Chapter 2

 

The flight from Liverpool to Knock was almost full, but Kate and Phil got to John Lennon Airport in good time, and were rewarded for their early arrival. Being near the front of the queue, they were able to claim two seats together near the front of the passenger cabin.

"Did you expect there to be this many people on an early morning flight?" Kate asked, looking at their fellow passengers. They appeared to be the only passengers under the age of about 50 or 60. Many of them were carrying (and using) rosary beads, but were not dressed in religious habits.

 Phil glanced around, and realised what had attracted Kate's attention.

"Knock is more than just a regional airport" he said. "I read about it on the 'Net: it's a place people go to on pilgrimages - like Lourdes, in France."

Kate nodded, reassured to know that her fellow passengers were not terrified pessimists, pleading with the Almighty because the budget airline had a poor safety record.

In fact, the flight was smooth and uneventful. Less than an hour later they rolled to a gentle stop at Knock Airport. After a few unfortunate experiences, Phil had become close to paranoid about baggage handlers and cameras, and insisted on carrying his equipment as cabin luggage. Privately, Kate thought he was probably right to think this way, and had no hesitation in applying the same ‘safety first' principle to their two laptops, without which she would have felt unable to function effectively.

Their main luggage safely reclaimed, they made their way through the concourse and headed for the local bus terminal. The pilgrims had filed onto a chartered coach, and they were left with a handful of other non-pilgrims, travelling on the regular bus.

Some of them must be regulars, Phil realised, as the driver greeted them by name with a respectful familiarity. He was equally courteous when Phil and Kate arrived with their cases, taking them with an easy motion born of long practice. He stacked neatly in the baggage hold, in such a confident yet careful manner that Phil would not have been concerned if they had been full of priceless porcelain.

"Can you tell me what time you expect to get to Boyle?" asked Phil. as he thanked the driver and bought their tickets for the penultimate stage of their journey.

"Now, whereabouts would you be staying?"

The unhurried, cadenced lilt of his voice was all that a comedian will try to pass off as an amusing Irish brogue. This, on the other hand, was genuine.

"We've arranged to hire a caravan from Slattery's..... "

"Ah! So it's the livery yard you'll be wanting. I can make a short stop and place you right outside them: it's before we go into the town centre. Mrs. Heenan, you'll not mind the extra few minutes?"

Mrs. Heenan, already comfortably sitting near the driver's seat, allowed that she was in no hurry to get home, her daughter would have the tea on by that time, and how was Mrs. Doyle now (Phil soon gathered this inquiry concerned the health of the driver's wife).

Mr. Doyle ("but call me Mike, sure, everyone else does") winked at Phil and hinted that Mrs. Heenan would probably talk non-stop the whole trip, whether anyone listened to her or not. Silently, he looked his wristwatch and indicated that they could expect to reach Boyle at about one o'clock (aided or abetted by Mrs. Heenan's monologues).  

Passengers got on and off the bus at no specific boarding points, as far as Phil could see: but as most of them seemed to know each other well, he supposed this was just an aspect of the Irish modus vivandi he had heard gently satirised by one comedian after another throughout his life. Experiencing it now at first hand, he quickly formed the opinion that it was a may of life which had much to commend it, and deserved better than the comic strip two-dimensional level of humour his earlier experiences had suggested.

There was no denying it. Life was lived at a slower pace in rural Ireland: but the bus driver seemed to have the road more or less to himself, apart from the occasional farm vehicle, and the clock was respectably close to one when Mike pulled into a layby which boasted a bus timetable and a wooden shelter.

As he unloaded the suitcases, Mike said:
"It wants a few minutes yet, but Patsy'll be along presently to drive you to the farmhouse."

Seeing Phil's look of puzzlement, he added:
" When you told me your destination I rang ahead to Patsy Slattery: she said she'd meet the bus and drive you up to the stables .... look, here she is now!"

