Raggle Taggle Traveller 4

   Part Four

On the Open Road

We pack up Esmeralda and set out, takin’ turns on the reins as our horse, Major, sets a steady clip-clop rhythm. The narrow roads twist and turn through the lush, green hills of County Clare, dotted with thatched cottages and hedgerows alive with daisies and foxgloves.

We meet other Travelers along the way, stoppin’ for a chat now and again.

“What’s the craic, Seamus? Are you headin’ to Tralee?” I ask, pullin’ Major to a stop.

“Top-notch,” Paddy assures him. “You’ll not be disappointed.”

It’s nearly time for lunch. Have you boys eaten. My wife has made a delicious beef stew with fresh potatoes, carrots and leeks. We bought the vegetables from a farmer justup the road.”

“Thank you, Seamus. That would be great. We’ve been a long time on the road so we’re due for a break. I can contribute a bottle or two of Jameson.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a drink so I’m looking forward to a wee dram.”

They found a clearing to park the wagons, fed the horses and settled down on some fresh grass to have a tipple of whiskey. The stew was served then the men went back to drinking whiskey. The first bottle ran out so a second was opened. “Paddy, do ye know much about your family history?”

“Can’t say that I do, It wasn’t a topic that my auntie and uncle liked to talk about.”

“I’ve heard stories about your grandfather, Paddy Turlough, same name as yours. Anyway, Paddy traded a horse to Eoghan McHugh. Fine looking horse. A month later it got sick and died. Eoghan blamed Paddy, saying that he must have known about the disease that killed the horse and demanded a full refund of the purchase price. Paddy refused because he sold the horse in good faith and believed it was in good health at the time of sale. A feud began that has lasted ‘till this day. In the next generation your father, also named Paddy Turlough… Your family should think of adding a bit of variety to their naming choices, but back to the story. Your father fell in love with Eileen McHugh, daughter of Eoghan. Eileen loved Paddy and they became close. Too close. Eileen became pregnant. Her father was furious and threatened to kill your father. To add to the tension your father met Tommy, Eileen’s brother and Eoghan’s son at the Mohill Horse Fair that takes place in late October. Words were exchanged and a fight broke out. Paddy hit Tommy, a fair hit, but Tommy fell, hit his head on a rock and died. It wasn’t Paddy’s fault, but even so, this was too much for Eoghan who then threatened to kill your father. This is about the time you were born. Your parents felt their lives were in danger so they left Carlow and left you with her sister, Maire. You were too young to travel in the cold weather of late fall. Also there were many health risks, especially on the road—exposure to cold weather, poor sanitation, and limited access to medical care could have made the journey perilous. The point of this story is; I think your parents now live in England, but I’m not sure. No one that I know has any contact with them. Does this make sense?

“My wife is giving me dirty looks so I guess we should hit the road. Thanks for the Jameson and the company.”

“You too Seamus. Maybe we’ll see you at the next fair.”

Paddy gave him a wave, then he and Johnny mounted Esmeralda and they were on their way again. After a long period of silence Paddy turned to Johnny and said, “Do you fancy a trip to the Appleby Horse Fair in England? I’ve heard it’s a decent fair. We could take the ferry from Dublin. What do you say?”

“I’m game, Paddy. When do you want to leave?”

“Well, we’re near now. Maybe after this fair we could make some plans. Our families won’t be pleased.” 

The lads packed up Esmeralda, their trusty wagon, and set off, takin’ turns on the reins while their old horse, Major, set a steady clip-clop rhythm. The narrow roads twisted and turned through the lush green hills of County Clare, dotted with thatched cottages and hedgerows alive with daisies and foxgloves.

The Spancilhill International Horse Fair, now goin’ strong for over 400 years, is a proper grand affair held on the Fair Green at Spancilhill, a quiet little crossroads most of the year. But come fair time, it’s a whole different story.

The Traveller crowd turns up in droves, barrel-top wagons dotted across the fields like mushrooms after the rain. They’re a lively lot, addin’ their own flair to the goings-on—tinsmithin’, tradin’, sellin’ wares, and bringin’ their buzz to the place. The fair wouldn’t be the same without the clatter and chatter they bring.

Songs of the Wandering Soul

“Now, Johnny,” I said, leanin’ back against the wagon, “let’s not go rushin’ in like eejits. First, we’ll get Esmeralda sorted—neat and tidy for sellin’ and tack repairs. After that, it’s supper. Then we’ll have a good wander round the fair, see where we can park ourselves to make the most of it.”

Johnny scratched his head, his eyes on the crowd. “It’s a bit tame so far, Paddy. What d’ye say we liven things up a touch?”

With that, Johnny gave a holler, his voice boomin’ across the Green. “Alright, ladies and gents! Paddy and Johnny here to mend your tack, sell ye a bit of fine leather, or kit ye out with a lovely brooch or necklace made with the best semi-precious stones this side of Dublin. Need advice on horse tradin’? We’re your lads. And if it’s music and a bit o’ craic ye’re after, you’ve come to the right place!”

I couldn’t help but grin. Pickin’ up my guitar, I said, “Let’s start with somethin’ to set the mood. How about ‘Whiskey in the Jar’? Sing along if the spirit moves ye!”

The first chords rang out, and before long, Johnny was singin’ clear as a bell. A few folk started tappin’ their feet, then clappin’ along. By the time Johnny broke into a jig—his boots poundin’ the ground in time with my strummin’—the place was alive with energy. It wasn’t long before we had ourselves a proper audience.

After an hour or so, the hunger hit, and we made our way to Madden’s Tavern, a small, whitewashed pub with a thatched roof, perched on the edge of the village. Inside, the smell of Irish stew and fresh soda bread greeted us, along with the warm hum of voices over pints of Guinness and ale.

