Read At the Edge of Ireland for Free Online Page B

turning toward the door. It was only ten or so broad steps away, I gauged, and there was no one blocking the exit. Maybe I could make it because I certainly had no intention of hanging around this malevolent place—an obvious bastion of blow-in bashing if ever I’d seen one.
    â€œSo,” sneered the barman. “Y’seemed to enjoy that right ’nough, then…”
    Go for broke , my proud little Yorkshireman whispered internally. So I did. “Well, t’be honest…a pint o’ British ale obviously would’ve been far better, but…”
    I think the but was actually delivered as I reached the door, flung it open, and rushed out into the dark streets. I expected a clatter of feet behind me, but fortunately, no one seemed to think the chase was worth the trouble. I’d survived this little unexpected brush with mortality.
    Which of course I hadn’t because…I’d left my bag on the bar-stool and had no choice but to go back and retrieve it…but that, as they say, is another story…

3
Irish History—Fast
    H E SAID HIS NAME WAS L IAM —Liam Farrell—but to me he looked more like Liam the Leprechaun. He was little—very little—with sharp ferret eyes, a purple nose, strangely long and thin fingers, and a definite preference for shamrock green in his clothing. Not a very clean green, in fact a distinctly grubby green, but close enough to traditional leprechaun getup, I suppose.
    We met kind of incidentally. I was sitting on one of the benches by the Waterford waterfront wondering which restaurant Anne and I should grace with our presences for dinner when she’d completed her “shopping” (always a mysterious process. Beyond a diminished bank account—I rarely got to see the results of her retailing pursuits. Especially in the clothing area when, if I see her wearing something new, she’ll inevitably respond with a dismissive—“Oh, darlin’, I’ve had this ages …don’t you remember…”). Anyway—next thing I knew, this little man had slid into position beside me and was offering me something that looked like a once-white peppermint now coated in thick pocket-dust.
    â€œEr…no thanks. I’m fine…”
    â€œOh, I can see that. You’re lookin’ very fine indeed, sir. Are you touristin’ round here then, is it?”
    â€œNo, no. We’re driving down to the Beara Peninsula. I’m just about to go and buy a couple of books. On Irish history.”
    That was my first mistake.
    â€œAh—the Beara Peninsula, is it now? Fine, fine choice indeed, sir. One of the finest spots in the southwest. Very…authentic, one might say…very wild. And—well now—that’s a true coincidence…”
    â€œA coincidence? How’s that?”
    â€œWell, y’won’ need ’em now, will y’?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œY’books. On Irish hist’ry. ’Cause I’m a walkin’ encyclopedia of Irish hist’ry. Y’couldn’do any better than ask me anythin’ about Irish hist’ry.”
    â€œOkay,” I said politely (hoping to get rid of him—and wondering if maybe he was just a few slices short of a full loaf). “I’d like a nice accurate summary of your history.”
    I should never have said that.
    â€œWould y’ now—well, d’y’wan’ it fast o’ slow?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHist’ry—our hist’ry. The grand hist’ry of our fair land.”
    â€œWell, let’s start with a fast version, and then I’ll flush out the details later when I get the general hang of it.”
    â€œOh, that y’ll never do!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œGet th’gen’ral hang of it, like y’jus’ said sir. Likely hang y’good self in all the complexities of the whole t’ing.”
    â€œWell—the fast version’s