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could see the whole world from Slieve Donard. That’s where St Donard had his cell, up on the summit. You’ll see the Isle of Man out to the east and up along our own coast all of Strangford Lough and up to the hills of Belfast and the smoke rising above them, and beyond that on a clear day Lough Neagh and as far as Slieve Gallion on the Derry and Tyrone border. And southwards beyond Newry you’ll see Slieve Gullion, where Cúchulainn rambled, and Slieve Foy east of there, behind Carlingford town, and farther south again you’ll see the Hill of Howth and beyond that again, if the day is good, the Sugar Loaf and the Wicklow Mountains’ll just be on the horizon.”
    “That’s some view,” Geordie said in disbelief.
    Paddy hardly heard as he looked pensively ahead at the openroad.
    “There’s only one thing you can’t see from Donard, and many people can’t see it anyway although it’s the talk of the whole place, and even if it jumped up and bit you it’s not to be seen from up there among all the sights. Do youse know what I’m getting at, boys? It’s the cause of all our cursed troubles, and if you were twice as high as Donard you couldn’t see it. Do youse know what it is?”
    We both waited expectantly, I with a little trepidation, for him to enlighten us.
    “The bloody border,” he announced eventually. “You can’t see that awful bloody imaginary line that they pretend can divide the air and the mountain ranges and the rivers, and all it really divides is the people. You can see everything from Donard, but isn’t it funny you can’t see that bloody border?”
    I could see Geordie’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. He continued smiling all the same.
    “And there’s something else,” Paddy continued. “Listen to all the names: Slieve Donard, or Bearnagh or Meelbeg or Meelmore—all in our own language. For all their efforts they’ve never killed that either. Even most of the wee Orange holes: what are they called? Irish names. From Ballymena to Ahoghill to the Shankill, Aughrim, Derry and the Boyne. The next time youse boys get talking to some of them Belfast Orangemen you should tell them that.”
    “I’m a Belfast Orangeman,” Geordie told him before I could say a word. I nearly died, but Paddy laughed uproariously. I said nothing. I could see that Geordie was starting to take the needle. We passed through Kilkeel with only Paddy’s chortling breaking the silence.
    “You’re the quare
craic
,” he laughed. “I’ve really enjoyed this wee trip. Youse are two decent men.
Tá mise go han buíoch daoibh, a cháirde
. I’m very grateful to you indeed.”
    “
Tá fáilte romhat
,” I said, glad in a way that we were near his journey’s end.
    “Oh,
maith an fear
,” he replied. “
Tabhair dom do lámh
.”
    We shook hands.
    “What d’fuck’s youse two on about?” Geordie interrupted angrily.
    “He’s only thanking us and I’m telling him he’s welcome,” I explained quickly. “Shake hands with him!”
    Geordie did so grudgingly as the old man directed him to stop by the side of the road.
    “Happy Christmas,” he proclaimed as he lifted his box.
    “Happy Christmas,” we told him. He stretched across me and shook hands with Geordie again.
    “
Go n’éirigh an bóthar libh
,” he said. “May the road rise before you.”
    “And you,” I shouted, pulling closed the van door as Geordie drove off quickly and Paddy and his box vanished into the shadows.
    “Why don’t youse talk bloody English,” Geordie snarled savagely at me as he slammed through the gears and catapulted the van forward.
    “He just wished you a safe journey,” I said lamely. “He had too much to drink and he was only an old man. It is Christmas after all.”
    “That’s right, you stick up for him. He wasn’t slow about getting his wee digs in, Christmas or no Christmas. I need a real drink after all that oul’ balls.”
    He pulled the van roughly into the verge again. I got out,