Glasgow, Dublin & Galway - open chapter from new book 'Poolhall Jail Library'

GLASGOW // DUBLIN  //  GALWAY

TOUCHDOWN at Dublin International Airport. After a near faultless run with transport and weather, I have for the past two days been at the mercy of Murphy’s Law, Sod’s Law and many other narcissistic creators of rules and regulations.

Coach and ferry timetables officially switched to the winter schedule on my last morning in Skye, a point I did not discover until arriving at the bus stop. Instead of the short ride to Armadale and eagerly anticipated cruise across the water to Malaig, I was instead forced into a much longer, later and more expensive inland trip via Fort William to Glasgow. Though my new route cast me glimpses of Ben Nevis – mightiest mountain of all in the British Isles – it was through the onset of thick horizontal rain, an onslaught which has continued unabated since.

Penny-pinching then led to a night spent sleeping upstairs at Prestwick Airport, a better alternative (on paper) to a paid hotel room in Glasgow, the likelihood of being stabbed and a long cab ride in the wee hours. I bunked down in the airport lounge with four fellow travellers – two Frenchmen, a Swedish girl and a gargantuan Russian who looked uncannily like Zangief from Street Fighter. Through his coarse goatee and barreled chest, he elicited occasional grunts whilst reading from a weighty novel, yet did not utter a full word to anybody until he disappeared at dawn with his luggage.

Alongside Brisbane Botanical Gardens, a cupboard, a hockey net and the carpark of the James Street Markets, Prestwick Airport is one of the strangest locations I have chosen to sleep for a night.

Taxiing the runway in the morning takes longer than to leap the slender Irish Sea from Glasgow to Dublin. The plane climbs briefly, only to subsequently drop, like a portly old lady hopping a small stream. None of my preconceived notions have readied me for the introduction to the Emerald Isle.

Bus is the most affordable way into Dublin’s city heart. It carries the unprepared man on a confronting route of derelict estate housing, block after block of rectangles devoid of character. The degree of fade in the curtains and the number of clothes strung on the balcony are the only ways to distinguish one unit from the next. I wonder what pleasures the children inside experience. As the rain continues to pelt down a dark fist is ripping at my gut and returning me to a place I don’t often like to visit these days. Abuse of all varieties is possibly rife in these outskirts, but here I am, a tourist who will not be stopping to help.

I try to imagine an Irish backpacker passing through my old neighbourhood or some of the other places in Brisbane where I still feel awkward trespassing. Nothing though, can convince me that us Aussies have it worse than here. At the very least, we have sun. Even in the poverty-stricken Indigenous communities of North Queensland, I’ve still experienced sensations of beauty and spirit. In these particular suburbs of Dublin there seems nothing dynastic or creative, no means for expression.

Blessed by my destinations to date, I cannot shake the somber twist in mood, not even after arrival to the much kinder surrounds of the city centre.

Ireland was supposed to be bright and merry; leprechauns cavorting with overflowing jugs of beer and a sly wink of the eye.

As soon as the hostel allows me to my room, I dump my bags and change from three layers of clothing to a jogging singlet and shorts. Unearthing a roll of electrical tape, a remnant from the last football season, I perform a makeshift operation on my muddy and torn runners, embalming them around my feet. Troubled enough to push out the front doors and jog through the narrow streets of the capital at great pace, I frequently turn heads as I bound the pavement. Indefatigable, I rush down Grafton Street and take a zig-zagging course that passes Trinity College, the Bank of Ireland, the bronzed image of big-breasted Molly Malone and the Guinness Brewery.

I run like I did on Christmas Day in 1990, the first of many times I ran from home, lasting five kilometres without looking back. That rare stamina that comes only with deep-seated anger and fear fuels my energy until my right shoe is entirely destroyed.

I stagger for a short distance with sole flapping tenuously until it becomes obvious I must discard the footwear for purposes of sanity. In finding a bin, I come under the shadow of a curious statue; a haggard looking rabbit embracing a large conniving rat of similar proportions. Gazing upwards in confusion at what appears a mid-arsenic-binge creation of Lewis Carroll, I realise I am the one who is out of place. Who is this interloper in lurid beachwear, puffing and rosy-cheeked in the middle of the day – strutting around in socks as office workers scurry well-dressed beneath the seven shades of grey which the sky has gifted them?

The footpath is like the cool shelf of a refrigerator and finding new sneakers becomes an immediate priority. In my soiled anklets I elect to run back to the city, navigating the glass-strewn streets of Temple Bar where professionals come to drink, before dodging the shattered bottles on the opposite side of River Liffey where the homeless prefer to imbibe.

