Part Six
After returning to Appleby, I went directly to see Finn, “I’m glad to see you here, Paddy. I have new developments to talk to you about. I’ve issued a temporary order. If granted it provides protection until a full court hearing can be held, usually within a couple of weeks. If the judge finds sufficient evidence, they issue a restraining order that can last for a set period, for example months or years, or indefinitely, depending on the case and local laws. So, you and your family have protection from the court.
Another thing, Eoghan McHugh contacted me in a very blustery way. I told him that he wasn’t back in Mohill where he could push people around. Here we have the police and the courts to determine right and wrong. I told him that he could be charged with a number of offenses. These include, threatenin’ with death; solicitation of murder; conspiracy to commit a crime and; and incitement to violence.
A trip to Mohill’s on the cards. I track down Johnny and give him the lowdown.
“Johnny, would ye fancy a jaunt back to Carlow?”
“Sure, Paddy. What’s the rush?”
“Pack yer things, I’ll spill the beans on the way.” “Grand, I’ve been wonderin’ what’s been happenin’ since we left.”
We loaded the wagon and made tracks for the ferry terminal, where the boat was waitin’. I settled Major below deck while Johnny and I took a stroll topside. The sea was calm, and I’d no fear of gettin’ queasy. We leaned on the rail, watchin’ the gulls wheel about, takin’ in the fresh air. It felt like we hadn’t slowed down like this in donkey’s years.
“First thing, Johnny, is a stop in Mohill, County Leitrim. That’s where Da and Tommy McHugh had their scrap. They’ve four taverns there, and we might have to nose about all of ’em to get what we’re after. What d’ye say?”
“Since when have I ever said no to a pint and a bit of craic?”
“The first one’s O’Brien’s Tavern. It’s supposed to be a proper Irish pub. They say it’s cozy, run by Jim and Phil O’Brien, and part of some guesthouse called The Traveller’s Rest. Sounds like a spot worth checkin’ out.”
“Sounds like heaven. Let’s grab a bite first, though. Can’t interview locals on an empty belly.”
The tavern was a grey buildin’ with white trim and black mullions. A swinging a sign announced The Traveller’s Rest. Inside, the reviews were tacked on the wall. One said, ‘Typical old Irish pub. Lovely landlady, friendly staff, no frills.’ Another called it ‘A warm, welcoming tavern—highly recommended.’ Debby’s note simply said, ‘Great people, great craic.’
The place had a good vibe, so we grabbed a table near the door, just in case trouble found us. Phil O’Brien himself came over and greeted us. “Good afternoon, gents. What can I get ye to start?”
“Two Guinness’s and the menu, if ye don’t mind.”
“Menu’s on the chalkboard by the till. I’ll have your pints in a jiffy.”
When he came back with the drinks, I asked, “Which way’s the cemetery? We’re lookin’ for Danny McHugh’s grave. He passed about twenty-five years back at the fair. D’ye know who might remember the details of what happened?”
“Ah, twenty-five years, that’s a stretch. But I’ll ask me brother, Jim. If he doesn’t know, he might point ye to someone who does.”
After a fine bowl of stew apiece, we followed Phil’s suggestion and made for the Leitrim Observer. A kind woman behind the desk led us to the archives, where she asked, “What exactly are ye lookin’ for? Might be I can save ye some trouble?”
“Danny McHugh’s obituary and any articles about his death, if you’d be so kind.”
“Oh, Danny McHugh. A bit of a rogue, that one, but folks were fair gutted when he died. Me husband was a reporter back then. He’d know better than anyone. Let’s have a rummage.”
She led us to the basement and pulled the October 1910 papers. “Here we are—the obituary and the article. I remember me husband fussin’ over every word, what with old Eoghan McHugh breathin’ down his neck.”
“Could we have a chat with him? Does he still work here?”
“No, love. He retired last year. Bad back and all. But he’s at home, just a short walk away. If we’ve the time, come by for supper. Andy loves visitors, and I’ll make ye a proper feed.”
She scribbled her location—white house with a big veranda and a green Morris Minor out front. She promised to call Andy to expect us.
Later, we found Andy on the veranda, paper in hand. He looked up and smiled. “You must be the lads Agnes told me about. Danny McHugh, was it?”
“That’s right. Your wife found the obituary and article for us. Can ye tell us more about it?”
“Ah, Danny McHugh. That story was somethin’. Old man McHugh wanted final say on every word I wrote. Changed the whole tone of it, he did.”
“And what would ye have written without Eoghan’s interference?”
“Now, tell me this—why’re ye askin’ after Danny McHugh, twenty-five years on?”
I laid it all out for him—the feud, the fight, and the bounty on me da’s head. Andy listened keenly, then said, “Well, Paddy, that’s a tale worth tellin’. I’d be happy to dig up what ye need for yer lawyer. And if ye don’t mind, I’d like to write the whole thing meself—maybe even a book. That old bully Eoghan deserves a taste of his own medicine.” “That’s grand, Andy. Write what ye like. We just want the truth out in the open.”
Agnes called us in for supper, but not before Andy poured a round of whiskey in the parlour. The craic was mighty, and for the first time in years, I felt we were gettin’ somewhere.The next day Johnny and I went to Carlow to visit friends and family then drove Major to the ferry and then for Appleby.
I went directly to see Finn, “I’m glad to see you here, Paddy. I have new developments to talk to you about. I’ve issued a Temporary Order: If granted it provides protection until a full court hearing can be held, usually within a couple of weeks. At the hearing, both the petitioner and the respondent ,the person against whom the restraining order is sought, will have a chance to present their case at the hearing. Based on the evidence, the judge decides whether to issue a Final Order. If the judge finds sufficient evidence, they issue a restraining order that can last for a set period (e.g., months or years) or indefinitely, depending on the case and local laws. So, you and your family have protection from the court.
I nodded, feelin’ the weight of it all settlin’ in me chest. “Ma tells me yer heart’s not the best these days. How’s that treatin’ ye? I suppose there’s no runnin’ or jumpin’ allowed?”
“The doc says if I take it handy, I’ve a fair chance of livin’ to a ripe old age,” Da says, shrugging, though I could see the worry flickerin’ behind his smile.
“Well then,” I says, givin’ him a hearty clap on the shoulder, “we’ll make sure there’s no agro comin’ your way. Let’s keep it steady, Da. No more stressin’ about the McHughs. We’ll sort it together.”
Later, I caught up with Freddie again. He floated the idea of us joinin’ the Horse and Pony Club as a family. Says it’d make me case stronger if I were a proper member. He’s put out a few feelers, and it seems most of the members are backin’ us against the McHughs. They were shocked to the core to hear the McHughs had stooped so low as to put a price on a horseman’s head—me own head, no less. Freddie also suggested takin’ it to the guards, but I know well ye’ve no trust in the law.
I gave him a slow nod, a mix of doubt and somethin’ like hope gnawin’ at me. “I’ll talk to me da, Freddie. Thanks for stickin’ yer neck out.”
Freddie clapped me shoulder with a grin. “Ah, sure I’m only warmin’ up. Paddy, this is serious business ye’re caught up in. Self-defense or no, ye’re stuck in the middle of a vendetta. If Eoghan McHugh’s puttin’ a hundred-pound bounty on yer head, that’s no small potatoes. Lucky for ye, I’ve a mate, Finn O’Connor, who’s willin’ to help—pro bono, no less. No strings. What d’ye say we pay him a visit?”
“Lead the way, Freddie.”