A battered, muddy Land Rover bumped along the side road - little more than a rutted lane, really - which ran more or less at right angles to the two lane tarmac from Knock to Boyle. The driver seemed to turn the vehicle almost in its own length to face back the way she had come. The engine sounded smooth, though, and chuffed quietly as Patsy Slattery came over to greet them and collect their luggage.

"Good afternoon to you both, I hope Mike's been driving a bit more carefully than he usually does, since he was carrying guests o' mine! I hope you've had a good trip, and you've room for a drop of tay when we get back .... thank you, Minnie, Sally had a beautiful foal last week, you must get your Karen's children to come and have a look .... thank you again, Mike, God bless and drive safely now!"

Patsy seemed to be trying to compensate for the slower pace of life with her rapidfire delivery of conversation, spreading snippets (it seemed) to every passenger on the bus.

Once installed behind the wheel again, she seemed to downshift several gears and addressed Phil and Kate in a much calmer, unhurried fashion.

She had what Phil thought was an unnerving habit of using her hands as much as her voice in conversation, sometimes using both hands to illustrate a point, pressing a knee against the wheel if she deemed it necessary. However, on the short drive to the farm he noticed that the ruts in the lane were quite deep, and the Land Rover was unlikely to bounce out of them even without the minimal guidance Patsy's hands could offer on the occasions they fluttered briefly on the steering wheel.

Mrs. Slattery's idea of  ‘tay', when they arrived at the farm, was vastly different to the frenetic, snatched half-cup of cool, insipid teabag infusion which was the day-to-day norm for both Phil and Kate.

A kettle bubbled invitingly on the hob - a genuine wood-burning range occupying most of one wall of the kitchen. Copious quantities of loose leaf tea - which Kate could not recall having seen anyone use in her quarter-century of existence - were measured into a large, brown ceramic teapot which had been left to warm through on the corner of the range. She later confided to Phil that she had half expected the spoon she used to stir her drink with to dissolve in the brew.

The delicate aroma of the tea was overlaid by the distinctive and irresistible smell of freshly baked soda bread, mingled with other equally mouth-watering suggestions of scones, melting butter and a selection of what were evidently home-made jams.

It had been some considerable time since the plastic rolls they had grabbed as grazing fodder at Liverpool Airport, and their digestive juices suddenly kicked into overdrive.

They needed no persuasion or encouragement to sit at the table, where Mrs. Slattery presided over the teapot and matched them slice for slice, biscuit for biscuit. Kate wondered at this, too. Granted that Patsy was obviously an outdoors person, glowing with good health and well proportioned with a tone of muscle which can only be achieved by regular exercise: but she still appeared svelte rather than heavily built, and whatever calories she chose to pack away at a meal were clearly being burnt off between times.

Patsy also kept up a running conversation throughout the meal. Without appearing to pry, she successfully extracted fro one or other of them many of the details of their reasons for visiting Ireland. Based on what they told her as they ate, she then provided - seemingly effortlessly and from memory - many useful snippets of information which they might find they needed during their stay.

Like hobbits, they only left the table when it was starting to look somewhat bare.

"Sure, and it's good to see you young people getting a decent meal inside you f'r once!" was all Patsy would say when they thanked her for her hospitality and tried to offer her a price for the banquet.

"We'll go and say hello to Gerald, now" she said, when Phil insisted she took some money for her troubles.

"Sure, and he's the horse who'll be showing you around this part of God's Little Acre for the next two weeks!" she added, when a look of puzzlement settled briefly on Phil's brow.

"And while I think, you're to tell that Michael Ashe at the Castle Inn that he'll have Patsy Slattery to answer to personally if he doesn't take good care of Gerald while he's up there. Tell him I'll sour his ale, and stop his butter from setting in the churn, so I will!"

Neither Phil nor Kate was quite sure if Patsy was serious or not: surely people didn't still claim to have the powers of witches, did they? Looking at the glint in Patsy's dark green-flecked eyes, Phil decided not to pursue the matter but to take it at face value.

