Page 59 of One More Day
The phone line went silent.
‘Carlos?’
‘I think I just swallowed my tongue,’ he says eventually, so I let him get his breath back before we return to serious mode.
‘If this guy is playing Christmas music when just a couple of days ago he was mad about decorations, maybe you’re both helping each other without even realising it?’
That’s better. Carlos does make me laugh a lot, but behind the humour he always also has words of wisdom to share when I push him for some.
‘It was definitely a huge bolt out of the blue to hear him listening to my mother’s favourite Christmas song,’ I told him. ‘Before that, I was set to get out of here and thumb it back to Dublin if I had to.’
Carlos seemed to find the idea of me thumbing a lift hilarious. He knew as well as I did that was never going to be an option.
‘Well, it was inevitable that the lighthouse would stir up emotion, Rose. But maybe next year you’ll drive that extra sixty miles home to your family,’ he said. ‘Go gently. You’ve suffered immensely since you lost Michael. Go easy on yourself, please.’
So that’s what I’m trying to do. I feel better after a good cry, a hot shower and a chat with Carlos. I also strangely feel better at the thought that maybe, just maybe, I might have helped Charlie take a tiny step forward in acknowledging it’s Christmas. And I can’t help but feel festive cheer as I look around the Lighthouse Tavern.
I’m snuggled into a small booth now with George resting under the table by my feet, and if it wasn’t so noisy in here, I’d imagine I could probably hear him snore. Like me, he’s happy to be warm and dry after earlier when we were both soaked to the bone.
After a tasty bowl of chowder, I chatted with some locals and some fellow holiday makers, including an American family who spend Christmas here every year. They help at the fayre which takes place tomorrow, I’m told.
There’s a couple from England, Stacy and Chris, sat near the bar. They’re on their first visit to Donegal which allowed me to gush about everything that’s so beautiful about being here.
‘It’s so dark here at night,’ Stacy exclaimed as they enjoyed a pint of Guinness each. ‘I’ve never seen a sky so dark andthe stars so bright. Wow. It’s such a perfect place to switch off and forget the world.’
‘And leave the fuss of Christmas for others,’ Chris added.
So, it’s not just my dad who says that.
‘We live in a big city, so this is like stepping into a totally different world here. We love it.’
Their earlier enthusiasm, and now as I watch them look on in wide-eyed wonder as the traditional Irish musicians strike up a tune, reminds me why I’ve always loved it here.
It’s not only the majestic, breath-taking scenery of Fanad; it’s not only the easy-going pace of life here; it’s also the people you meet in tiny pubs like this.
People who, like me, are hoping to escape from the rat race even for just a while, be it in the summer or spring, or during the winter months when more layers are needed to go outside. I adore summer here, but in winter the fresh air and crisp wind give that extra kick that cleanses the soul.
I marvel at how the revellers are packed in together here, perhaps thirty people maximum, all smiling with ruddy faces and clapping along in time with the music. Everyone is dressed casually and comfortably. There’s no one bothered about how they look or thinking of fashion in here. Even the bar staff look happy to be working, their famous Irish ‘céad míle fáilte’ so tangible in the air, creating an atmosphere that simply doesn’t exist in city bars where no one cares to ask who you are or where you’re from.
This is the type of place where, excuse the cliché, everyone wants to know your name. I’ve ditched my usual skirt and tights combo for leggings and a hooded jumper, my kittenheels for cosy, fleeced-lined boots, and my red lipstick for a more natural look – and it feels like I’m stripping off all I was pretending to be.
I’m not Miss Bright and Cheery like I’ve pretended to be in Dublin. I haven’t been in a long time. I’m broken, I’m wounded, but I’m determined to heal. And to do so, I’m going to take life at a slower pace for the next few days, facing up to whatever comes my way.
I’m dreading Christmas Eve. But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
It’s too busy and noisy in here now to hold a steady conversation, but no one seems too bothered as they allow their bodies to get caught up in the uplifting music, all attention on the musicians who are respected in a way that comes so naturally. I’m engrossed and absorbed. I’m entranced and enthralled.
‘I’m trying to think of something to say to you, but everything in my mind sounds cheesy, so I’ll just say hello.’
I can barely hear what the stranger at the next table says over the music, but I soon realise he isn’t going to give me much time to respond as he keeps talking. He wears a long, evidently brand-new camel coloured coat which is the same colour as his hair. It’s the same colour as his face too, I notice, and he is very, very tall. He pulls his stool closer to where I sit.
‘I’m Billy,’ he says, his bushy blond eyebrows moving as if they’ve a life of their own.
‘Hi.’
‘I’m here on holiday. Do you come here often? OK, there I said it. I told you it would sound cheesy.’
He leans in, a little too closely. I lean back as he rambles on – something about a divorce and the power of being by the sea and how he’s never been before, and how he’s been told he needs to get out more.