We hoofed it over to a stone buildin’ with a brass plaque that read, Finley O’Connor, Solicitor. Freddie sweet-talked the receptionist, and sure enough, Mr. O’Connor had time for us. A portly fella with hair white as snow invited us in. His office was a mess of papers, but the furniture was sturdy, well-kept, like the man himself.
Freddie did the honors, introducin’ us. “This here’s Paddy Turlough,” he says.
“Paddy, can I call ye Paddy?”
“Sure thing. I’ve been called worse.”
“Right then. Freddie’s given me the lowdown. We’re on yer side, lad. First thing’s first: file a formal report with the peelers about this bounty. Makes it official-like. Any proof ye’ve got—letters, witnesses, what-have-ye—bring it forward. I’ll be draftin’ a defense for yer da as well. The law’s no saint, but it’s got teeth, and we’ll make sure they bite the right fella.”
I nodded, takin’ it all in. “Thanks, Mr. O’Connor. It means the world.”
He leaned forward, his tone firm but kind. “This ain’t just about winnin’ a case, Paddy. It’s about protectin’ ye and yer family. We’ll do it right, but it’ll take grit and cooperation. Keep yer wits about ye, lad.
“Thank you, Mr. O’Connor, finally my family can have some hope. Good day te ye.”
When we got outside Freddie asked me, “How do ye think it went?”
“Alright. Things are lookin’ up.
A week had gone by when Freddie catches me at the fair. He’s all business and says Finn O’Connor’s got some news for us, and we’re to meet him at his office.
We stroll in, and Finn’s already waitin’, puffin’ on his pipe like he’s been thinkin’ all day.
“Ah, Paddy, Freddie, come on in, lads,” says Finn, waving us to sit. He looks at me with a bit of a grin. “Paddy, I heard you joined the Horse and Pony Club. That’s a grand first step, boyo. It’ll get you in with some proper movers and shakers. Once they hear your tale and know you’re one of their own, they’ll bend over backwards to help ye.”
He leans in, dropping his voice just a touch. “Now, there’s been some news about your situation. Since you made that statement to the coppers, Eoghan McHugh’s been nicked. The charges are heavy—solicitation of murder, conspiracy, the whole kit and caboodle. The court didn’t fancy givin’ him bail at first, but his fancy solicitor spun a tale about him bein’ clean with the law, no flight risk, and all that shite. So, bail got set at twenty thousand pounds sterling. A fortune, sure enough, but it was paid in a heartbeat.”
He takes another drag off his pipe. “He’s under house arrest now, not allowed to so much as step out his front door. He’s been arraigned, pled not guilty, and he’s waitin’ for trial. What do you make of that, Paddy?”
I shift in my chair, feelin’ the weight of it all. “I’m worried he might hire some other thug to come after me or me da.”
Finn raises a hand to steady me. “Paddy, listen. He’s already charged with conspiracy and solicitation. If there’s so much as a sniff of him makin’ another move, he’ll be tossed back in the clink faster than you can say ‘bloody eejit.’”
I nod, and Finn keeps on. “Now, here’s the rub, lad. You need to gather statements from your kin and anyone who saw what happened with Danny. We’re goin’ with self-defence, but we need to paint the picture clear as day for the jury. Are you followin’ me?”
“Aye, Finn, I’m with you. I’ll hop the ferry back to Carlow soon as I can. I’ll track down anyone who saw the scuffle, get their stories in writing, and bring ’em back to you.”
Finn smiles, pleased with my answer. “That’s the ticket, Paddy. And don’t forget to tell your da the news. Let him know things are movin’ in the right direction. It’ll be the first step to gettin’ him out from under this cloud and livin’ a quiet life again.”
“Aye, I’ll let him know. Thanks, Finn.”
With that, we shake hands, and I leave, feelin’ like there’s a bit of light at the end of this long, dark tunnel.
A trip to Mohill’s on the cards. I track down Johnny and give him the lowdown.
“Johnny, would ye fancy a jaunt back to Carlow and Mohill?”
“Sure, Paddy. What’s the rush?”
“Pack yer things, I’ll spill the beans on the way.”
“Grand, I’ve been wonderin’ what’s been happenin’ since we left.”
We loaded the wagon and made tracks for the ferry terminal, where the boat was waitin’. I settled Major below deck while Johnny and a trip to Mohill’s on the cards. I track down Johnny and give him the lowdown.
“Johnny, would ye fancy a jaunt back to Carlow?”
“Sure, Paddy. What’s the rush?”
“Pack yer things, I’ll spill the beans on the way.”
“Grand, I took a stroll topside. The sea was calm, and I’d no fear of gettin’ queasy. We leaned on the rail, watchin’ the gulls wheel about, takin’ in the fresh air. It felt like we hadn’t slowed down like this in donkey’s years.
“First thing, Johnny, is a stop in Mohill, County Leitrim. That’s where Da and Tommy McHugh had their scrap. They’ve four taverns there, and we might have to nose about all of ’em to get what we’re after. What d’ye say?”
“Since when have I ever said no to a pint and a bit o’ craic?”
“The first one’s O’Brien’s Tavern. It’s supposed to be a proper Irish pub. They say it’s cozy, run by Jim and Phil O’Brien, and part of some guesthouse called The Traveller’s Rest. Sounds like a spot worth checkin’ out.”
“Sounds like heaven. Let’s grab a bite first, though. Can’t interview locals on an empty belly.”
The tavern was a grey buildin’ with white trim and black mullions. Above the front window swung a sign: The Traveller’s Rest. Inside, the reviews were tacked on the wall. One said, ‘Typical old Irish pub. Lovely landlady, friendly staff, no frills.’ Another called it ‘A warm, welcoming tavern—highly recommended.’ Debby’s note simply said, ‘Great people, great craic.’
The place had a good vibe, so we grabbed a table near the door, just in case trouble found us. Phil O’Brien himself came over and greeted us.
“Good afternoon, gents. What can I get ye to start?”
“Two Guinness’s and the menu, if ye don’t mind.”
“Menu’s on the chalkboard by the till. I’ll have your pints in a jiffy.”
When he came back with the drinks, I asked, “Which way’s the cemetery? We’re lookin’ for Danny McHugh’s grave. He passed about twenty-five years back at the fair. D’ye know who might remember the details of what happened?”
“Ah, twenty-five years, that’s a stretch. But I’ll ask me brother, Jim. If he doesn’t know, he might point ye to someone who does.”
“Good afternoon, gents. Are you the ones looking for information concerning Danny McHugh?”
“That would be us.”
“I don’t know anything about him, but our newspaper, The Leitrim Observer goes back to 1889. They should have archives with the information you’re looking for.”
“Thanks, much obliged.”
After a fine bowl of stew apiece, we followed Jim’s suggestion and made for the Leitrim Observer. A kind woman behind the desk led us to the archives, where she asked, “What exactly are ye lookin’ for? Might be I can save ye some trouble.”
“Danny McHugh’s obituary and any articles about his death, if you’d be so kind.”
“Oh, Danny McHugh. A bit of a rogue, that one, but folks were fair gutted when he died. Me husband was a reporter back then. He’d know better than anyone. Let’s have a rummage.”
She led us to the basement and pulled the October 1910 papers. “Here we are—the obituary and the article. I remember me husband fussin’ over every word, what with old Eoghan McHugh breathin’ down his neck.”
“Could we have a chat with him? Does he still work here?”
“No, love. He retired last year. Bad back and all. But he’s at home, just a short walk away. If ye’ve the time, come by for supper. Andy loves visitors, and I’ll make ye a proper feed.”
She scribbled her address—white house with a big veranda and a green Morris Minor out front—and promised to call Andy to expect us.