"I take it Michael Ashe is the landlord of the pub, and he knows you? Do you know if we

can get meals at the pub? It would save us a lot of time ..... "

"Young Michael knows Ma Patsy well enough: and he's got a half-decent cook, last I heard, so meals shouldn't be a problem - as long as you don't expect a pub to serve breakfast at some ungodly hour o' the morning!"

They had continued to walk alongside Patsy throughout this conversation, and now found themselves suddenly opening one of a pair of double doors leading onto an open courtyard with a thatched roof stables opposite.

A caravan, painted brightly in traditional reds and greens, stood ready, its shafts resting on the cobbles. Patsy's voice brought a nickering "humph!" from the open half door of the stall, and a wise-looking chestnut brown head appeared.

"Phil, he's gorgeous!" gasped Kate, unconsciously picking up the tempo of her stride and automatically grasping in her pocket for a carrot or an apple, something with which to befriend their transport provider. She knew she wasn't going to find either object, but was not prepared for it when Patsy thrust an apple into her hand.

"Just this once, then: but don't spoil him too often, or you'll have to bribe him twenty times a day to get any work out if him at all!"

Kate wondered for a moment if Patsy could read minds, or if she really was the witch (goodwife?) she hinted at being. On the other hand, she reflected, it would have been pretty obvious what her instinctive reaction was going to be: most of the holidaymakers who hired caravans from this livery yard would have reacted in exactly the same way as she had done. Patsy probably had an apple or something in her pocket every time she took someone out to the courtyard for precisely this reason ....

It was by now mid-afternoon, and Gerard seemed willing and eager to back into the shafts and walk about the courtyard and into an adjoining field whilst both Phil and Kate got a ‘feel' for sitting comfortably with reins in hand, nominally in control of the caravan.

"You'll find he has his little ways, but he's an experienced horse and he knows his way around." said Patsy, when both Kate and Phil felt ready to depart.

"Does that mean, he knows where to stop each night?" asked Kate.

He's covered a number of different routes from one campsite to another" replied Patsy. She paused a moment, and added: "He's been  all around this part of Roscommon - or Moylurg, if you want to use the ancient name for the region, considering what you're looking into while you're here!"

"Moylurg?" Phil's ears pricked: this sounded like something interesting, something which might also be of value to their research.

"If you get time to sit and use those fancy computers you carry round, you can find out a lot about the ancient Kingdom of Moylurg" - she spelt it out for him - "and the tale of Una Bahn and Tomąs is something else you should look into." she concluded.

When pressed, she proclaimed herself too scatty to be of any use as a taleteller, a skill which she quite clearly regarded as an artform beyond her own capabilities. She politely but steadfastly refused to be drawn, and insisted that they could get a far better rendering of the legend by surfing their preferred search engines on the 'Net.

Phil had to be content with that, but was quite happy to let Kate take first turn at the reins whilst he made the first searches into the fresh directions suggested by their host.  

As late afternoon blurred into early evening, Kate sat on the comfortably broad driving ledge, reins held loosely in her hand, and pretended to herself that she was actually directing Gerald along the country road. The main tourist season was singing its final verse, and they had hardly seen any traffic since leaving the livery yards. A golden, westering sun approached the treetops, casting a steadily lengthening shadow before them. On either side of the road, honeysuckle plaited itself throughout the roadside hedges, trimmed back to just below their vantage point on the driving bench: the pungent scent of the flowers as they prepared to close themselves away for the evening was almost visible.

Phil appeared, carrying two steaming hot mugs and sat next to her, careful not to spill the coffee. He glanced briefly at his watch, then frowned. Placing the mug to one side, he stripped off his watch and thrust it into his trouser pocket.

 Kate stared. In all the years she'd known Phil she had only ever seen him take his watch off when swimming or showering: otherwise he wore it constantly, declaring he couldn't even sleep properly if he wasn't wearing it.

"I can't stand the idea of ever being late for something - anything at all!"  he'd admitted once, when she'd teased him about this. Now, however, he appeared to be breaking the habit of a lifetime, and she was at a momentary loss to understand why.

Phil spotted the look on her face, and chuckled.