A shop called Burton’s springs out at me from a distance. This is the same clothing chain of which my grandfather has spoken repeatedly. It was at a Burton’s outlet in Hull in 1945 that he bought the pants and shoes in which he married Mary Kirby. He was so nervous on wedding day he took three showers and caught the bus to St James’ Parish, forgetting his best man had organised him a chauffeur.

Outfitted as though I am incapable of dressing myself, I stuff my arms with a thin-fibred jacket, edges fashionably frayed, a three-pack of short white socks and an uber-cool striped scarf. This, I promise, is the only circumstance in my life in which I will consider paying good money for a neck adornment. To me, scarves still represent that gaggle of girls at 17 who thought Country Road clothing, high tea and calling each other ‘darl’ was the path to righteousness.

Underneath the counter is a black leather wallet, with the Burton name branded clearly in the corner. I add it to my purchases and depart, soon realising I remain unsuitably shod. Yet just around the corner is a cheap shoe store and, not far past that again, I spy a boxing gym.

Treated to just over 100 Euros of new garments, I indulge my body in another hour of torturous penance on the punching bag. Until I left Brisbane, I was regularly training for 12 rounds or more at Valhalla Muay Thai. Exactly a fortnight later, the pints, the sides of hot chips, the constant snacks of Hobknobs; they have me struggling for breath in five minutes. However, the self-loathing and insecurity is as strong within as ever. I push through the pain until I am fully spent, buckled over and panting between my spread legs on the matted floor.

Another day of similar physical punishment follows, until I have finally exorcised the nagging demons and convinced myself I am worthy and capable of holding people’s attention. That night the flashy jacket comes out, as too does the poncey scarf, complementing my favourite jeans, which have the dotted artwork of a lady’s face strewn down the outside left leg. I am feeling like someone with at least a few redeeming qualities – battening away the useless, ugly, poor, unfit, stupid kid to an evening in the cupboard. First stop is upmarket Q Bar, then the Auld Dubliner in Temple and then finally at the cosy Messrs Maguires. It is a warmer and more relaxed atmosphere than the others, capped off by the flavoursome Rusty, a red ale produced in-house with a micro-brewery.

Three or four hours pass without a word spoken to anyone, until Damien and Patrick strike up conversation. Damien is a social worker, while Patrick is studying politics. For reasons known only to themselves, they take me under their wing. Another hour drinking and they are promoting me to a group of female acquaintances as if they were my best friends.

“He’s a smart guy eh? What a big fit bastard he is eh? Bloody travelling the world, half his luck.”

Hanging out with the Aussie has become their novelty for the evening. One girl in particular is growing progressively amorous. But for every kind word after midnight, every sip of beer, the sense of suspicion, paranoia and torment rises. I excuse myself, try to block out their questioning expressions and disappear home in a swirling, drunken flux. Everything is back to square one.

I hate who I am.

A little kid in a grown man’s body awakens in the morning, barely lucid as he lugs his baggage to Busarus, Dublin’s transit centre.

Four hours of tight and bumpy road separate us from the western frontier town of Galway, positioned alongside the Atlantic Ocean. I sneak to the very back corner of the coach and, not for the first time in my life, twist my neck sideward, resting temple on palm to alleviate a crunching headache. It’s a technique I first discovered when I was 23 and struggling to report on a very important game of football. Thinking back to that day, I was wearing a skin-tight purple shirt with a dragon motif, hair coloured electric blue and eyes as wide as an opossum. I must have been a fool to convince myself that none of my colleagues knew what was going on.

Today, just as then, I feel awfully remorseful for an awful lot of things. As is wont to happen, my mind returns again and again to one person. To Jen. I have never made amends.  She has not spoken to me in almost five years.

Every time I have told myself I no longer care, I’ve at least thought of her 10 times in between. Her departure is at the root of any unhappiness and failure. On this chosen day though, skull throbbing with lament, words come to mind that I’ve been unable to conceive in my brightest moments.

There’s no point telling Jen that I love her and want her back. More than the comfort of any girl, it’s my own sense of decency and dignity which I am chasing. Above all, I need to apologise from the heart; make peace with the Earth. That is the only way forward. I rummage through the daypack for my thick blue notepad.

Totally absorbed, I seldom glance up to appreciate the rustic wonders of Ireland’s inner heart. Ignore the money I have spent in getting here, the catharsis which my pen is delivering has far greater value. If only this clarity had arrived much earlier and saved the repetition inflicted on the pained ears of my best friends as I bemoaned my woes.

When the bus creaks to a halt by Galway’s main square I am at an anxious apex. Part of me wants to find the nearest post office straight away, but another part knows how big a gamble it is reopen the wound. If I mail the letter off and the police become involved again, this elation will surely plummet.