Later, we found Andy on the veranda, paper in hand. He looked up and smiled.
“You must be the lads Agnes told me about. Danny McHugh was it you were interested in?”
“That’s right. Your wife found the obituary and article for us. Can ye tell us more about it?”
“Ah, Danny McHugh. That story was somethin’. Old man McHugh wanted final say on every word I wrote. Changed the whole tone of it, he did.”
“And what would ye have written without Eoghan’s interference?”
“Now, tell me this—why’re ye askin’ after Danny McHugh, twenty-five years on?”
I laid it all out for him—the feud, the fight, and the bounty on me da’s head. Andy listened keenly, then said, “Well, Paddy, that’s a tale worth tellin’. I’d be happy to dig up what ye need for yer lawyer. And if ye don’t mind, I’d like to write the whole thing meself—maybe even a book. That old bully Eoghan deserves a taste of his own medicine.” “That’s grand, Andy. Write what ye like. We just want the truth out in the open.”
Agnes called us in for supper, but not before Andy poured a round of whiskey in the parlour. The craic was mighty, and for the first time in years, I felt we were gettin’ somewhere.
The next day Johnny and I went to Carlow to visit friends and family, then drove Major to the ferry and then for England.
After returning to Appleby, I went directly to see Finn, “I’m glad to see you here, Paddy. I have new developments to talk to you about. I’ve issued a temporary order. If granted it provides protection until a full court hearing can be held, usually within a couple of weeks. At the hearing, both the petitioner and the respondent (the person against whom the restraining order is sought) will have a chance to present their case at the hearing. Based on the evidence, the judge decides whether to issue a final order. If the judge finds sufficient evidence, they issue a restraining order that can last for a set period, for example months or years, or indefinitely, depending on the case and local laws. So, you and your family have protection from the court.
“That’s music to me ears, Finn,” says I, letting out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “What else have ye got for me?”
“Well, Eoghan McHugh came callin’, all full of bluster like a cock in a henhouse. I told him straight—‘Ye’re not in Mohill now, Eoghan, throwin’ yer weight ‘round. Here, we’ve got the guards and the courts to sort out what’s what.’ Then I laid it out for him, every last bit. I told him he’d threatened a victim with death, tried to hire someone for murder, got his mates in on a conspiracy, and riled folks up to violence—all over the stretch of twenty-five years, mind ye. He tried to brush it off, sayin’, ‘Ah sure, I’d never’ve gone through with it, I just wanted them to feel me pain after losin’ me boy.’ Then he comes out with, ‘Ye’ll be wantin’ me to apologize to both the Paddy Turloughs, is it?’”
Finn snorted and shook his head. “I told him plain, ‘A bit of remorse might shave some time off, but it won’t wipe the slate clean. Mr. McHugh,’ says I, ‘I don’t think ye grasp how deep in the muck ye are. Let me spell it out: Threatenin’ with death could land ye up to ten years in the clink. Solicitation of murder? Ye’re lookin’ at life. Conspiracy to murder? Same deal. Incitin’ violence? That’s another two to five years, dependin’ on how the judge feels. Add it all up, and ye could go in and never see the light of day again. Yer reign of terror’s over.’ That cracked him, Paddy. The man broke down like a roof in a storm and shuffled out of me office, a broken shell.”
“Ye’re a wonder, Finn,” says I, feelin’ the weight liftin’ from me shoulders. “Me and me da can finally sleep easy. So what now? What’s the step?”
“We wait. Prepare for a long legal battle—this ain’t a quick resolution, but time is on your side. It can only get better from here on.”
“I can’t wait to tell me ma and me da. After all this time they’ll be thrilled. Thank ye so much, Finn. I didn’t think this was possible.”
Finn brought out a bottle and we celebrated with a very fine scotch.
I drove Esmeralda to visit me da and ma. When they saw me varda pull up, they were both on the veranda waving. I gave them both a hug and said, “It’s almost over, ye both can breathe easy. This deserves a drink.”
“Come in, son, tell us the news that’s got ye so excited.” I explained my visit with Finn and recounted our conversation. Both me parents were in tears. Then they danced around the kitchen. “Ye’ve released us from the bonds of sorrow to that of extreme happiness. We can never thank ye enough son. Ye’ve made us proud and have given us our liv our lives back. What will ye be doin’ now. Will ye stay in England or return to Carlow?”
“I don’t know England at all, but my place is here.” There were hugs all around, and the whisky flowed. I’d have to get to know my way around Appleby. I’ll visit Seamus O’Malley, he said, ‘If ye ever need a job, it’s yours.’ So, I’m going to drop by Shamrock Hill and see if his offer is still on the table.
“If that doesn’t work out, I’m sure we can figure something. I’ll check at the stable where I’m working to see if they need stable hands.”
First thing the next mornin’, I harnessed Major, hitched her to Esmeralda, and off we went to Shamrock Hill Stables. Soon as we arrived, Seamus comes out to greet us.
“Well now, are ye here to buy yerself a horse?”
“Not today, Seamus. I’m hopin’ to find work in yer stables.”
“Ah, grand! Can I show ye around?”
“I’d appreciate that, and if ye could point me toward any horses that might need extra care, I’d be obliged. By the by, do ye play any music for the horses here? When I’m on the road with Major, she’s mad about me guitar. She’s got her favorite tunes, and I steer clear o’ lullabies ‘til it’s time for her to sleep. Anything else I should know about this stable that’s worth keepin’ in mind?”
“Not much else, lad. Are ye ready to start straight away? If so, the job’s yers.”
“No time like now, Seamus.”
“Right so. Go about it the way ye know best. I’ll steer clear but be nearby if ye’ve got questions.”
I took a look around to get me bearings—the feed bins, tools for muckin’ out stalls, liniment for achy muscles, and the like. That’s when me eye landed on a massive black Shire Horse standin’ tall, at least 16, maybe 18 hands, with feathered legs that looked like they belonged to royalty. A big lad he was, strong as a train but with a calm air about him. The nameplate said Midnight.
I approached him slow-like from the left, callin’ his name soft under me breath. I had a sugar cube in me palm, and he took it like a gentleman, all polite and careful. After that, I scratched him under his mane and along his withers, right where they like it best. Then, feelin’ bold, I pressed me face to his cheek. Midnight lowered his grand head, sniffed at me cheek, and let out a soft nicker. I reckon I’ve found meself a new mate.
From there, I took to walkin’ the horses in the round pen, givin’ each a turn. Once they’d had their bit of exercise, I bedded them down for the night
Early next mornin’, before the rest of the lads had even stirred, I was already standin’ in the dim light of the stable. Me breath puffed out in little white clouds as I rubbed me hands together to fight off the chill. The air was thick with the smell of hay, damp earth, and the faint musk of horses. I tipped me flat cap down and took a look along the row of stalls. Hooves shuffled, and the horses gave the odd snort now and then. Aye, it felt like home.
“This is it, boyo,” I muttered under me breath, grippin’ the pitchfork like it was a lifeline. “No turnin’ back now.”
The Shamrock Hills Stable wasn’t much to look at—dirt floors with hoofprints dug deep, and wooden beams above that looked ready to splinter with the next strong gust. But to a fella like meself, fresh off the road and itchin’ for a bit of honest graft, it might as well have been a palace.
I started the day early, pokin’ about in the tack room up at the north end of the stable. It wasn’t a big space, maybe ten by fifteen feet, but it was packed tight with saddle racks, bridle hooks, shelves, and a workbench that had seen better days. I set meself to work, cleanin’, oilin’, and fixin’ saddles, bridles, and whatnot. Couldn’t have the gear lettin’ the horses down.