"Livin' on Tulsa Time.... " he quoted at her - another habit he had, of finding an appropriate song lyric from his memorybanks to cover just about any occasion. Kate waited patiently: sometimes the reasons for his choice of lyric weren't immediately obvious to her.

"Yeah, well, it seems to me that the pace of life is so much different here! A calendar is more useful than a wristwatch - we don't want to lose track of the date, and forget to take Gerald back home on the right day now, do we?"

Kate grinned, and toasted him with her coffee mug.

"Phil, you don't know how much I've been wanting to see you slow down and relax a bit more: you've really driven yourself far too hard these last few months, you know! If anyone deserves a real, slow-down, get-off-the-motorway type of holiday, it's you!"

"Tell you what, sweetheart: the only clock I'm taking any notice of the next few days is the biological one which lets me know when I should eat ... drink ... and ...."

"And everything else: yes, thanks, I get the picture! Look, is that a pub ahead?"
"Gerald seems to think so: he's almost breaking out into a ...fast walk, I suppose you'd call it!"

Phil's less than complimentary description of Gerald's speed was a little bit unfair, but if truth were to be told, not by very much. Gerald was definitely getting long in the tooth, but good for a few more years of tourism before a well-earned retirement field beckoned.

The hand-crafted sign outside the pub stated without fuss the patently obvious fact that this was indeed "Michael Ashe's Pub", their first night's scheduled stop. Even before they drew onto the forecourt, a young lad of at least thirteen or fourteen appeared from somewhere behind the pub, wearing a leather apron and carrying a metal pail.

The pail hit the ground immediately in front of Gerald's eager muzzle: a currycomb appeared from one of the boy's apron pockets even before Phil and Kate had dismounted. Gerald was so deeply engrossed in his well-earned drink that Phil was certain the groom's hand on the bridle was completely unnecessary.

"You've had a good day, then."

Not a question, a statement. A couple of pub patrons wandered out of the door, pints in hand, to observe the new arrivals.

"Fine, thanks." Phil wasn't expecting this opening conversational gambit, and felt unsure how he ought to respond. The groom nodded and continued to groom the horse with long, smooth strokes.

"This auld tippler likes his Guinness, so he does! If he was any quicker getting here from Patsy Slattery's, I'd be putting my wages on him to start winning races at the Curragh!"

This drew a ripple of amusement from the bystanders, who reminded him that it would be a few years yet before he'd be allowed inside a bookmaker's office. Gerald had by now emptied the pail and licked it completely dry. An apple was produced from the depths of another apron pocket, and eagerly accepted.

Phil thought about offering to start releasing the buckles of the harness. He was stopped in his tracks by a voice behind him.

"Sure, the lad will sort that for you when he's finished grooming."

The speaker was a middle-aged man wearing a traditional striped apron. A clean, tidily folded towel hung from a belt around his slight paunch: Phil assumed this was the manager of the bar.

"Michael Ashe?"

"The very same: and you'd be the couple from Patsy Slattery's stables, down the road."

"That's right: Phil and Kate McDermott .... "

For a few long seconds time seemed to freeze. Phil noticed that everybody paused even in the raising or lowering of their respective glasses, and not a word was spoken. It was only a few seconds, but seemed longer Michael Ashe seemed to shake himself, and asked:

"You're planning to stay down by the lakeside for a few days, Patsy's telling me."

"Yes, that's right. I'm researching family history, and we wanted a break."

"And how far has your research taken you?"

Michael Ashe's eyes glistened. Phil hesitated, suddenly reluctant to admit that their reason for making the journey lay in something so nebulous and insubstantial as a recurring dream. Some sort of answer, however, was required, and the landlord's open sincerity and interest encouraged him to open up far more than he normally would to a comparative stranger.

"I traced the family line for both my parents, and the Internet was a great help. I can't imagine how long it might have taken me if I'd had to trudge from one library or Register Office to the next searching for documents!"