I decide to run the contents past my sister first. For all our ups and downs, Kim will tell me better than anyone how the letter will be received. Hurrying to the hostel – which I am pleased to say surpasses all others thus far – I hastily type out a copy of the intended letter and email it home. Pressing the ‘send’ button triggers another rush of adrenaline. I’ve left myself wide open for attack, yet at the same time freed my chest of a gargantuan weight. The greatest thrills in life come from vulnerability.

A wide, clean and warm room greets me upstairs at the hostel. The dorm is all mine – the other two mattresses completely empty. From the top bunk, I can reach a sky roof. In delightful solitude I raise myself up, squeeze through and take position on a ledge of the roof, gazing towards a crisp pink horizon. The sunset is gob-smacking, like layers of brightly coloured birthday cake squeezed onto the mysterious Atlantic. My father could have painted this. It’s late on a Saturday afternoon and the hum of chilled wind against bristling trees and the odd squawk of a tern are the only sounds to disturb harmony.

Galway has a reputation for being lively, famed for music in cloistered bars and an effervescent student population. It’s also surrounded by the unspeakably beautiful Connemara National Park, the Cliffs of Mohr and, half an hour off the coast at nearby Rossaveal, is the ancient settlement of the Aran Islands.  My gloved hands tuck under my armpits, firm to my chest, and I lay back day-dreaming of the adventures ahead until the sun has completely vanished.

Later, dressed to the nines, I ignore the lessons of a night before and hit the winding laneways for several exploratory drinks. It leads to a bar on Eglinton Street called GPO, coincidentally the name of my least-favourite nightclub in Brisbane. Yet there is none of the same pretension. The locals strike up conversation and invite you to dance frequently. It must be said the lasses of Galway are collectively the most beautiful bunch of people I’ve ever witnessed. Their skin unblemished, accents twirling in the air like Catherine wheels, playfully prodding and giggling as they engage you with meaningless jokes and deeply meaningful eyes. Still, somehow it comes to pass that I find myself sharing alcoholic communion with two German boys from a small town in Bavaria.

We go shout-for-shout at least twice over on heavy pints of Smithwick’s as we intercept new arrivals to the bar and give them a full social interview. It transpires that a large expedition of law students from Trinity College has embarked on a three-day sojourn to Galway for the Halloween weekend. The concept of celebrating Halloween is so foreign to me, that I had not taken any notice of its arrival, even if thinking back over the last few days, there were numerous shop windows and newspaper articles to assist my meek powers of realisation.  As the crowd swells, the majority of passing girls gravitate towards A.J., the taller of the two Bavarians. He has stylish jet-black hair and enviable dress sense, exuding a confidence that borders on cockiness the further we escape from daylight.

Audrey is among those girls drawn by this magnetism. I recognise her face instantly, though she is much more preened than when I saw her last. She had been sitting two seats in front of me on the bus from Dublin, looking rather down-heartened. Notable on that journey for her long, brown, athletic legs, she is tonight wearing a flowing dress, sweeping her chestnut fringe to the left of her face, framing saucer eyes and thick pouting lips.

An Irish boy called Ciaran introduces Audrey to our group. Informs us all that she has recently broken up with her boyfriend and is looking for a cute guy to cheer her up. A.J. seizes on the opportunity without hesitation and holds her cheek with one hand as he talks directly into her ear above the nightclub music. They are laughing and joking while I maintain a distant air, pretending I am otherwise preoccupied and largely disinterested. When A.J. is pulled away by another girl to go dance on the floor, Audrey looks to me and the smaller, balder Bavarian – Joel – for attention. Initially I resist and keep my head turned towards the crowd, for there is nothing worse or more powerful than a girl who knows she is the centerpiece of a room.

But then Audrey leans right over to my shoulder and lets out a surprising American drawl.

“Hey, you’re the scary guy from the bus, aren’t you?” she says, smiling as though she has no comprehension of her insult.

I’ve always detested the brashness of Americans. My face shows it.

“Aww don’t be so sensitive Mr Talkative. I’m only joking. You were on the bus, though right? I was actually going to chat with you, but you, uh…did look kind of foreboding yeah.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“Well, let me start off by saying tonight you don’t look half as scary, so it’s all good. But yes, you were scribbling away in a book and you had that big jacket on and you hadn’t shaved.”

“I don’t suppose I looked obviously hungover?”

“I was going to say that, but I’m apparently rude enough hey?”

