Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland (10 page)

“No,” says Ryan, nodding to the newspaper still on the table. “It’s just hearing the news in Belfast. I think it took our appetites away.”

“It’s a shame,” says the waiter, “but a reminder as well.”

“A reminder?” says Sid.

“That its not over.” His brow creases. “It’ll never be over.”

My aunt pays the bill, and we leave. I’m curious what the waiter meant by that. Does he sympathize with the British pub owner, or is he saying that the Irish people will never back down from wanting to rule themselves?

My aunt pauses in the lobby. She’s looking at the small television that’s nested in the bookcase. The news is on, and they’re showing scenes of what must be the site of the bombing in Belfast. Naturally, this would be the hot topic of the day. We decide to sit down and watch. The news anchor is going through the expected details, telling the names of those killed and giving an update on the state of the injured parties. “Our sources confirm that the RIRA has already taken credit for the brutal attack.” Then they begin showing photos of RIRA members and even listing their names. This is followed by footage of several members who have already been placed under arrest.

“There’s Sean Potter,” Sid whispers, pointing at a fair-haired man trying to hide his face as a policeman ushers him toward a brick building.

“Do you think he’ll figure out who turned him in?” asks Ryan.

My aunt just shrugs.

Now the newscaster is talking about past RIRA attacks, comparing them to today’s violence. “The most recent RIRA incidents have been limited to the greater London area,” he says. “But today’s bombing in Belfast has provided a heartbreaking reminder of the Omagh incident in 1998. Twenty-nine civilians were murdered on that day, primarily unsuspecting women and children out to enjoy a carefree holiday and to shop for school uniforms.” More footage is shown now, and I am horrified at the scenes of rubble mixed with mangled bodies. “Hundreds more were injured that day. But many hoped that the tragedy in Omagh would bring an end to this era. The public outrage effected an RIRA cease-fire that eventually inactivated the group. And some claimed it was the end of terrorism in our country. Sadly, we now know that is not to be the case….”

“What a waste!” Sid stands up and shakes her fist at the TV. “What a sad and senseless waste. And to think that Danielle and I believed we were actually making a difference back then. We honestly thought the peace camps might change things. And then to come here and find out that—” And now she is crying. Both Ryan and I go to her. We wrap our arms around her and end up in a big group hug.

“It’s going to be okay, Sid.” Ryan pats her on the back.

“Yeah,” I echo. “Something good is going to come out of this.” Okay, I have no idea what that “something good” might be, but it sounds encouraging. We say a few more consoling things, and then, to my surprise, Ryan actually says a prayer. He asks God to use the three of us while we’re in Ireland, and he asks for a special blessing
on our trip and also for our safety. By the time he finishes, I discover I am crying too.

“Thanks, Ry.” My aunt reaches for her tissue packet and shares one with me. We both dry our eyes. “I think we needed that prayer.” She looks at me. “I know I did.”

I nod as I wipe my nose. “Me too.”

Ryan lets out a deep breath. “Well, I got to thinking that maybe God has a plan for this trip. Maybe its supposed to be more than just a fun vacation.”

Sid nods. “Yes. I’d like to believe that too. And tomorrow I have another appointment with a former peace-camp kid. It’s a woman this time. Perhaps it’ll go better. At the very least I’m hoping and praying she’s not a member of the RIRA. Otherwise, I may just can this project completely and fly us all back home on Sunday.”

“But what about your other story?” I ask her. “Didn’t you want to write about the RIRA too?”

She sort of nods. “Yeah. But I can only take so much, Maddie. And it’s possible to write that story from the safety of home. Trust me, I will not keep us here if I feel that we’re in any real danger. I thought I’d gotten over it, but the truth is, I don’t really trust Ireland.”

Well, I’m hoping she’s wrong. I’ve actually been enjoying Ireland, and I’m not ready to go home yet. Whether this is because I want to see more of this beautiful yet troubled Emerald Isle or is due to my developing interest in one particular traveling companion, who is full of surprises, I’m not completely sure. But I’d like to find out!