He turned to hand Kate down from the box-seat, and a gentle pressure from her fingertips confirmed that she had understood his verbal side-step. As Kate smoothed out her clothes, Phil turned back to Michael:

"I'd like to refresh the glasses of those present, and add something for two thirsty travellers ............. "

 

**********

 

When it could no longer be denied that the light was draining from the sky, Phil started to wonder about how they were going to find their way to the lakeside where they planned to park the caravan. He hadn't held back from drinking - after all, he had no intention of driving anywhere - but he was sober enough to think about practical matters.

An evening meal - which he had no memory of having ordered - had appeared and been swiftly dispatched. The ‘snug' had filled with more drinkers as the evening had progressed, and most of them had stayed to greet the travellers. A group waiting to be served had started singing, and within minutes an impromptu concert party had been formed. Kate had fallen into conversation with a local artist, a girl of about her own age. They had been comparing sketches, techniques and other ‘arty-farty' matters completely outside Phil's field of knowledge, and looked likely to continue doing so unless they were physically separated.

He drained his glass and wove his way between stools towards the bar. Michael Ashe was already filling a replacement Guinness, topping it off with a stylised shamrock as Phil arrived.

"I think we'll have to ask for directions to the lake after this one ..." he began.

Michael smiled, shaking his head.

"Sure, and I told Jim to stable old Gerard for the night: you can sleep in the caravan where it is, and I'll follow you down after breakfast tomorrow!"

Truth to tell, Phil had been reluctant to leave the friendly, good-natured crowd and the excellent Guinness, so he had no hesitation in accepting Michael's most practical of  solutions. He took his own drink and Kate's, made sure Michael had one himself, and bought a round for the quartet of singers who coincidentally ended a number just as he was about to pay. As an afterthought, he glanced over to where Kate was sitting and added a glass of red wine for the girl sitting with her, whose name he hadn't quite caught.

"Don't you have licencing hours here?" he asked, more in idle curiosity than because he really needed to know.

"See the big fella singing bass?" said Michael. The ‘big fella' was easy to identify: almost as stout as he was tall, and with the reddest complexion Phil had ever seen, he had a remarkably true voice.

"That's our local bobby!" crowed Michael, exploding into laughter. "So if anyone gets a bit ‘frisky' he'll soon sort them out!"

"And how about closing time? When do you close?"

Michael made a solemn show of consulting his wristwatch.

"September!" he said, and exploded once more into laughter. Several of those standing closest to the bar had obviously heard the joke before, as they joined Michael in shouting out the name of the month in unison. Grinning his appreciation, showing that he didn't mind being played for the ‘fall guy' in this little exchange, Phil made his way back to their table.

 

"What was that all about?" Kate wanted to know as he hovered over the table, looking for a space big enough to deposit three glasses. Phil explained, and raised a few encore grins fro both girls.

"Phil, this is Moira .... is that M-o-i-r-a, the way my friend spells it?"

"That's right - though I understand why you're a bit wary of the way some of the older, traditional Irish names are spelt!"

"She saw my file poking out of the bag, and my secret's out!" laughed Kate.

"She's off to art college in Dublin soon, and she was admiring my sketches: she's asked me to look at some of her local scenes tomorrow, if that's alright with you?"

"Why would I mind? You're the artist, not me! And after all, it's not as if we're working to a tight deadline or anything like that!"

"Now, what did I tell you!" crowed Kate "Whenever I need something for my art work, nothing's too much trouble: do you have someone to help you out, Moira?"

Moira looked from one to the other as she took the fresh glass of wine from the tray Phil carried.

"Thanks for the drink: there was really no need, you know .... Kate, my ‘significant other' (as I suppose you'd call him!) is already in Dublin, enrolled at the same college: he's a year or so older than me."

Phil sipped at his drink, automatically licking away the cream from his upper lip.

"Has he sold anything, or is he studying full time? I don't mean to pry, but it's a fact that your chosen field is a minefield of financial disasters waiting to happen. What I suspect Kate's trying to say is that you'll find there are times when a steady, reliable source of income will be vital - and there aren't many art students who have that!"

