Tullamore Friday

I ran a red light with the shock of it. I had just been fired from a 14-grand-a-year job. In fairness, they asked me to stay until Christmas, but I declined. I wasn't too comfortable with the idea of attending my own wake.

I buried my bother at a great night in Tullamore. I never experienced such a cheering-up. And I was tipped off about Carolina.

John Wayne came out with a classic after he shot 12 baddies with a six-shooter. "There's only two things better than a good gun," he said. "That's a Swiss watch and a woman from anywhere."

Carolina is Lithuanian and if she were illuminated on the Book of Kells, Trinity would never turn the page. Carolina works in a garage shop and I handed her a paper and a fiver. "Your paper is a free sheet," she said, and her laugh was like the tinkling of Buddhist bells in a gentle summer breeze.

I wandered around Tullamore waiting for the alcohol to burn off. The shops were brightly painted, the people were very friendly, and I discovered the fountain of eternal life.

Dr Herbs' window claimed a cure for acne, arthritis, PMT (if such a thing exists), psoriasis, depression, tinnitus, tiredness, sinusitis and whatever ails you. I was about to cancel the VHI until I noticed the shop was shut down. The sign on the door read 'all enquiries to the receiver'. There are some ailments that even Dr Herbs cannot cure.

Borrisokane

I snacked in the chipper opposite the garda station and the spice burger was perfect. It was crisp on the outside and moist on the inside. There were notices in the shop for Taekwon Do, a stage school, the local GAA lotto and a Christmas market. That's a lot for a small place, or even a big place, but what impressed me most was an ad for a bouncing castle. Yes, a bouncing castle on a November day as grey as sudsy water when the chilled wind from the north went through you for a short cut and the silver rain slivers hissed in your face. If the entrepreneur managed to erect the castle in such times it would eclipse anything achieved by the Normans, or even Seán Dunne.

Kildare Saturday

There was a queue outside the garage toilet in Maynooth. "That's a nice dog," I remarked to an elderly lady waiting to do her bit of business.

She thanked me and asked where I was from and then, when that was out of the way, she asked where I was going.

"To the K Club," I replied.

"He's barred," she said in a whisper as she nodded discreetly in the direction of the dog.

"Did he bite someone?"

"No," she replied, "he left his card under the table."

The K club is a wonder and the staff are friendly and without pretension. It's even good enough for Fás.

I spoke at a charity bash that night at the invitation of north Kildare soroptimist president, the effervescent Marion Kennelly. Another great occasion and a pile of money made for Kare. You'd be very much in the better of it.

The next morning I wandered into a sitting room and sat myself down by a lovely fire. And it was then I spotted a sight almost as impressive as the bouncing castle notice. There were seven or eight Jack B Yeats originals hanging on the wall. It was incredible. You could hear horses snorting and red-headed herdsmen hulla hulling under a big cloud-dappled sky. One of the staff, I think, came into the room. I asked him if he had a screwdriver and a stepladder. "Why?" he asked.

"Dr Smurfit told me to pick out my favourite and to throw it in the boot of the car."

They kept a close eye on me after that.

I have come to the conclusion from my travels that bad times bring out the best in us. I think we may have rediscovered our humour, courtesy and humility.

You wouldn't want to go losing 14 grand every day though.