need to catch the tide. You don’t want to get stranded over on the island
if the weather takes a turn for the worse, now do you?’
That’s the last thing I want to happen. Gingerly, I take a step down into the boat and my two fellow passengers help steady
me while I get my sea legs.
As I pull on my life jacket (which you’d think they’d do in at least one other colour than bright orange), Conor expertly
unties the boat, hops aboard and we set sail for the island.Nervously, I sit opposite Niall and the other chap he has brought with him on the hard wooden benches that line the sides
of the boat. When I’d been introduced to him earlier, Dermot O’Connell – Niall’s builder friend – had informed me in no uncertain
terms that he’d rather be referred to as a ‘project manager’. Surreptitiously I eye him, sitting huddled beneath his waterproof
coat and life jacket that he can barely get done up. Not because he’s overweight, far from it: Dermot’s more what you would
call
solid
. Muscle probably accrued from years of working on building sites, if what Niall’s told me is anything to go by. At first
glance I’d assumed he was fairly old, too – well, middle-aged, at least. But now, on closer inspection, I decide he’s probably
somewhere in his mid-thirties. It’s his general demeanour that prematurely ages him, I decide; that and his jet-black hair
that’s just starting to go grey around the edges.
‘Niall here tells me you might be the new owner of the island, Darcy,’ Conor calls from the front of the boat as he expertly
steers it out to sea.
I glare at Niall. ‘Possibly,’ I call back up the boat. ‘Nothing’s really been decide yet.’
‘She’s a beautiful island. Do you know what you might want to do with her?’
‘Not really, no … like I said, nothing’s definite yet. That’s kind of why I’m going over there today, to take a look.’
‘Ah, well, she’s not in her prime in January,’ Conor continues as he steers the boat in the direction of the island. ‘Now,
if you were here in the springtime when the snowdrops first bloom across the valley, or in summer, when the sun sets beyond
the hills in deep, blood-crimson red. Or even inautumn, when the leaves on the trees turn more shades of brown than––’
‘But she’s not, is she?’ Dermot interrupts. ‘She’s here today, so she’s got to look at the island as it is now, not in some
sort of poet’s dreamland.’
‘So you’d be a practical man?’ Conor asks, turning back briefly to look at Dermot. ‘And an English one, too.’
‘I am a practical man, yes.’ From under the peak of his baseball cap Dermot’s dark brown eyes watch Conor without expression.
‘And proud of it. But I don’t see that being English has anything to do with it. And for your information I’m half Irish,
actually, on my father’s side.’
I stare at Dermot.That explains his name,but lack of accent.
‘Practical men don’t see the colours, the landscape, the poetry of the land,’ Conor continues unperturbed. ‘They see buildings
and cables and ways to improve.’
‘And what’s wrong with—’
‘Look, guys,’ I interrupt before this goes any further. I’d much rather Conor just concentrated on his driving.
Do you drive a boat? Or is it steer, or some other nautical term I don’t know?
‘I’m simply going over today to scatter my aunt Molly’s ashes and to take a look at the island she lived on as a child. Any
other decisions I have to make about the island’s future, or my own, will be made after I’ve done that, OK?’
‘Fine by me,’ Dermot shrugs, pulling the peak of his baseball cap further down over his eyes. He folds his arms and returns
to his study of the sea.
Conor turns around to wink at me. ‘Fair play, Darcy, you obviously know your own mind. I’ll just do my job and get you safely
across to see Tara.’
‘Tara? Who’s Tara?’ I ask in confusion. ‘Niall, I
if the weather takes a turn for the worse, now do you?’
That’s the last thing I want to happen. Gingerly, I take a step down into the boat and my two fellow passengers help steady
me while I get my sea legs.
As I pull on my life jacket (which you’d think they’d do in at least one other colour than bright orange), Conor expertly
unties the boat, hops aboard and we set sail for the island.Nervously, I sit opposite Niall and the other chap he has brought with him on the hard wooden benches that line the sides
of the boat. When I’d been introduced to him earlier, Dermot O’Connell – Niall’s builder friend – had informed me in no uncertain
terms that he’d rather be referred to as a ‘project manager’. Surreptitiously I eye him, sitting huddled beneath his waterproof
coat and life jacket that he can barely get done up. Not because he’s overweight, far from it: Dermot’s more what you would
call
solid
. Muscle probably accrued from years of working on building sites, if what Niall’s told me is anything to go by. At first
glance I’d assumed he was fairly old, too – well, middle-aged, at least. But now, on closer inspection, I decide he’s probably
somewhere in his mid-thirties. It’s his general demeanour that prematurely ages him, I decide; that and his jet-black hair
that’s just starting to go grey around the edges.
‘Niall here tells me you might be the new owner of the island, Darcy,’ Conor calls from the front of the boat as he expertly
steers it out to sea.
I glare at Niall. ‘Possibly,’ I call back up the boat. ‘Nothing’s really been decide yet.’
‘She’s a beautiful island. Do you know what you might want to do with her?’
‘Not really, no … like I said, nothing’s definite yet. That’s kind of why I’m going over there today, to take a look.’
‘Ah, well, she’s not in her prime in January,’ Conor continues as he steers the boat in the direction of the island. ‘Now,
if you were here in the springtime when the snowdrops first bloom across the valley, or in summer, when the sun sets beyond
the hills in deep, blood-crimson red. Or even inautumn, when the leaves on the trees turn more shades of brown than––’
‘But she’s not, is she?’ Dermot interrupts. ‘She’s here today, so she’s got to look at the island as it is now, not in some
sort of poet’s dreamland.’
‘So you’d be a practical man?’ Conor asks, turning back briefly to look at Dermot. ‘And an English one, too.’
‘I am a practical man, yes.’ From under the peak of his baseball cap Dermot’s dark brown eyes watch Conor without expression.
‘And proud of it. But I don’t see that being English has anything to do with it. And for your information I’m half Irish,
actually, on my father’s side.’
I stare at Dermot.That explains his name,but lack of accent.
‘Practical men don’t see the colours, the landscape, the poetry of the land,’ Conor continues unperturbed. ‘They see buildings
and cables and ways to improve.’
‘And what’s wrong with—’
‘Look, guys,’ I interrupt before this goes any further. I’d much rather Conor just concentrated on his driving.
Do you drive a boat? Or is it steer, or some other nautical term I don’t know?
‘I’m simply going over today to scatter my aunt Molly’s ashes and to take a look at the island she lived on as a child. Any
other decisions I have to make about the island’s future, or my own, will be made after I’ve done that, OK?’
‘Fine by me,’ Dermot shrugs, pulling the peak of his baseball cap further down over his eyes. He folds his arms and returns
to his study of the sea.
Conor turns around to wink at me. ‘Fair play, Darcy, you obviously know your own mind. I’ll just do my job and get you safely
across to see Tara.’
‘Tara? Who’s Tara?’ I ask in confusion. ‘Niall, I
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