"Peter's some money behind him - the family's not loaded, but .... he has a bit of independence, I suppose, and he's sold some work from time to time. He's on a scholarship from a firm who have a position for him once he qualifies: some sort of graphic designers, he told me."

"Have you started to put a portfolio together, Moira? And have you any special interests?" Kate asked, chafing slightly to get back to the technical matters they'd been discussing while Phil was at the bar.

Moira took a generous gulp from her glass.

"I've concentrated on local landscapes, black-&-white sketching for the most part: they're cheaper than pastels or watercolours!"

Suddenly, she pounced on one of the sketches in Kate's file.

"Didn't I see you arrive here only this afternoon? You haven't had time to .... "

her voice trailed off uncertainly.

Kate glanced at the sketch Moira was holding up, and immediately looked to Phil.

Phil cleared his throat.

"You're right about us only arriving this afternoon: about four o'clock I think it was, Mrs. Slattery said we should take it easy and not try to go too far on the first day."

He suddenly realised that they had not actually told Patsy Slattery that they might be staying at Michael Ashe's pub and Loch Cé for most if not all of their booked holiday period. There had been no attempt to deceive. Quite simply, their overall plans had not been discussed: and as he recalled, the conversation had been most skilfully directed by Mrs. Slattery herself. He half-stood to peer over Moira's shoulder at the sketch which had caught her attention.

"Kate hasn't made any sketches since we arrived" he said. He then recognised the picture in question, and felt an adrenaline jolt play havoc with his heartbeat for several seconds.

"That's a sketch of something she's seen several times in a ... series of dreams." he said, quietly. "Do you recognise something in it?"

Moira didn't answer at once, but looked in the direction of the bar. Phil happened to be facing that direction already: Michael Ashe spun round as if stung on the back of his neck, caught Moira's eye, and came over to join them at once.

"Tell Phil and Kate where they'll find this, would you, Michael."

"Moira, that's as fine a sketch of the chapel on The Rock as I've seen you do yet! But this is a close-up, surely? I didn't know you'd rowed out to it ... ?"

"Michael, it's not my sketch .... "

"Kate drew it, last week, in Liverpool, when she woke from a dream." Phil offered, when Moira for some reason seemed reluctant to complete the sentence.

"We'll speak after hours, in private, if you'll not mind." said Michael, quietly, " though I've a feeling that might not be to far off, now"

The concert party grouped around the hearth had full glasses and now stood in a more formal pose than previously facing the Irish tricolour which was draped above a number of photographs and other memorabilia on display. Conversation stilled, and everyone in the bar stood and faced the same direction.

A keen Rugby fan, Phil had heard the Irish national anthem sung many times before international matches. In reality, he supposed it must have registered on each occasion that he had not been able to make out what language was being sung, but this was the first time he had heard the Gaelic lyrics clearly. Naturally he understood not a word, but the bitter-sweet feeling of the melody affected him emotionally nevertheless. As it ended and people emptied their glasses and bade each other "God bless and good night" he sensed that he had been privileged to witness a unique aspect of rural Irish society.

 

*****

Most of the evening's patrons had taken the trouble to deposit their glasses on the bar as they left: Phil, Kate and Moira helped Michael to set the room to rights and collected the odd stray glasses. Jim the stable lad apparently doubled as potboy, and it wasn't long before every glass had been cleaned, polished, and stored back in its rightful place.

Wiping his hands on yet another pristine, laundered towel, Michael reached without looking under the counter and produced a green bottle without label. This he placed on a tray with half a dozen shot glasses, and cuffed Jim on his way.

"Mind you go straight to bed, now: this is adult business!" he growled. All the same, he waited until he heard evidence of Jim's boots on the wooden stairway to the upper floor before he went round and sat at the table now occupied by Phil, Kate and Moira.

He looked from one to another, then seemed to come to some sort of decision. As he poured carefully into each glass, he addressed his opening remarks directly to Moira.

"Moira, if I hadn't known you as long as I have, and been as certain as I can be that you're incapable of telling a lie, I'd not believe that this picture could possibly be the work of someone who's never sat on the banks of Loch Cé and sketched what was right there, in front of them!"

