Skibbereen

Amon had a bad habit of crawling out of the woodwork, much like a slithering centipede except with more deliberation and a bit more creepily. The truth was Amon was no more creepy than you or I, minus his impressive knowledge of all things violent (classic horror films, war, local car wrecks) and his freakishly long fingernails that had begun to yellow and curl under over time.

In reality, he had lots of good things to say. We met in a pub (his word, not mine) while looking over a map determining what our next day’s adventure should be. Neither one of us had any idea of what we were looking for. Our relief map showed us every crack and crevice we couldn’t care less about but told us nothing of what we might.

“May I make a suggestion?” Amon’s rickety voice blurted out over the Celtic fiddles of the pub. I recognized him immediately as the man who, as the innkeeper told us, more or less lived in the hostel where we were staying.  He was the man that caused the girls to grasp their robes tightly to their throats. The man whose roommates must have said “uh-huh” and “that’s nice” and “oh, really?” about a thousand times while being regaled with one of his epic tales. He was the career backpacker and he was frightening for that reason. He was doing what we were all doing and hoped not to be when we were his age. He was our idea of failure in human form.

We looked up to see him standing there in his immutable suit. Gray tweed over a white button-down shirt so old there was no need to press it.  The creases and pleats had memorized their positions. Gray the color of an Irish sky 86% of the time. That meant 86% of the time Amon was practically invisible against his backdrop. A pale green tie grazed his gold belt buckle and his left hand held a weathered briefcase which was bursting with his life’s work: travel guides, bus tickets, maps scribbled on with directions and addresses.

“Sure, why not?” I replied but Amon had already slid in next to us on the booth seat and was tapping his thick, grimey nail on the map.

“You must go to Skibbereen,” he said. The town was several hours southwest of where we were and even further away from where we probably were going. Nonetheless, we sat and listened to Amon tell us about his time spent in the exact middle of West Cork.

“The town’s name means little boat harbor, did you know? “

We did not.

Amon told us how Algerian pirates had caused the town to prosper, bringing in their looted goods from around the world created quite the economy. And how the pirates ran things for some time and on the nights the pirates returned the town celebrated with a pig roasted with rosemary in a drum. He told us about the Great Famine and deaths and where to see the mass graves at the local cemetery. He told us a 12-year-old boy had overthrown his father’s murderous greed to become the town’s founding member and how he met the relatives of this boy and they tried to give him a goat but he refused it on account of not having the proper shelter for such an animal.

Amon’s Skibbereen was larger than life. He showed us maps and newspaper clippings from his briefcase which confirmed his stories but somehow they weren’t as interesting in print. Maybe it was his accent or maybe it was the Guinness, but hearing Amon speak of this place, his country, made me wish I was part of it.

“If you go, say,” Amon said,” buy a lotto ticket. It’s the luckiest town in Ireland you know.”

Early the next morning, our backpacks strapped to our backs, we squeezed down the narrow corridor of the hostel on our way to the bus stop. Amon was already awake, already dressed for his day in his gray suit. We side-stepped past each other in the tight hallway.

Amon tipped his hat and we were on our way.