As soon as we stepped inside, a lad called out, “Ah, here’s the guitar player and the singer who dances! Welcome, boyos. Are ye here to entertain us again?”

I laughed. “No, no. We’re here to eat and drink, same as yourselves. Maybe later we’ll lead ye in a sing-song, but first, let us have a bit o’ grub.”

There was a bit of weak applause, a few grumbles. Clearly, patience wasn’t their strong suit. Johnny gave me a nudge. “Well, Paddy, before this lot turns sour, why don’t you fetch your guitar from Esmeralda? We’d best give ‘em a tune or two before they get unhospitable.”

With my guitar in hand, Johnny and I took up a spot near the hearth. “Alright, lads and lassies,” I said, strummin’ the opening chords. “Here’s one to tickle your fancy—”Dicey Riley”!

The cheeky tune about a Dublin woman fond of the drink had the crowd laughin’ and clappin’ in no time. From there, we slid into “Dirty Old Town”, its reflective melody gettin’ everyone singin’ along, voices risin’ in unison. By the time we finished, the whole place was buzzin’ with energy, the earlier tension forgotten. 

Before the Night Ended

Before the night was done, everyone in the bar was buyin’ us drinks—far more than we could handle. By the time we staggered back to Esmeralda, we were barely upright. We collapsed underneath the wagon and didn’t wake until daybreak, when the noise of other Travelers settin’ up for the day finally roused us.

“Johnny,” I groaned, rubbin’ me temples, “how in the name of all that’s holy are we goin’ to get through today?”

“I feel worse than you, Paddy,” he muttered. “And as sacrilegious as it sounds, if I never see another glass of whiskey in me life, it’ll be too soon.”

I winced as I stood up. “Right, let’s check Esmeralda. Is she sorted for the day, or did we leave her in a state last night? I can’t remember a thing.”

A quick tidy and she was presentable enough for another day of repairin’, sellin’, and hollerin’—though just the thought of shoutin’ made my head ache worse.

A Morning at Madden’s

We strolled over to Madden’s Tavern and were greeted with a chorus of cheers.

“Did ye manage to stumble back to yer wagon last night?” someone called. “Ye could barely make the few steps out the door!”

“Ye’ve no idea,” I said, grinnin’ weakly. “But we made it somehow. Thanks for askin’.”

“Can we buy ye a drink? Might help with the hangover.”

“You’re generous, but I’ll stick with strong, black coffee this mornin’. Johnny?”

“Same here,” he said, his voice croaky. “Though maybe a wee dram of whiskey later to settle me head.”

We sipped our coffees in silence, tryin’ to rally. By the time we got back to Esmeralda, we were feelin’ only slightly better. We set up our two chairs and tried to keep up appearances, but all we could manage was pointin’ at our stock while customers rummaged.

The Appleby Horse Fair

By noon, after drinkin’ as much water as we could stomach, we were pale shadows of our former selves. Sales were down from the day before, but then, so were we.

“We’re not doin’ so well, Johnny,” I admitted. “Maybe it’s time to plan our next move. What d’ye think about headin’ to the Appleby Fair in England? We’ve never been, and I might hear somethin’ about me parents there.”

Johnny gave a nod. “Sounds good, Paddy. We’re certainly not breakin’ any sales records here.”

“Johnny,” I said, “we’ll be takin’ the ferry from Dublin to Liverpool. Major and Esmeralda will be below deck, and we’ll be up top. It’s Major’s first sea voyage, so I’ll check on him now and again to make sure he’s not upset.”

Boardin’ the ferry was smooth enough, and the Irish Sea was as calm as it gets. Major seemed to enjoy the gentle rockin’ of the ferry—far more than Johnny or I did, hangovers and all.

There were a few musicians onboard—a tin whistle player and a bodhrán drummer—so I asked if Johnny and I could join in. They welcomed us gladly.We started off with the old tune: 

Johnny’s So Long at the Fair

Oh dear what can the matter be?
Oh dear what can the matter be?
Oh dear what can the matter be?
Johnny’s So Long at the Fair.

The crowd was baffled at first, lookin’ at Johnny and wonderin’ if the song was about him. I laughed and explained, “Well, Johnny did come back from the fair, so there’s no harm done!” That broke the ice, and before long, they were all singin’ along and askin’ for more.

About four hours into the crossing, the sea turned rough. The wind picked up, and the ferry rocked dangerously. Johnny was quick to find the ship’s rail and empty his stomach. Meanwhile, I raced below to check on Major. He was whinnyin’ and stampin’, clearly confused by what must have felt like a wildly swingin’ stable.

“Easy now, boy,” I said, usin’ every trick I knew to calm him. after a bit of coaxin’, his wild neighs turned to soft snorts. I stayed with him for the rest of the crossing while Johnny stayed close to the rail, lookin’ like death warmed over.

When we arrived in Liverpool, relief turned to dread as customs agents swarmed Esmeralda and Major. They emptied every drawer in the wagon, inspectin’ our stock like hounds sniffin’ for a fox.

“Ye’ve got bottles of Jameson here,” one officer said, holdin’ up a bottle like it was a bomb. “These weren’t declared for duty. Are ye smugglin’?” “And this jewelry,” another added. “Undeclared trade goods, no doubt.”

“What about the horse?” a third officer demanded. “Have ye his doctor declaration offering proof he’s free of disease?”

Johnny and I were speechless, havin’ never left Ireland before and havin’ no idea we needed export papers or declarations. Things were lookin’ grim until one of the passengers we’d entertained onboard stepped forward.

“I know these men,” he said. “They’re entertainers, not smugglers. I’ll vouch for them.”