"Kate, Phil: what can I say to you? You know that you bear the name, and that your family's roots are deeper here in what's now called Roscommon than anywhere else.

Sląinte!"

He raised his glass: the others followed suit, automatically.

Moira clearly knew what they were being offered, and Phil watched carefully: noting how she took a very small sip at her glass, he opted to do the same. He was still surprised at the sheer potency of the drink, but managed to avoid being taken by surprise and spluttering. Kate took her cue from Phil, and just about managed to keep her breathing under control.

Michael smiled, and Phil sensed that they had just passed some sort of test. Michael rose from his seat, refilled their shot glasses with more of the poteen and returned to the bar to "top up" chaser glasses of Guinness which Phil hadn't noticed being started.

"Let me have another look at that sketch if you would, Kate ... thanks. Would you mind giving Moira a sheet or two from your sketch pad, and lend her a pencil?"

For several long moments, Michael studied the sketch closely.

"Moira, can you sketch from memory the chapel seen from the lakeside, from about the same ... angle, or whatever you artist types call it?"

Moira nodded, and quickly roughed out a perspective of a building which was clearly the same chapel. It was viewed from the same vantage point, but from some more distant point. This was brought out by a suggestion of water and some coastline in the chapel's immediate foreground.

Michael looked at it, nodded, and placed Moira's sketch alongside Kate's. Allowing for differences in scale, it was immediately obvious that they were renderings of the same building. Phil always claimed he had no artistic sense whatsoever, but as a professional photographer (and a good one) he was also convinced that there could be no doubt.

"There's just one thing" Michael murmured, tapping first the one sketch then the other.

"Kate: why does the building in your sketch look ... more complete - or ‘less damaged' if you'd rather think of it like that!"

Kate had no answer to this. Phil shrugged.

"That's just how Kate ‘sees it' in her dream - a dream she has more and more often recently. It's been disturbing her so much she's been having difficulty sleeping, and that's one of the reasons we decided to take this holiday."

"What: like a sort of "Ghostbusters" vacation, you mean? To try and ‘lay the ghost' and get some peace?" Though in certain circumstances this might have sounded trite, flippant or even somewhat offensive, Moira's sincerity was unmistakeable. Kate nodded.

"That just about says it all, Moira. We'd enough put by to be able to take an unscheduled holiday, also we're both freelancers and don't have to ask a boss for permission to take a break! For the moment, most of the commission work in hand can be done through a PC anywhere in the world - that's why we can be here just when it suits us!"

Moira nodded: her attention was still, however, centred on the two drawings.

"When you see the Chapel in daylight, tomorrow, you'll appreciate why Michael's puzzled by your ....  rendering, I suppose would be a good term - compared with what it actually looks like today - which is in fact much closer to the remains (or ruins) as they appear in my sketch. I'd say that your sketch look much as I imagine it would have looked some time ago: quite a long time ago, in fact!"

Moira's casual comment caused both Kate's and Phil's ears to prick. For them, this was a significant snippet of information which dovetailed with what they already knew. For the first time, Phil sensed he could see a pattern developing.

"Are you saying, Kate's sketch looks like a ... historically earlier version?" he asked.

Michael leaned across the table.

"If it's earlier records of the Chapel you're looking for, I can tell you of the earliest story connected with it."

Phil's fingers itched. Surely here was a tale which could be very important, and might even have some relevance to his research into family links.

"Michael, do you mind if I record this story? It may help with my family research .... "

When Phil returned from the caravan he discovered that Michael had refilled everyone's glasses (both the larger and the smaller), and the group had decamped from the table to a more comfortable, informal setting in easy chairs grouped around the open turf fire.

"The tale of Una Bhan, daughter to Cormac, King of Moylurg and her would-be suitor Tomąs Laidir Costello is well-known in these parts. It is as true as it is tragic"  Michael began, staring into the dancing flames as if this helped him concentrate on the words.

