Inspector Clouseau Goes West

There was a headline on the front page of The Mayo News this week that got me thinking about the differences between living in Dublin and in the west. ‘Valentine’s Day Turns into a Nightmare’ Classic copy editing, gripping headline, you could imagine the editor nodding “Yes let’s go with that.”

But really what could be going on in the west that could turn into a nightmare? I always start reading stories with such dramatic headlines, with an expectation of minor mishaps every week in The Mayo News. After all it is a local paper, and wrongly it is my assumption that all localised reporting has a happy ending.   Don’t be fooled, crime seeps in to all corners of the land.

I don’t suppose Mayo is any different from anywhere else I have lived in the world. I mean there are things they never really tell you in tourist brochures, like when I first moved to Australia and was surprised that I needed to bring an umbrella with me to work every day in the heat of the summer. Did you know it rains all the time in New South Wales from November to April? You don’t read in brochures luring tourists to far Northern Queensland “Come visit, take in our beautiful beaches…but there’s just one catch… you can’t swim in the sea, they happen to be full of lethal jellyfish from November to April every year.”

When I read the details of the Mayo Valentine’s Day Nightmare, that took place in a village called Dooagh on Achill Island I was truly shocked-

“ An elderly couple were put through a terrifying ordeal on Valentine’s  night when they returned home from dinner and were set upon by two men wearing balaclava’s and yielding iron bars.”

 I thought… good shit, nowhere is safe. Achill, beautiful, serene, peaceful, Achill Island. In the end the perpetrators were caught and turned out to be from Co Louth, I let out a sigh of relief thinking…. ‘oh…. ok they are not from around here, I’m safe.’

So why am I surprised by violent events that happen not an hour away from the idyllic country setting we have ensconced ourselves into? Somehow it’s harder to believe bad things can happen in such a beautiful environment as opposed to outside Houston train station in Dublin where junkies regularly approach unsuspecting tourists asking menacingly for spare change.

After only six months living west I have come to the realisation that crime exists no matter where you live, but I find myself assuming it has an innocence in a rural setting. Maybe that is my naive perception, but I believe the Valentine’s nightmare was unique as opposed to the normal weekly crime reports of back garden shed robbing of bags of coal and oil tank draining. I hope I am right.

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I’ll have what she’s having

We rocked through our twenties with always some party or free house we just had to go to, clinging on to clubbing and pubbing all through our thirties, it wasn’t until a couple of stops past the forties did any sign of a social slow down appear. 

Many laughs were had over the years with shorts and shades parties, gigs in The Point, Bowie, The The, James Brown and the B52’s, world cup mania, boogie buses in the snow, slane castle, rugby, trad nights, poker nights you name it if there was fun to be had we gave it a go. A great complaint. 

But the ever-ready batteries don’t work as well any more and going out two nights in a row takes me the best part of a week to get over. Sorry to have to break it to you for those that think my life is just one big party it’s probably quieter than yours, I am now a social lightweight. 

To make me feel even older about it, the pub life in Westport is a thriving hum of activity. There are the usual ‘young’ pubs full with hens and stags and loud music you expect in a country town but of the 58 pubs (yes 58 bars) in Westport the rest of them are filled with people of all ages. 

For three weekends in a row I have been put to shame by having to go home early leaving pubs full of locals in their 50’s, 60’s, 70’s and 80’s enjoying Saturday night out.  A 93 year old man nodded goodbye to me as I slunk out the door at 12 midnight to go home. He was still enjoying the music and had put on his special tapping shoes as he does for every Saturday night in Hobans while he listens to the locals singing or playing oirish music. 

A couple of weeks ago we sat beside a couple in their sixties who had cycled from Galway for the weekend for something different to do. They were happily downing pints of cider. Inadequate was a word that sprang to mind as I left to get a taxi home before the rush…. 

Maybe there will be future studies done of the Mayo elderly social scene, I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m convinced the locals have a secret remedy of eternal energy. Could it be the ‘blessed water from Croagh Patrick’, or just a love of Guinness?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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