again. For the uninitiated, he’s arguably Kilkenny’s and Ireland’s greatest-ever hurler. A magician. The rapid scoring and complicated points system in hurling makes for entertaining viewing. At many times during an enthralling first half, lots of the local sheep farmers hadn’t got a clue what the real score was – or even which team was winning. Loud arguments often break out as the better mathematicians demonstrate their adding up skills. Don’t even ask about playing 501 darts in the South Sligo pub league. Numerical take-aways are very troublesome. The Dead Pigeon pub has applied for an extension to its darts scoreboard. There just isn’t enough room for the complicated sums, combined with piss-poor throwing. Getting a treble twenty can be headline news in the Champion’s sports pages.

With all hope lost late on, a Galway defender lashed out with his hurley stick and nearly took the head off Sir Henry, and got red-carded. ‘Black’ Paki O’Hara disagreed with the ref’s correct decision and exclaimed that “you wouldn’t even get thrown out of the night-club in Charlestown for that assault”. Another wag retorted with, “Yeah – but you wouldn’t get served in the kebab shop after if you did it to Fryer Fran from Iran”. The only sober man in the pub, barman Liam Quinn on Lucozade, observed that the Galway thug “couldn’t knock a fart out of a snipe”.

The hurling ended just in time for the first tee-offs in Chicago. After a few more one’s for the road (and complimentary sausages and uncertain bits of chicken), I decided to head for the sanctuary of my own settee. No-one really expected the Miracle of Medinah to unfold over the next five hours. Probably the best live TV sports action ever, especially if you pressed the red button and listened to the US commentators slipping nooses around their necks. My newly-bought week’s supply of lager in my private cooler cabinet is now all but depleted. Might have to volunteer to do the big shop at Tesco’s in Swineford early this week.

The late-night transatlantic celebrations determine that the closing ceremony of the Killybacward Drinking Olympics will have to be postponed for at least 24 hours. Hair of the dogs will be called for this evening, I’m sure (to be sure). No worries though. We are not saddened. Crippled Maurice Mahon has asked if there could be a paraplegic Olympian contest throughout the coming week as we await upcoming diary events. Next weekend it’s the 18th birthday bash for Tullymoy’s only punk-cum-rapper, Crowin’ Eoin – son of Bernie who himself cannot even speak an understandable word of English due to the effects of drinking Guinness like it’s Evian water. Our local celebrity DJ, Harry the Horse-Box, will be at the turntables, most likely in one of his drag queen outfits. Crowin’s Eoin will bang out a few ditties with his new band, The Crowbags – and Bernie has promised to make a speech on the mike. This should be the highlight.

Must go, and do some work. Funds getting low. Enjoy your stroll. Proud of you – but watch your wallet with a lad from Tallaght on your tail.