"Una Bhan was very beautiful, and had extremely long, fine blonde hair which cascaded down her back almost to her knees. Cormac was proud of her, as any father might be, yet as King he felt he had a duty to vet all her would-be suitors. None of them were ever good enough to satisfy him."

"One was a close neighbour, a handsome and affluent young man whose affections were sincere. Cormac, however, considered Tomąs not good enough for his beloved daughter, and had her confined to The Rock, as Trinity Isle was often called at the time. Tomąs was banished from the area."

"Una Bhan sickened from day to day, falling into a melancholy, and lay dying of grief.

Tomąs heard of the situation and went to see her, in defiance of Cormac's ban. When he left, he vowed that unless Cormac sent word that he might return before he reached the river which marked the boundaries between their estates, he would never come back. Cormac repented, and word was sent, but it did not reach Tomąs until after he had crossed the river. Being a man of honour, he held to his word and refused to return."

"Una Bhan died of a broken heart and was buried on Trinity Isle. In his grief, Tomąs used to swim out to keep vigil at her grave every night. Eventually he caught pneumonia: realising he was dying, he requested of Cormac that he be buried alongside Una Bhan. His request was granted. Tradition says that two rose trees grew from the lovers' graves, entwining above them, and can still be seen today."

 

The spell woven by Michael's recital of this tale created an atmosphere of peace: several  seconds of contemplative silence ended with a sudden crackle and flare from the turf fire as it burnt lower and settled under its own weight.

Moira shuddered.

"You tell the tale well, Michael: I'm thinking a goose just walked over my grave!"

Kate looked nonplussed at this remark, but Phil thought he could guess the sense of it, as he consciously willed the hairs on the back of his neck into place.

Michael stirred in his seat.

"I simply repeat the story as it was told to me. You'll have to check somewhere else for exact dates, but Cormac an MacDairmada and Tomąs Laidir Costello are both historical figures and you'll find plenty of references to both in written records."

"So you're saying that Kate has somehow captured in her sketches the .... the ‘spirit' of what the Chapel may have looked like . ... what? A hundred years ago? More?"

"There was a ‘folly' built on the site of the castle some time in the eighteen hundreds: that was burnt down just before the last World War" replied Michael "... but the original building dates from much earlier - at least four hundred years ago, and probably more."

Phil had been tapping on his laptop, hoiked from the caravan almost as an afterthought when he had gone back for the tape recorder.

"That wasn't the first fire, either, according to this site! The castle was - literally! - bombed into submission in 1235 by fireships, and an earlier building burned down after being struck by lightning a hundred years before that!"

Kate's brow furrowed with concern.

"You know what you're like, Phil: let's not get sidetracked! What we're trying to find out is a reason for the differences between my sketches and Moira's. The history of the Castle may have something to do with it, but as yet we're still no closer to an explanation of this!"

Sighing, Phil punched a shortcut key saving the page he'd been scanning into Favourites for future reference. With obvious reluctance, he broke the 'Net connection.

"How much can you tell us of local history, Michael?" Kate asked.

Michael appeared embarrassed at the question

"Well, now, I'm what you'd call a newcomer ......... " he began, but Moira interrupted.

"Michael Ashe, you've lived in this village more than  my twenty-odd summers, and you know it!"

She turned to Kate, and remembered to include Phil:

"What Michael means is that there are others in the village who are older, have never left the village all their lives, and know more of the gossip and traditions of Roscommon than he does - though as innkeeper he probably knows more about certain people and their secrets than they're likely to feel comfortable about!"

Michael had the decency to blush at this, and Moira pressed home her advantage.

"Michael, why don't you have a word with Hugh O'Gara tomorrow morning? He's just the sort of person who'd know more than anyone else about this sort of thing .... "

The turf was now reduced to dying embers, and there was little or nothing left in anyone's glass. Glasses were washed and put away, and Michael was thanked again for his hospitality. Moira led Phil and Kate across the courtyard to the parked caravan and made sure they negotiated the steps safely before she wished them God Bless and good night and continued down the road into the village proper.