It wasn’t long before Old Seamus came hobblin’ in, his cane tappin’ on the floor with every step. “Paddy!” he barked, his voice as rough as a dockside rope. “You’ll be startin’ with Dancer in stall three. Nervy fella, so mind yer hands.”
“Aye, Seamus,” I nodded. “Did ye check the tack room? I gave it a go this mornin’. Did I do somethin’ wrong?”
Seamus chuckled, a rare thing. “Wrong? Far from it, lad. Tack’s never looked finer. Saddles oiled, bridles neat, floor raked clean. Well done.”
That put a bit of pride in me chest. I nodded again and headed for Dancer’s stall. The chestnut gelding was a tall, wiry sort, his eyes watchin’ me like I might sprout wings any second. “Easy now, lad,” I said soft, my voice low and calm as I stepped inside. “I’m not here to give ye bother.”
I took me time, workin’ slow and steady. The pitchfork made short work of the muck, and I spread fresh straw nice and neat. All the while, Dancer kept his big eyes on me, his ears twitchin’ at every scrape and clatter. I knew how he felt, out of place and wary. It was like lookin’ in a mirror.
Just as I finished, a sharp voice broke the stillness. “Oi, new lad!” I turned quick and saw a lass leanin’ on the stable door. She had dark hair tucked under a flat cap and eyes that sparkled with the devil’s own mischief.
“Not bad with the fork, are ye?” she said, smirkin’. “But let’s see if ye can handle somethin’ with a bit more kick.”
“And who might ye be?” I asked, standin’ straight and brushin’ the straw off me trousers.
“Maeve O’Connell,” she said, still grinnin’. “Trainer’s assistant. Word is, ye’ve got a knack with horses.”
I scratched the back of me neck. “Word does get about fast here, doesn’t it?”
“Faster than a hare on a windy night,”
she shot back. “Come on, then. There’s a colt out back needs mindin’. They say he’s trouble, but I reckon he just needs someone to listen.”
She led me to the paddock, where a sleek black colt pawed at the ground, his ears flat and his eyes blazin’. “That’s Storm,” Maeve said. “He’s young, fiery, and doesn’t trust a soul.”
I approached slow, holdin’ me hand out. Storm’s nostrils flared, and he tossed his head like he might bolt. “Easy there, lad,” I murmured. “We’ve all had our rough patches.”
A minute passed, then another. Storm edged closer, his muzzle brushin’ me fingers. I’d stashed a sugar cube in me palm, and he nibbled it careful-like.
Maeve let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be. He doesn’t usually warm to strangers. After Storm warms to Paddy, Maeve quips, “Don’t let it go to yer head, lad. One horse likin’ ye doesn’t make ye the second comin’ of Saint Patrick.”
I gave her a crooked smile. “Maybe he knows I’m not here to break him.”
“So, Paddy, do you treat your women as well as you treat horses?”
“Why, I’d never compare a woman to a horse. And as far as my women are concerned, It’s only me, Auntie Maire, and and me Cousin Brid. I’ve only just found me ma after she left twenty years ago. I’ve been on the road so long I’ve never had a relationship with a woman to treat well or badly. Aye, there have been women at the horse fairs but, considering that my work depends on my reputation, I’m obliged to treat every person with dignity and respect; otherwise, I’d have no customers at all.”
“Good answer. I think you’ll do well here.”
As the sun crept higher, paintin’ the fields in gold, I felt a flicker of somethin’ I hadn’t felt in years—hope. Shamrock Hills wasn’t just a stable. It was a chance to build somethin’, to belong. For a raggle-taggle Traveller like meself, that was worth more than all the gold in the world. The days that followed were all similar; feed and water checks, muck out the stalls, adding fresh straw, brushing, and curryin’, cleaning hooves, and walking the gentle beasts.
The next morning I arrived fresh and eager. Seamus welcomed me, “Mornin, Paddy, ye’ll start with Storm, who ye’ve already met. I hear ye’ve also met Maeve, she’s a good girl, but likes to trick the new hands, so be on your guard.”
“Aye, Seamus, I suspected that. She seems to have a lot of fire.”
“That she does, Son.”
I sidled up to Storm, nice and slow-like, not wantin’ to spook the big lad. Had an apple in me pocket for him today – far better than the sugar cube I slipped him yesterday. He gave a soft nicker, takin’ the apple from me open hand as gentle as you please. While he munched away, I gave him a rub under his mane and along his withers. He let out a wee snort, tellin’ me he was right pleased with the attention.
Once I’d fed and watered all the horses and mucked out the stalls – a job that’ll put hair on your chest, let me tell ye – I came back to Storm. Gave him a proper groomin’ and led him out to the paddock. I went through the same routine with the other horses, and before I knew it, it was midday, and my belly was remindin’ me it was time for a bite.As I was makin’ me way out the stable door, I near bumped into Maeve. “Good mornin’ to ye,” says I.
“Mornin’ to ye,” she said, flashin’ a cheeky grin.
“Mornin’ to ye, too. How was yer first impression of me, then? Sure, I mustn’t’ve scared ye off if yer back today.”
“Any day with horses is a grand day in my book.”
“Well now,” she said with a smirk, “ye gave me the fright of me life yesterday. Walkin’ into the tack room and findin’ everythin’ cleaned and oiled, I thought some new fella was makin’ a play for me job. Seamus set me straight, said it was the new hand takin’ some initiative.”
I shrugged, a bit sheepish, “Didn’t mean to ruffle any feathers. I was on me own and just did what needed doin’.”
“Ah, no harm done,” she said, her smile softenin’. “Now let’s grab a bite to eat.”
“I’ve got a spread back in me vardo. Come have a gander and take yer pick.”
Come have a gander and take yer pick.”
“I’ll admit, I’m curious to see what it looks like in there,” she said with a raised brow.
“It’s snug, but I’ve made it as homey as ye can when yer livin’ on the road.”
She glanced around and let out a laugh. “Sure, it’s like a bordello on wheels! Don’t be tellin’ me ye don’t have ladies callin’ by.”
“Now that’s a poor read of me, Maeve,” I said, playin’ offended. “I’ve no such reputation.”
“Time’ll tell, Paddy. I’ve yet to make up me mind. Now, where’s this food ye were talkin’ about?”
“Ah, just the basics,” I said, showin’ her the stash. “Bread, apples, hard cheese, pickled cucumbers, jams, dried fruits, nuts, and seeds. I’d offer ye tea, but I’d have to build a fire first.”
“If ye could wait a bit, I could fire up me coal stove and heat ye some potato soup; that always goes good with bread and cheese, or maybe a hearty stew with potatoes, carrots, leeks, onions, beans, and cured beef. It’s surprisingly good.”
“Well, seein’ as Seamus is away, let’s have the stew. I’ll be the judge of whether it’s good or not, and I won’t be shy about tellin’ ye.”
“I’m sure ye won’t.”
After about twenty minutes, the stove was hot, and so was the stew.
“Paddy, this is grand! Where’d ye learn to cook like this? Ye’ll have to show me.”
“I’m glad ye like it. Me Auntie Maire taught me a thing or two. Picked up some tricks on the road as well.”
After a fine meal, we headed back to the stable, our bellies full and the air between us lighter than before.
The next mornin’, Seamus greeted me with a knowing look. “I hear ye and Maeve are gettin’ on well.”
“She’s a grand lass,” I said, keepin’ me tone even. “Sharp as a tack, that one.”