F
or some reason I wake up extra early the next morning, but when I get down to the lobby, I don’t see Ryan or my aunt or anyone else for that matter. I wait a few minutes and consider calling their rooms, but I would hate to wake them if they’re sleeping in, so I decide to venture out by myself. As I go out the door, I can hardly believe there’d been such a wild storm in Malin last night. The air is perfectly still now, and the sky is a brilliant blue. The sun, barely up, feels warm on my head, and the day promises to be beautiful. I look up and down the street, trying to decide which way to go. Finally I notice there seems to be more traffic heading south, so that’s the way I go too.

There is something so cool about being on your own in a totally new place. Seriously, it makes me feel very grown-up and sophisticated. Okay, I’d never admit this to anyone, because it sounds pretty juvenile and brings to mind the whole “fresh off the farm thing,” but this independence does make me feel older. It’s like I’m out and about, walking down a street on the other side of the planet, and I can pretty much take care of myself. Or so I’d like to think.

As it turns out, I’ve walked the right direction, and before long I’m in the center of this quaint little town. Malin is a port town,
similar to Clifden, but with a personality all its own. The shops are situated around this pretty parklike, grassy area, and everything is very clean and neat and immaculately groomed. It’s so perfect that it could almost be a movie set. Even the air smells clean.

My first stop is a small bakery, where the aroma of something delicious is wafting onto the street. I go inside and order a coffee along with the breakfast special, which turns out to be a big fluffy croissant, an egg, and a thick slice of bacon. Then I find a small round table that’s topped with shiny black marble and is situated by a window that faces the village green. I sit down happy. I take a bite of what I might describe as sort of an Irish-style Egg McMuffin but am pleased to say it’s about a hundred times better.

It feels as though it’s going to be a perfect day. I take my time eating, then get a refill on my coffee and purchase some raspberry scones, just out of the oven—one to eat if I like and a couple to take back to the sleepyheads. Life just doesn’t get any better than this. That’s when I notice an Irish newspaper on the next table, and the sad headlines about the continued investigation of the bombing in Belfast hit me with a bolt of reality.

“Hey, Maddie.” I look up to see Ryan coming toward me, waving with one hand and holding a cup of coffee in the other.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. Okay, dumb question.

“Looks like great minds think alike.” He grins and points to the chair across from me. “That taken?”

“Help yourself.”

“Why do you look so glum?”

I point at the newspaper. “I was actually feeling pretty great, and then I saw those headlines and got reminded of the bombing.”

He looks at the front page and frowns. “Yeah. That’s a real downer.” He points to my little white bag of scones. “That your breakfast?”

So I explain to him what I had, and he goes and orders the same. Now I know this is a small thing, but it makes me feel important to actually give him a good tip for a change. Before long he is back, chowing down his breakfast special. Then I offer him a scone, and he’s all over it. I’m just starting to eat mine when Sid comes in and joins us.

“Get the breakfast special,” he tells her. “Maddie discovered it, and it’s really good.”

Finally we’ve finished our three stages of breakfast as well as the amazing berry scones, and Sid tells us she has to head over to Moville to interview the peace-camp woman.

“You going to be all right?” I ask. I think I can see dark shadows beneath her eyes, and I suspect she’s still feeling bad about the Belfast bombing. Not that she should.

She sighs. “Yeah. I just hope that Molly’s life has turned out better than Sean’s.”

“Do you want us to come along?” I offer.

She shakes her head and stands up. “No. I need to do this alone.” She glances at Ryan and me. “You guys going to be okay on your own today? I mean, in light of recent unsettling developments.”

“I’m not a bit worried,” I say.

“I’m fine,” he tells her. “I’m even thinking about going fishing. The manager at the hotel gave me the name of a charter boat that goes out twice a day.”

“Sounds good,” she says as she heads for the door. “Have fun.”

“Fishing?” I turn and look at Ryan like he’s crazy.

“Yeah, it’s in the blood, remember?”

“Oh yeah.”

“You want to give it a try?”

I consider this. Okay, it is tempting, not because of the fishing part, but simply because I’d like to be around Ryan. Even so, the idea of baiting hooks and handling slimy, wiggly, smelly things is just not worth it. I’ve been fishing with my dad and brother enough times to know it’s not really my cup of tea. “No thanks,” I say.

“So what are you going to do then?” he asks.

“Just hang out in town, I guess.”

