The Kingdom for a horse

Diary of a homebird
Ciara Galvin

THERE’S nothing like good old-fashioned hospitality. Once you get past people with their heads stuck in their phones in the larger cities, goodwill shines in this great little country of ours.
I got first-hand experience of this goodwill recently on a trip to The Kingdom. Whatever it is about Munster people, they are infectiously good humoured and friendly. Even if they are giving out about something, they do so with wit.
I had just one thing to give out about after my visit to Killarney, and that was my own stupidity and carelessness.
Dashing down to the tourist haven for a short 24 hours for a hen party, myself and my cousin, Orla, had our sights firmly set on being on time. And, if I’m to be honest, a glass of prosecco.
My car (Black Beauty) was a makeshift wardrobe as we lugged our stuff hastily from her saddle on the Saturday afternoon and set about transforming ourselves into 1950s housewives.
The hen party was fabulous. Aprons, big hair and red lippy was the look du jour, and most of us escaped with just minor injuries from a millinery class. Those glue guns can get fierce hot.
And we even met Michael Healey-Rae. Like all active TDs, he was attending the opening of a local envelope, and said opening just happened to be on in the bar we were in.
After all the partying was over, curry chips were consumed (the 1950s housewives were too tired to prepare a home-cooked meal after the night out).
It was the following day, when it was time to get on the road, that the aforementioned carelessness and stupidity reared their heads.
Returning to Black Beauty, chatting to Orla about how great it was to be getting on the road at a decent time, I pressed the key fob’s open-Sesame button. Nothing. I pressed it again. Nada. Followed by panic. I couldn’t open the car.
There we were standing in the rain, with no clue how to remedy the situation. I phoned my local mechanic, 150 miles away, to relay Black Beauty’s symptoms and prayed for a treatable diagnosis.
‘You probably left the lights on Ciara’, was the response from Geoff, and deep down I knew I probably did. Orla soon confirmed this by saying she heard beeping from the car the previous day as she closed the passenger door.
Left with no option, we returned to our hotel loaded down with luggage and told the barman our woes.
“I might have a fella that could help. He’s not a mechanic, but I’d be surprised if James can’t fix it,” the barman assured. We sat and waited for our knight with shining jump leads … and waited. The barman mused that he hoped James hadn’t fallen asleep on us.
Then a woman casually walked into the bar minutes later and nonchalantly proclaimed she had heard we needed jump leads. Then, like an apparition, James appeared. Making small talk in the rain I told him of my appreciation for his help and that I was sure he had better things to be doing on a Sunday. His reply, ‘Sure wasn’t I coming into town for a few pints anyway’.  
And pints he got. After a few false starts, Black Beauty coughed back to life, I raced into the bar to leave a few pints ‘behind the bar’ as thanks. The least we could do to repay for a road-side resuscitation, and one so graciously given.
And they say chivalry is dead.

In her fortnightly Diary of a Home Bird column, Ciara Galvin reveals the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something year old trying to get used to living away from her parents.