“Aye, she is,” he nodded. “Now, about the work today. Storm’s warmed to ye, so ye’ll be takin’ him through his paces. Don’t let him pull the wool over yer eyes—he’s a smart one.”
“Aye, Seamus, I’ll handle him.”
I stepped into Storm’s stall, speakin’ soft. “Mornin’, lad. Let’s see what mischief ye’ve got in store for me today.”
The big colt flicked his ears, snortin’ as if he was as ready as I was. With a bit of patience and a steady hand, we worked through the mornin’, takin’ things one step at a time.
Maeve watched from the rail, her arms crossed, a smirk on her lips. “Not bad, Paddy. Maybe ye do know a thing or two.”
I tipped me hat. “Only ‘cause I learn from the best.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “Come on, then. I’ve an idea.”
“And what might that be?”
“A proper ride through the countryside. Just us, two fine horses, and the open road.”
I chuckled. “Sounds like a dream. Let’s do it.”
As we saddled up, I felt a strange sense of contentment settlin’ over me. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t just passin’ through. Maybe, just maybe, I’d found a place I could call home.
“I’ll admit, I’m curious to see what it looks like in there,” she said with a raised brow.
“It’s snug, but I’ve made it as homey as ye can when yer livin’ on the road.”
She glanced around and let out a laugh. “Sure, it’s like a bordello on wheels! Don’t be tellin’ me ye don’t have ladies callin’ by.”
“Now that’s a poor read of me, Maeve,” I said, playin’ offended. “I’ve no such reputation.”
“Time’ll tell, Paddy. I’ve yet to make up me mind. Now, where’s this food ye were talkin’ about?”
“Ah, just the basics,” I said, showin’ her the stash. “Bread, apples, hard cheese, pickled cucumbers, jams, dried fruits, nuts, and seeds. I’d offer ye tea, but I’d have to build a fire first.”
“If you could wait a bit, I could fire up my coal stove, and heat you some potato soup; that always goes good with bread and cheese, or hearty stew , with potatoes, of course, and carrots, leeks, onions, beans and cured beef. It’s surprisingly good.
Well, considerin’ that Seamus is away, let’s have the stew. I’ll be the judge of whether it’s good or not and I won’t be shy about telling ye.”
“I’m sure you won’t.”
After about twenty minutes the stove was hot and so was the stew.
“Paddy, this is wonderful. Where did you learn to cook like this. You’ll have to show me.”
I’m. glad you like it. Me Auntie taught me. Also, I got a few lessons on the road.
After a very delicious meal we headed back to the stable.
Calming a skittish horse requires patience, understanding, and skill. A good trainer focuses on building trust, minimizing stress, and using techniques that help the horse feel secure. Here are common methods:
“O’Connell—that’s an Irish name, is it not?”
”Did ye figure that out all on yer own, then? Aye, I’m from Dublin. Me Da brought us over lookin’ for work, so he did. I didn’t have much choice in the matter, but I’ve no regrets. Whereabouts in Ireland are ye from?”
”Carlow. We’d have been neighbours, what with it bein’ just an hour by bus—or much longer if I were travelin’ with Esmeralda, pulled by Major. I know Dublin well enough. Truth be told, I know all of Ireland, especially the towns with horse and pony shows.”
“So, ye went to the horse shows often. Why was that?”
”Me and Johnny traded horses, repaired tack, and sold new bits and pieces. Sometimes we’d take odd items in trade for repairs, then sell those as well. To draw a crowd, I’d play me guitar, and Johnny and I would sing—or he’d do a jig or two.”
“Quite the pair of entertainers, weren’t ye? Ye’ll have to play yer guitar for me sometime.”
”Anytime ye’d like. Me guitar’s always in Esmeralda. Bye the bye, I noticed on our work schedules that 1:00 is for training and riding. I was wonderin’ that since I’m new to the country, and don’t know my way around that you could act as my tour guide and show me around?”
We saddled up and set off, the tour kickin’ off proper-like.
“So, it’s a bit of showin’ around you’re after, is it? And you want me to be your guide? That’s some cheek you’ve got, but sure, since you’re the new lad, I might be able to oblige. Right so, here’s my best tour guide voice for ye: Appleby, a grand little town tucked in the lush Eden Valley of Cumbria, is bursting with history and charm. With its rollin’ green hills and the River Eden wending its way through, it’s a proper spot for a bit of heritage and a breath of fresh air. Will that do for you?”
“Ah, Maeve, that’s top class! Where are we off to first?”
“Well, we’ll start in the heart of the town—Boroughgate. It’s the pride of Appleby, don’t you know. One of the prettiest main streets in all of England, they say. It’s lined with fine old buildings, little shops, and cozy cafés. And don’t be forgettin’ the Market Hall, where the locals sell all manner of things. A grand place to soak in the town’s spirit.”
“Sounds fantastic, Maeve.” “Now it’s your turn, Paddy—tell “Now it’s your turn, Paddy—tell me about the Horse Fair.”
“Alright, then. Here goes: Appleby’s best known for its Horse Fair every June. It’s a right lively affair, where the Romani and Traveller folk gather to buy and sell horses, show ’em off, and keep their traditions alive. It’s been goin’ on for over 300 years. The town comes alive with visitors, all after a bit of the craic and the spectacle. What do ye make of that?”
“Well done, Paddy. “Next stop, The Royal Oak. It’s an old coaching inn from way back in the 18th century. It’s the kind of place with low beams, a roaring fire, and a good pint on tap. They’ve got hearty food and plenty of charm. What d’ye reckon?”
“Ah, it sounds like heaven itself.”
“Well, meself and a few pals are gatherin’ there around 8 o’clock. You’re welcome to join us if you’ve a mind to.”
“Maeve, are you askin’ me out on a date?”
“Not a date, you cheeky divil! Just a chance to meet some of the locals. And I know you’ve a fondness for a drop of ale. So, what d’ye say?”
“What can I say, Maeve? I’d be delighted. 8 o’clock, you say? I’ll be there with bells on.”
“Sweet suffering saints, don’t be wearin’ bells! It’s nothin’ fancy. Just leave your stable rags behind and you’ll do fine.”
“Fair enough. I’ll see you at 8.”
The hour rolled around, and I found meself standin’ in front of The Royal Oak. It’s a grand old place, stone-built with walls weathered by time but lookin’ all the better for it. A swinging sign with a sturdy oak tree hangs above the entrance, proud as you like.
Inside, the warmth of a blazing fire hit me straight away, set in a big stone fireplace that looked like it could swallow you whole. Low beams ran across the ceiling, and the stone floors told stories of countless boots that had crossed them. There was a stage tucked away in a corner, ready for a tune or a tale, depending on the night.
“Oi, Paddy, over here!” Maeve’s voice carried across the room. She was at a table with a half dozen others, all friendly faces. She waved me over and pushed out a chair. “This here’s Paddy,” she said. “A new stable mate of mine, from Carlow. Paddy, this is Rob, Janice, Vicki, Gerald, Tom, and Jane.”
Jane was the first to pipe up. “Not to put you on the spot, but Maeve tells us you’re handy with a guitar and a song. Any chance we might coax a tune or two out of you later?”
“Well, I’d need a drink or two first. Do they serve Jameson here?”
“Now, now, Jane,” Maeve said, “give the lad a moment to settle in before you start twistin’ his arm.”
“Paddy,” Maeve added, “they don’t have Jameson, but they’ve a fine scotch. I’ll get you one.”