He glances at his watch. “Well, if I’m going to be on the ten o’clock boat, I better get moving.”

So we part ways, and I notice that shops are starting to open. I decide to check them out. It’s ironic that I was enjoying being on my own earlier today, because now I feel just a little bit lonely. To my dismay, it doesn’t take long to look at all the shops—at least the ones that appeal to me—and finally I find myself sitting on a bench in the village green, wishing I’d gone fishing with Ryan. I mean, I could’ve just enjoyed the boat ride and sat in the sun. No one could’ve forced me to actually fish. What was I thinking?

I consider returning to the hotel, but that seems kind of
pathetic. It’s such a nice day, and here I am in Ireland! That’s when I notice the bike-rental shop again. I already walked past it once, and it occurs to me that maybe I just need some wheels to get around. So I rent myself a bike, along with a helmet, and as I’m studying a tourist map of Malin Head and trying to figure out which way I should go, the girl behind the counter asks if I’m interested in going on a bike tour.

“When?”

“They usually leave at eleven or so, and they get back around six in the evening.”

“Is it possible to join a group today?”

“Quin?” She yells to the back room, and a guy in his twenties emerges with a wrench in hand. “Are there any spots left in today’s bike tour?”

“Aye, there’s a spot, but that would make us an even dozen. We canna have more than that.”

She looks at me. “Are you interested?”

“I’m not the greatest biker,” I admit.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine,” she says. “It’s not a strenuous ride, and some of the bikers are retired folks.” She smiles. “And you look fit. Shall I sign you up then?”

“Sure.” I nod. “Sounds good.”

“It’s twenty-five euro,” she tells me, “but that includes a tasty lunch in Malin Head and a short ferry ride across the bay. It’s really quite nice.”

So I sign up for the tour, then head back to the hotel to put on shorts and pick up some things. By the time I make it back to the
shop, there are several other bikers already gathered by the village green. And the bike-shop woman wasn’t lying. Some of these people do look pretty old. I’m guessing I won’t be in last place this time. Pretty soon we’re all there and ready to go.

“I’m Quin McMahan,” the man I met in the rental shop tells everyone. “I’ll be your guide today. And my wife, Darby, will bring up the rear with the van.” He points to a white van parked nearby, then holds up what looks like a shortwave radio like my dad uses with my brother when they go hunting. “We’ll queue up along the road, giving plenty o’ room between the cycles, and Darby and I will communicate with these handy-dandy devices to make sure all’s well. If you have a problem during the ride, just wait by the side of the road, and Darby will stop by to pick you up before long. She knows a bit about bike mechanics and is even taking her nurse’s certificate, so she can be useful if you have a health problem as well.” He winks at his wife. “Naturally, we ensure that all who start on our bike trips make it safely back to town. Even if they come home via the van.”

Some of the older folks are joking about this possibility, but Quin reassures them that the ride isn’t difficult and that he won’t be pushing it in the least. This is a relief to me. We start, and I’m pleased to discover that Quin really is taking it easy, and he stops frequently to point out the sights and tell amusing stories. He’s actually quite charming and would probably be good on the stage.
Quin McMahan
, I think to myself as we pedal up a small hill; his name even has a theatrical sound to it. Like it’s almost familiar. And that’s when I remember that my aunt’s lost love was Ian
McMahan, and I wonder if Quin could possibly be a relative, although I suspect that McMahan might be a fairly common name over here. Still, it’s intriguing.

When we stop for lunch at one, I sit with Darby and a couple of college girls from Melbourne, Australia. When there’s a lull in the conversation, I decide to ask Darby about my aunt’s deceased ex-boyfriend. “His name was McMahan too,” I continue. “Do you think he might’ve been one of Quin’s relatives?”

She laughs. “Probably so, since we all like to believe that everyone in Ireland is related if you go back far enough. But to be truthful, there are a lot of McMahans. Do you know the man’s first name by chance?”

“Ian,” I tell her. “Ian McMahan. He’d probably be fifty-something by now. Except that he died some time ago.”

She seems to be thinking about this. “Ian McMahan?”

“Yes.”

“Quin has an uncle named Ian. And he’s about the age you mentioned. But he’s very much alive.”