We took the boat to Holyhead, lived in fear, right on the edge, digging drains in London in the snow. Tried to figure out how a boy became a man, sleeping rough in the West End in a red van. Nobody could tell me what it was all about. So in a few short days, we were back where we began. (‘Born in Mayo’ John Hoban) London was calling for sure, loud and clear. I loved the sense of being the immigrant, a kind of outcast, the men who don’t fit in. The Yukon was a bit too extreme for me, I was too fond of my comforts. Kilburn, Cricklewood, the ’Dilly, Soho...the real McCoy. I had discovered anonymity, and it felt great. Sure as night follows day, I felt alive at last as the big boat, the Bád Bán set sail from Dun Laoghaire for Holyhead. It was in the year of ’39. The sky was full of lead. Hitler headed for Poland, Paddy for Holyhead.
What do You think about From The Plain Of The Yew Tree?