With a glass of Glenlivet in hand, I began to relax. “Jane asked me to tell you about meself. Like Maeve said, I’m from Carlow. Most of what I do is follow the horse shows, mendin’ saddles and leather goods, buyin’ and sellin’ horses, and givin’ valuations. Me vardo’s parked outside, if you’re curious. That should tell you plain enough—I’m a Traveller.”
Tom raised his glass. “Well, Paddy, you’re a welcome guest here in Appleby. I hope you find the town and its folk to your liking.”
I nodded, raising my glass in return. “So far, so good. Not everyone welcomes Travellers, but you lot seem like good company.”
After a few glasses of Glenlivet, I was feelin’ the buzz. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll fetch me guitar from Esmeralda outside.”
When I returned, I made straight for the stage. With a nod to Maeve and her friends, I launched into The Whistling Gypsy Rover, followin’ it up with Molly Malone and the lively strains of The Irish Washerwoman. By the end of it, the room was clappin’ and cheerin’, and I felt right at home.
Overall, The Royal Oak feels like stepping into a warm embrace—a blend of rustic charm, traditional pub elements, and understated sophistication that captures the essence of Cumbria. I’m feeling the buzz and Maeve has a smile on her face. I drive her home in Esmeralda.
“Thank you, kind sir, it’s been a most enjoyable evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thank you, Maeve, it was you that made the evening enjoyable. See you tomorrow, bright and early.”
When I arrived back at me parents place, I sat on Esmeralda’s steps for a while enjoying the moonlight and thinking that all was well with the world as long as that world included Maeve.
The following morning, I was met with a crisis. Star, a prize gelding that was boarding with us was missing. Micheal was in a panic, as was Maeve.
Micheal almost in tears said, “That horse was being groomed as a prize racehorse.
“How can I help, Micheal? I know the big man himself, the Chairman of the Horse and Pony Club. Sure, he’s a grand fella, and I’ve no doubt he and his lot would lend a hand if needs be. The Travellers too – they’re always good for a bit of help when it comes to horses. I’ve worked with Star meself, and he’s a right cracker of a stallion. Fast as the wind and smart as a whip. He’d do well on the circuit, so he would. “Right, lads – and Maeve – let’s get to it and find that horse. Jimmy, head north towards Great Ormsby. Richard, you take east and see what’s stirring near Hilton. George, ye do the same but head for Newby. Gerald, you’re for Dufton up north. Paddy, you’ve got the connections with the Horse and Pony Club, aye? See what they can dig up for us. And don’t forget the Travellers – we’ll need all the help we can get. Keep in mind, our jobs and Shamrock Stables are on the line if we don’t bring Star back.
This is the report we gave to the newspapers—Star, the prized racehorse of Shamrock Hills Stables, has vanished like a whisper in the night. Seamus and Sarah O’Malley, shaken but resolute, have wasted no time calling the local constabulary. Sarah’s voice trembled as she explained how every latch and lock had been secured tight the night before. The dispatcher, calm as you like, promised that officers would be dispatched straight away.
The local police didn’t dawdle. Detective Walter Richardson, a sharp mind with years in the field, led the charge, arriving at Shamrock Hills with a team in tow. They scoured the scene for clues—photographs snapped, every footprint, tire track, and stray strand of hay examined under the morning light. The first officers on-site spoke gently to the O’Malleys, trying to piece together the timeline: when had they last seen Star? Had anyone strange been sniffing around? Anything out of the ordinary in the days before the theft?
Meanwhile, Officer Wainwright took to the surrounding area, knocking on doors and chatting with the neighbors. Rural folk are a close-knit bunch, after all, and if anything peculiar had caught an eye or ear—a rumbling engine in the dead of night, or an unfamiliar figure skulking about—it was bound to be remembered. But so far, there isn’t a peep.
It didn’t take long for the constabulary to realize this wasn’t some opportunistic lark. Whoever nicked Star know exactly what they’re doing. Stealing a thoroughbred like her? That’s no small-time crime—it’s organized, calculated, and worth a king’s ransom. The local force called in reinforcements, reaching out to regional units with expertise in equine theft and organized crime.
The stakes only grow higher now that the possibility of Star being whisked abroad came up. The National Crime Agency (NCA) has been alerted to bring their weight to the investigation. Border Force officials are stationed at ports and airports, watching for any suspicious movement of livestock. We’ve contacted INTERPOL, in case this is part of a larger international racket. Star’s reputation and pedigree aren’t just known in England—buyers across Europe will pay handsomely for a horse of his caliber, stolen or not.
Back in the village, the police turned to technology and local knowledge. CCTV cameras at nearby petrol stations and shops were combed for suspicious vehicles. Auction houses and racing clubs were warned to be on the lookout for anyone trying to move a high-value horse under a false name or registration.
Even veterinarians were contacted, reminded to check microchip records or report any unusual requests for treatment.
Through all this, the O’Malleys stay hopeful. Seamus, a man not easily rattled, paced the stable yard, casting a wary eye over his remaining horses, while Sarah kept the phone close, ready to answer any call. They know the community will rally around them—Star isn’t just their horse, he’s a symbol of pride for everyone who’s seen him race.
The investigation is only just beginning, and already the stakes are enormous. Will Star be found before he vanishes across the Channel? Will the culprits be brought to justice? One thing is certain—the O’Malleys won’t rest until their beloved horse is home.
“How can I help ye, Micheal? I know the big man himself, the Chairman of the Horse and Pony Club. Sure, he’s a grand fella, and I’ve no doubt he and his lot would lend a hand if needs be. The Travellers too – they’re always good for a bit of help when it comes to horses. I’ve worked with Star meself, and he’s a right cracker of a stallion. Fast as the wind and smart as a whip. He’d do well on the circuit, so he would. “Right, lads – and Maeve – let’s get to it and find that horse. Jimmy, head north towards Great Ormsby. Richard, you take east and see what’s stirring near Hilton. George, ye do the same but head for Newby. Gerald, you’re for Dufton up north. Paddy, you’ve got the connections with the Horse and Pony Club, aye? See what they can dig up for us. And don’t forget the Travellers – we’ll need all the help we can get. Keep in mind, our jobs and Shamrock Stables are on the line if we don’t bring Star back.
While the police are beginning their investigation, my first stop is Finn O’Connor – ye know, the big man at the Horse and Pony Club. He’s a proper gent, so he is, and glad to see me, as always. ‘Paddy, me boy, what brings ye here? Have ye landed yerself in trouble again? What’s the craic?”
“Ah, no trouble this time, Mr. O’Connor,’ says I. ‘I’m workin’ over at Shamrock Hills Stables now. One of our finest horses – Star – has been nicked, so he has. A grand runner, too, and a sure prizewinner if he has the chance. I’ve been workin’ with him meself and he’s got the makings of somethin’ special.”
“Right, Paddy, let’s start with the basics. What does he look like?”
“Well, says I, Star’s an English thoroughbred stallion. Fast as anything you’ve ever seen, with legs long enough to outrun the devil. He’s a chestnut stallion, lean, and built like a dream, with a white star right there on his forehead.” I pointed to my forehead.
“That’s all well and good, Paddy, but I’ll tell ye straight – that description could fit half the horses at the Grand National.”
“Fair enough,’ says I. ‘But there’s the little things that only I’d know – the way he calls out when he sees me, how he acts when I give him a scratch under the mane or along his withers.”
“That’s grand for you, Paddy,’ says O’Connor, but not much use for the rest of us lookin’ for him. Whoever took her will likely steer clear of the races for a while. They’ll be afraid of him bein’ spotted. And it’ll take a good long while for him to warm up to a new trainer.”