The banter continues back and forth with the kind of dry sarcasm I reserve for a special few. Most regrettably, I find this woman unshakably engaging. Refraining from any flattery or outward praise, I keep baiting her with snide comments at regular intervals, exhausting every last ounce of wit I can summon. My calm face is concealing a constantly scrambling mind. When I next take a break and glance at my watch, we have talked for two hours straight.

A vixen with a powerful air of independence and assuredness, Audrey also has the telltale intelligence of someone who was not always so cool. Feigning disinterest towards her becomes increasingly difficult. Amongst the bluff and bravado, she lets slip a few personal gems. She comes from a small island near Boston and is currently studying abroad in the historic Austrian city of Salzburg. Her ambition is to become a leading geologist, but for now she is completing a double degree in journalism and archaeology, spending her spare time learning German and hiking the Alps. None of it explains what she is doing in Galway.

“Look I’m kind of bored of this wretched talking,” I say, “Can’t I just kiss you and get you to shut up?”

It’s a cheeky gamble. By this stage of the night we have slumped side-by-side on a darkened couch, our shoulders and heads already touching. It would take us only a 45 degree turn each to lock lips. Instead, Audrey reels away, a startled and disapproving look washing over her face.

It’s all part of the rouse. Audrey watches my downcast response and then cracks an enormous smile. Placing a hand to my chest, she leans above me until her flowing mane shrouds us both from prying eyes. We brush lips softly with a chill down the spine that feels like I’ve been returned to adolescence. Lingering, she stays staring at me from mere centimetres apart, her right index finger tracing my stubbled jaw.

“Hmm, that was okay I guess,” I chirp, salvaging my respiratory pattern. “One last drink?”

But by the time I return from the bar, Audrey is laughing hysterically with Joel, playfully slapping him on the shoulder. Great. Just what I needed. Another incorrigible flirt. Even if this is just a one-night liaison, I detest that familiar feeling that I mean nothing more than the next guy.

“Heya!” Audrey yells overly-dramatically, punching me in the stomach at the same time as I hand across her drink. “Joel was just telling me that he is the fourth-best pool player in all of Bavaria. How awesome is that?”

Before I have time to respond she grabs me, kisses me and whispers in my ear: “We have to leave. Joel asked me to go home with him. I didn’t know what to say, so I started laughing stupidly instead.”

I am forced not to blurt out laughter as Audrey slyly crosses her jugular in cut-throat fashion. We excuse ourselves to dance, but do so only momentarily before leaving via a side door.

It turns out that Ciaran – the Irish boy that first introduced us – is also hosting Audrey at his house. The story is complex; until recently Ciaran was dating Audrey’s childhood friend Lauren, but it had all fallen apart at the worst time possible, just after Audrey booked a ticket to Ireland. Presumably angst-ridden, Lauren had disappeared back to America. Ciaran though, stuck true to his word and said the offer of the spare bed still stood, particularly as Audrey had already set a wider itinerary of tours and travels that intersected with Galway. I am assured many times there are no shenanigans going on between Ciaran and the geology fox.

This is all of importance, to explain why we have eventuated at a nondescript cottage driveway some three miles out of town, gripped together and exchanging saliva madly on the bonnet of a car. We have been waiting almost two hours for Ciaran to return from GPO with the front door key, fearing both frostbite and the harsh reality of an encroaching dawn. Maintaining our furious passion in subzero temperatures and with tremulous bladders takes every ounce of concentration and energy.

When Ciaran does languidly amble by, his own arm draped around a pretty young girl, Audrey and I race inside for the toilet. We then lay embraced on a wide couch in the lounge room, falling asleep with our hair in each other’s faces as we chat to the point of exhaustion.

Despite the anticipatory tension and our immediate physical presence, there is no frivolity that night or in the morning that follows. However, there is later down the track – the culmination of three straight days in each other’s presence, a period spent kissing under hooded jackets on a rainy Galway Bay, boating around the historic offshore islands, meeting strange local characters and spending far too much time gazing pathetically into our mutual, constantly fawning eyes.

Without exaggeration there is one point, in a lively cellar bar, where we sit opposite each other, unable to speak or finish our meals for at least a whole hour as our coloured irises dart side-to-side and we exchange dopey, contented, disbelieving smiles. This same ritual is recreated at dinner at Al Muretto’s and then later at the plush Victoria Hotel on our last night together. 

Audrey is by far the smartest and best-looking girl I have ever shared a bed with. It’s tempting to shield myself and concede she is out of my league. But in a mere handful of days, on an extended, expensive and blessed stopover in an isolated Irish town, I have discarded many depressive misgivings about my own past and future potential.

This is an excerpt from the true-life story Poolhall Jail Library, released in 2019 by author Loxton Berg. To buy a full version in either print or electronic formats go to www.loxtonberg.com/shop