to myself, it’s more pleasure and gratitude you’d have from my company than you’d have maybe from many a gentleman you’d meet riding or driving a car.’
By this time we had reached a wayside public house, where he was evidently going with his can, so, as I did not wish to part with him so soon, I asked him to come in and take something with me. When we went into the little bar-room, which was beautifully clean, I asked him what he would have. He turned to the publican:
‘Have you any good whisky at the present time?’ he said.
‘Not now; nor at any time,’ said the publican, ‘we only keep bad; but isn’t it all the same for the likes of you that wouldn’t know the difference?’
After prolonged barging he got a glass of whisky, took off his hat before he tasted it, to say a prayer for my future, and then sat down with it on a bench in the corner.
I was served in turn, and we began to talk about horses and racing, as there had been races in Arklow a day or two before. I alluded to some races I had seen in France, and immediately the publican’s wife, a young woman who had just come in, spoke of a visit she had made to the Grand Prix a few years before.
‘Then you have been in France?’ I asked her.
’For eleven years,’ she replied.
’Alors vous parlez français, Madame?’
’Mais oui, Monsieur,’ she answered with pure intonation.
We had a little talk in French, and then the old man got his can filled with porter – the evening drink for a party of reapers who were working on the hill – bought a pennyworth of sweets and went back down the road.
‘That’s the greatest old rogue in the village,’ said the publican, as soon as he was out of hearing. ‘He’s always making up to all who pass through the place, and trying what he can get out of them. The other day a party told me to give him a bottle of XXX porter he was after asking for. I just gave him the dregs of an old barrel we had finished, and there he was, sucking in his lips, and saying it was the finest drink ever he tasted, and that it was rising to his head already, though he’d hardly a drop of it swallowed. Faith in the end I had to laugh to hear the talk he was making.’
A little later I wished them good evening and started again on my walk, as I had two mountains to cross.
At a Wicklow Fair
❖
The Place and the People
A year or two ago I wished to visit a fair in County Wicklow, and as the buying and selling in these fairs are got through very early in the morning I started soon after dawn to walk the ten or twelve miles that led to Aughrim, where the fair was to be held. When I came out into the air, the cold was intense, though it was a morning of August, and the dew was so heavy that bushes and meadows of mountain grass seemed to have lost their greenness in silvery grey. In the glens I went through white mists were twisting and feathering themselves into extraordinary shapes, and showing blue hills behind them that looked singularly desolate and far away. At every turn I came on multitudes of rabbits feeding on the roadside, or on even shyer creatures – corncrakes, squirrels and snipe – close to villages where no one was awake.
Then the sun rose, and I could see lines of smoke beginning to go up from farmhouses under the hills, and sometimes a sleepy, half-dressed girl looked out of the door of a cottage when my feet echoed on the road.
About six miles from Aughrim I began to fall in with droves of bullocks and sheep, in charge of two or three dogs and a herd, or with whole families of mountain people, driving nothing but a single donkey or kid. These people seemed to feel already the animation of the fair, and were talking eagerly and gaily among themselves. I did not hurry, and it was about nine o’clock when I made my way into the village, which was now thronged with cattle and sheep. On every side the usual half-humorous bargaining could be heard above the noise of the pigs and donkeys and lambs. One man would say, ‘Are you going to not divide a shilling with me? Are you going to not do it? You’re the biggest schemer ever walked down into Aughrim.’
A little further on a man said to a seller, ‘You’re asking too much for them lambs.’ The seller answered, ‘If I didn’t ask it how would I ever get it? The lambs is good lambs, and if you buy them now you’ll get home nice and easy in time to have your dinner in comfort, and if you don’t buy them you’ll be here the whole day sweating in the heat and dust, and maybe not please yourself in the end of all.’
Then they began looking at the lambs again, talking of the cleanness of their skin and the quality of the wool, and making many extravagant remarks in their praise or against them. As I turned away I heard the loud clap of one hand into another, which always marks the conclusion of a bargain.
A little further on I found a farmer I knew standing before a public house, looking radiant with delight. ‘It’s a fine fair, Mister,’ he said, ‘and I’m after selling the lambs I had here a month ago and no one would look at them. Then I took them to Rathdrum and Wicklow, getting up at three in the morning and driving them in the creel, and it all for nothing. But I’m shut of them now, and it’s not too bad a price I’ve got either. I’m after driving the lambs outside the customs’ (the boundary where the fair tolls are paid) ‘and I’m waiting now for my money.’ While we were talking, a cry of warning was raised, ‘Mind yourselves below; there’s a drift of sheep coming down the road.’ Then a couple of men and dogs appeared, trying to drive a score of sheep that someone had purchased, out of the village, between the countless flocks that were standing already on either side of the way. This task is peculiarly difficult. Boys and men collect round the flock that is to be driven out and try to force the animals down the narrow passage that is left in the middle of the road. It hardly ever happens, however, that they get through without carrying off a few of someone else’s sheep, or losing some of their own, which have to be restored, or looked for afterwards.
The flock was driven by as well as could be managed, and a moment later an old man came up to us, and asked if we had seen a ewe passing from the west. ‘A sheep is after passing,’ said the farmer I was talking to, ‘but it was not one of yours, for it was too wilful; it was a mountain sheep.’ Sometimes animals are astray in this way for a considerable time – it is not unusual to meet a man the day after a fair wandering through the country, asking after a lost heifer, or ewe – but they are always well marked and are found in the end.
When I reached the green above the village I found the curious throng one always meets in these fairs, made up of wild mountain squatters, gentlemen farmers, jobbers and herds. At one corner of the green there was the usual camp of tinkers, where a swarm of children had been left to play among the carts while the men and women wandered through the fair selling cans or donkeys. Many odd types of tramps and beggars had come together also, and were loitering about in the hope of getting some chance job, or of finding some one who would stand them a drink. Once or twice a stir was made by some unruly ram or bull, but in these smaller fairs there seldom is much real excitement till the evening, when the bad whisky that is too freely drunk begins to be felt.
When I had spoken to one or two men that I wished to see, I sat down near a bridge at the end of the green, between a tinker who was mending a can and a herd who was minding some sheep that had not been sold. The herd spoke to me with some pride of his skill in dipping sheep to keep them from the fly, and other matters connected with his work. ‘Let you not be talking,’ said the tinker, when he paused for a moment. ‘You’ve been after sheep since you were that height’ (holding his hand a little over the ground) ‘and yet you’re nowhere in the world beside the