“Aye, that’s true,’ says I. ‘They’ll need to get new papers for him, change his name and pedigree if they want to pass him off as someone else. And horses like him aren’t easy to care for – they’ll need top-notch feed, regular trainin’, and a good vet. Any slip-up and he’ll not perform the way he should.”
“Right,” O’Connor nods. “We’ll need people sniffin’ around for any private racing spots – the kind of place where they could train him in secret. And if they’ve half a brain, they might not even race him. They’d try breedin’ him instead, using his pedigree to turn a profit without drawing too much attention. If they’re smart, they’ll look to sell him abroad, somewhere the records aren’t as strict.”
“Well then,’ says I, “we’ll need to keep our eyes sharp and our ears to the ground. If anyone’s movin’ a horse like Star, we’ll know soon enough.”
After leaving Finn I returned to the stable to find Maeve, saddling her horse in order to join the search for Star.
“Maeve, I’m glad I caught you. De ye mind if I tag along with you in the search? I don’t know my way around the countryside. I’ll probably just be wasting my time and getting lost.”
“Sure, let’s head first to Ivy House Equestrian Centre near Brampton. It’s just a couple of miles north.“
The owners saw us coming and welcomed us, “Hello, Maeve, so good to see you. How’s Seamus?”
“Poorly at present. Star one of our prize racehorses has been stolen. We’re checkin’ all the nearby stables in case anyone has seen any suspicious people or activities in the last day or so. I checked last night and everything was secure. Stealing a horse like Star would have required a lot of advance planning. I’m sure it wasn’t anyone local. Apart from that I have no idea.”
“I remember Star, a beautiful horse to be sure. Come in for a cuppa and tell us everything. Who’s the gentleman with ye? Is it a boyfriend?”
“No, not a boyfriend, Mrs. Gibson, I barely know the lad. This is Paddy Turlough from Carlow. He’s a new stable hand at Shamrock.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet ye, Paddy. Me husband, Charles, is in the stables. I’ll give him a holler.”
“Now you two have a Seat in the kitchen and I’ll fix us a brew.”
“Here comes Charles, he must have seen the strange horses in the yard. Charles, you remember Maeve, and this is Paddy. They’ve brought some distressing news. Star, their prize racehorse has been stolen. Can you imagine that? I can’t remember when the neighbourhood last had a horse stolen.”
” That is indeed distressing news. If they stole from you, we or some of our neighbors, could be next. I’ll get on the phone to warn them. What can we do to help?”
“Telling your neighbours is the first step. Hopefully, someone has seen strange people or activities in the last couple of days. That’ll give the police something to go on. We don’t expect that it’s someone local. Star will be hard to sell around here. We suspect that they may try to sell him on the continent. Interpol will definitely be involved. We should be going. There are more people we have to see.”
‘Thanks for the warning. We sure hope that Star is being well cared for. He’s a beautiful animal. Let us know how the search is going. We’ll be glad to join you.”
“Thank you both, for the tea and for your offer to help.”
“Sure, you’ve places to be. Best o’ luck with the search!”
On the way back, Maeve turned to me, “Paddy, I’d like to drop by a few Traveller camps near Appleby. Will you introduce me to some of your friends?”
“No bother,” I said. “They’re sound folk, always quick with a handshake and a story. There are a few campsites on the road in.”
We spotted a cluster of vardos and wandered over to introduce ourselves. “Aye, Paddy!” one of the men said, lighting up when he saw me. “I remember you from the fair! You were pokin’ about for news of your folks. Any joy with that?”
“Sorted, thanks be to God. Found them at last. But now we’re huntin’ after Star, a thoroughbred stallion from the Shamrock Stables. He’s a cracker—chestnut, built like a dream, with a white mark on his forehead. Quick as the wind, too. Have you heard of any shady carry-on or seen any dodgy sorts hangin’ about?”
“Robbed, is she? Well, there’s always a few shifty eejits knockin’ about, but none with a racehorse like that. Sorry, mate. We’ll be in touch with the Traveller community. Everyone will be willing to help find a horse in distress. I hope he’s bein’ treated well. If not, I wouldn’t want to be one of them thieves if we catch up with them.”
We tipped our hats to the stable folk and made our way to Leacett Cottage Riding Centre in Penrith. A small, friendly, and dedicated horse livery yard and horse holiday establishment with a lifetime’s experience of horses. They offer taster sessions and advanced woodland hacks through scenic trails, suitable for various skill levels.
We told them about Star’s disappearance. They consoled us about the loss, but couldn’t offer us any information that could lead to recovery. The owner is recuperating from an operation and takes medication for pain, that also causes deep sleep. If anything had happened he wouldn’t have heard it. The owners were grand people altogether, salt of the earth, but you could see the worry etched across their faces when they heard about Star’s disappearance. The idea of a theft so close to their patch had them fair shook, but they haven’t seen or heard so much as a whisper of anything strange.
Another place we stopped at was Low Close Stables in Tirril, Penrith. It’s a small, friendly, and dedicated horse livery yard and horse holiday establishment about 10 miles from Appleby.
On the way back to Shamrock stables we took to talking, “Maeve, tell me this—what was life like for you back in Dublin?”
“Ah, there’s not much to tell, really. Me parents were ordinary folk, me childhood was ordinary, and me life since movin’ to England has been… well, ordinary. What can I say?”
“Make up stories, then. What did you dream of bein’ when you were a little girl? Did you always want to work with horses? Or did you ever think about bein’ a nurse, or a vet? Did you ever wish for brothers or sisters? I just want to know more about you.”
“Well, if I’m honest, it’s like you said once—I’ve always preferred horses to people. I’m no good at openin’ up to others. It’s not that I don’t want to; I just can’t seem to find the words. Horses, though, they don’t need words. All they need is love, security, and someone dependable. I can do that, no bother. And you—well, I know you feel the same way. I’ve watched you, and I’ve seen it.”
“Maeve, you’re not wrong. We do have a lot in common. I’ve been watchin’ you too, and in you, I see meself. I’m glad to have you as a friend. I’ve never had many friends. Most of the time, it’s just me on the road, with no one to talk to but Major. And sometimes… well, sometimes that’s just not enough.”
I felt unsure of meself, fumblin’ for the right words, but they wouldn’t come. I’d never been in this spot before. Then, without warnin’, Maeve reached out, took my hand in hers, and looked at me, her eyes searchin’ mine. Before I could say a word, she leaned in and kissed me. I’ve kissed plenty of women before, but this—this was somethin’ else. It felt like we were the only two souls in the world. The scent of her hair, the warmth of her breath, it was all too much. She nestled her head against my shoulder, and for the first time in me life, I felt complete.
“Maeve,” I said softly, tryin’ not to ruin the moment, “I wasn’t expectin’ that… but I liked it. Maybe we could do it again sometime?”
She smiled shyly. “I don’t know what came over me, but I’ve wanted to do that since the first day I saw you at the stables. But it’s late, and I should be headin’ home.”
“May I drive you, then? I’m on me way to me parents’ place anyhow. It’s no trouble.”
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I’d like that, Paddy. I’d like it a lot.”
The drive was as quiet as the night itself. Neither of us spoke, but Maeve’s hand rested warm in mine, steady and reassuring. My chest felt tight, as if my heart was straining against its confines, threatening to burst out with every turn of the wheels. When we reached her door, I stepped down first, helping her from the bench seat, keeping her close. She lingered in my arms for a moment, her shy smile softening the night, then leaned up and kissed me, just a light brush, before slipping away through the door. And just like that, she was gone, leaving me standing there, wondering if it had all been real.
Morning broke over the stables, a pale light creeping across the fields. The usual sounds of the yard—snorts, nickers, and the rustle of hay—seemed hollow, empty somehow. Star’s absence loomed like a shadow, and the reality of it hit hard. I could feel it in my gut: he’d be scared, the poor boy. His world, the stable he knew so well, was gone. The familiar scents, the sounds, the people who loved him—taken.
Whoever had him now didn’t know him, didn’t care for him like we did. What did they want with him? What kind of people could do this to such a beautiful, innocent creature? The thought of him alone and frightened made my chest ache.
Maeve’s voice broke through my thoughts, soft but steady. “What’s on your mind, Paddy? You seem miles away.”
I sighed, turning to face her. “Yeah, I was thinkin’ about Star. Wonderin’ how he made it through the night. He must be terrified, Maeve. He doesn’t know these people, doesn’t know what’s goin’ on. His friends, the other horses, the lads who cared for him—they’re all gone. Even the stable itself, with its smells and sounds, is just a memory now. He must feel so alone.”
Her face softened, and she reached out, placing a hand on my arm. “I know. I’ve been thinkin’ the same. How could anyone do that to him? To take him away like that, as if he’s just a thing to be stolen…”
Her voice faltered, but she straightened herself and carried on. “And now, what happens next? What do they want from him? We don’t know. All we can do is wait and pray, I suppose. We’ll search, of course, but… sometimes it feels like that’s not enough.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. “We’ll find him, Maeve. We have to.”
Months ticked by, and not a whisper about Star. No news, no leads, nothin’. Then, just when hope was wearin’ thin, Seamus comes tearin’ into the stable, red in the face and shoutin’ like a madman, “Star’s been found! The daft blighters got themselves nabbed at the docks in Hull! Sarah, come here! You were on the blower too. Between the two of us, we’ll piece it together.”
Seamus caught his breath and started in. “Right, here’s how it went down…”
Port Authority: “Morning, lads. Routine check. What’s in the horsebox today?”
Thieves (shifty, but tryin’ to play it cool): “Ah, just a horse, mate. Private sale, headin’ over to the continent.”
Port Authority (leanin’ in for a look): “Nice bit of horseflesh you’ve got there. Got the paperwork to go with it? You’ll need permits and health papers for an animal like this, especially if it’s leavin’ the country.”
Thieves (fumblin’ with forged papers): “Uh, yeah, sure. Here’s the lot. All above board, I promise.”
Port Authority (takin’ his time, givin’ the papers the once-over): “Hmmm. This don’t sit right. What’s the horse’s name?”
Thieves (startin’ to sweat): “Er… Blaze. Yeah, Blaze. That’s his name.”Port Authority (eyebrow raisin’): “Blaze, eh? Funny that, ‘cos this horse here looks the spittin’ image of one reported nicked a few months b
and more because he’s carryin’ the love of all of us back here.”
We got to work without wastin’ a second, harnessin’ Major and hitchin’ him to the trailer. The whole stable turned out to see us off—Micheal, Sarah, the stable lads, every last one of ‘em standin’ there, wishin’ us luck and wavin’ as we pulled away. The road to Hull stretched ahead of us, but with Major pullin’ strong and the thought of bringin’ Star home, the miles seemed to slip by like a breeze.
Customs went smoother than we could’ve hoped. Between the papers, the permits, and the letter from Seamus authorizin’ Maeve and me to take Star into our care, there wasn’t a single hiccup. When we finally laid eyes on him, there he was—our boy, Star, standin’ proud but a little uneasy in the strange surroundings. The second he saw us, he nickered and gave a nod of his head, as if to say, “Where’ve ye been?”
When we stepped into his stall, Star nuzzled against the both of us, a soft whinny in his throat. He was that glad to see us—familiar faces at last. It was clear as day he was ready to leave this place and come home where he belonged.
On the drive back to Shamrock Hills, the trailer swayin’ gently behind us, Maeve sat close—so close I could feel the warmth of her leanin’ into me. Then she slipped her arm into the crook of mine, and when I looked at her, there was somethin’ in her eyes. A dreamy look, soft and warm, like she’d been thinkin’ of things she hadn’t said yet. She sighed, and before I knew what I was doin’, I leaned in and kissed her. Major must’ve been a bit shocked, feelin’ the reins go slack in my hands.
“Paddy,” Maeve said, her voice soft but certain, “you came to England to find your parents, didn’t you?”
“Aye, that’s right,” I answered, keepin’ my eyes on her as she spoke.
“And if your parents decide to go back to Carlow, would you go with them?”
I paused for a moment, thinkin’. “I suppose I would—unless I had a reason to stay behind.”
She leaned in just a little closer, her dark eyes glimmerin’. “And what if I asked you to stay? Would that make a difference?”
“It’d make all the difference in the world,” I said, the words tumblin’ out of me without thinkin’. I leaned in again, and this time, when we kissed, it was somethin’ else entirely. She slipped her arms around my neck and pulled me close, and in that moment, it felt like the rest of the world had disappeared.
“Please stay, Paddy,” she whispered, her voice a bit shaky but honest. “I don’t know where this is goin’, but I like it.”
“Of course I’ll stay,” I said, meanin’ every word. “Maeve, I’m no poet, and I’m not good with fancy talk, but I like you—more than I can say. I’d like to see where this goes too. It feels like… like somethin’ new is startin’, somethin’ I’ve never had before.”
I slipped my arm around her waist and pulled her close, and for the rest of the ride, we stayed like that, quiet and wrapped up in each other, while Major plodded along as if he knew exactly where to go.
When we arrived back at Shamrock Hills, it was to cheers and laughter. Micheal, Sarah, and the stable lads were waitin’, grinnin’ from ear to ear. Star let out a happy whinny as we opened the trailer, prancin’ down the ramp like he was lettin’ everyone know he was home. It felt like the whole world had righted itself again—Star back where he belonged, and Maeve and I with somethin’ new and beautiful just startin’ to grow between us.
As for what comes next, I reckon that’s for Maeve and me to figure out, in our own time. But for now, let’s leave it at this: Major, without a word of guidance, carried us all the way home. Maybe he knew better than us where we were headed all along.
All’s well in the world—for now, anyway.
“The Croppy Boy”
Thr Croppy Boy,” a traditional Irish ballad that commemorates the Irish Rebellion of 1798. The “croppy” refers to the rebels who cut their hair short in imitation of the French revolutionaries. This song is a poignant and tragic tale of betrayal, sacrifice, and love for Ireland.
“The Croppy Boy”
It was early, early in the spring
The birds did whistle and sweetly sing
Changing their notes from tree to tree
And the song they sang was Old Ireland free.
It was early, early in the night
The yeoman cavalry gave me a fright
The yeoman cavalry was my downfall
And I was taken by Lord Cornwall.
’Twas in the guard-house where I was laid
And in a parlour where I was tried
My sentence passed and my courage low
When to Dungannon I was forced to go.
As I was passing my father’s door
My brother William stood at the door
My aged father stood at the door
And my tender mother her hair she tore.
As I was going up Wexford Street
My own first cousin I chanced to meet
My own first cousin did me betray
And for one bare guinea swore my life away.
As I was walking up Wexford Hill
Who could blame me to cry my fill?
I looked behind and I looked before
But my aged mother I shall ne’er see more.
As I was mounted on the platform high
My aged father was standing by
My aged father did me deny
And the name he gave me was ‘The Croppy Boy’.
It was in Dungannon this young man died
And in Dungannon his body lies
And you good people that do pass by
Oh shed a tear for the Croppy Boy.
Dennis Cardiff: Poems and Prose 
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