of that.” But that was still big money, so the bank manager was about to become the next man in my life.
Up to then bank managers were to me an unknown species. I imagined them rather romantically as portly gentlemen with gold watch-chains draped across their chests, who lived behind high mahogany counters deep in the hallowed recesses of thebank where they sat in brown leather armchairs consulting weighty financial ledgers. They had had no bearing on my lifestyle because my financial resources had never necessitated the services of a financial institution. As thrift had never been my strong point, my pocket had never been more than a temporary resting place for my liquid assets. But all that was about to change.
The mahogany desk was the only thing that came up to expectations in his office: the manager looked like a footballer, and a grumpy one at that. Despite the gloomy forecasts of our two Bord Fáilte officials, I sailed into the bank full of enthusiasm, but the banker was not long in pouring cold water over me.
“Do you realise,” he demanded, “that there is a severe credit squeeze on?”
“Well, we heard about it,” I admitted, “but we need the money now whatever about the credit squeeze.”
Because Gabriel was more of a realist than I, he had sheets of figures prepared. As the bank manager pored over them he shot another arrow.
“What makes you think that there is an opening for a large guest-house in your little village?”
I assured him that tourism was on the move, but he looked unbelievingly at me across his wide desk. I began to feel my confidence dwindling into a cold hard lump of rejection in the pit of my stomach. Bank managers, I decided, were very bad for the morale. The result of this unsatisfactory interview was that he would apply to head office for a loan, but, he assured us, he was very doubtful of our chances. He told us to ring him on a certain day when he expected that he would have the head office’s decision.
Gabriel made the phone call while I stood beside him, praying. But God must have had his phone off the hook that day because our application was turned down. I stood rootedto the floor with shock and disappointment. Even though the bank manager had warned us that our chances were poor, I had still believed that the loan would come through. The alternative was unthinkable. All our hopes and the money we had scraped together were tied up in the corner house, and without development it would become a white elephant.
We went back to the bank the following day and after much negotiating came away with a loan of hundreds instead of thousands. It was far short of our requirements but enough to get moving, and we were determined to make a start. In the meantime the architect had begun to draw the plans and gradually our guest-house began to take shape. The entire plan was for seventeen bedrooms – as it had to be above a certain number to qualify for a grant – but this was to be reached in two stages. Part one reckoned on eight bedrooms opening in the first year, and the remainder would follow the year after.
When the plans had been completed we posted them off to Bord Fáilte and waited for their decision. Back came a letter stating that they did not approve and recommending certain changes. We implemented the changes and resubmitted the revised plans to Bord Fáilte. Back they came again with further recommendations, and again we did as they requested, but despite this they came back again and again and this game of volleyball continued for weeks. Gabriel had already begun work by taking down worm-eaten partitions and was coming home late at night covered in cobwebs and dust. But we could not begin any structural changes without Bord Fáilte’s approval or we could lose the grant which was vital for our financial survival. Christmas came and went but still we received no decision. Yet summer and the forthcoming tourist season were hovering on the horizon, and we just had to
Up to then bank managers were to me an unknown species. I imagined them rather romantically as portly gentlemen with gold watch-chains draped across their chests, who lived behind high mahogany counters deep in the hallowed recesses of thebank where they sat in brown leather armchairs consulting weighty financial ledgers. They had had no bearing on my lifestyle because my financial resources had never necessitated the services of a financial institution. As thrift had never been my strong point, my pocket had never been more than a temporary resting place for my liquid assets. But all that was about to change.
The mahogany desk was the only thing that came up to expectations in his office: the manager looked like a footballer, and a grumpy one at that. Despite the gloomy forecasts of our two Bord Fáilte officials, I sailed into the bank full of enthusiasm, but the banker was not long in pouring cold water over me.
“Do you realise,” he demanded, “that there is a severe credit squeeze on?”
“Well, we heard about it,” I admitted, “but we need the money now whatever about the credit squeeze.”
Because Gabriel was more of a realist than I, he had sheets of figures prepared. As the bank manager pored over them he shot another arrow.
“What makes you think that there is an opening for a large guest-house in your little village?”
I assured him that tourism was on the move, but he looked unbelievingly at me across his wide desk. I began to feel my confidence dwindling into a cold hard lump of rejection in the pit of my stomach. Bank managers, I decided, were very bad for the morale. The result of this unsatisfactory interview was that he would apply to head office for a loan, but, he assured us, he was very doubtful of our chances. He told us to ring him on a certain day when he expected that he would have the head office’s decision.
Gabriel made the phone call while I stood beside him, praying. But God must have had his phone off the hook that day because our application was turned down. I stood rootedto the floor with shock and disappointment. Even though the bank manager had warned us that our chances were poor, I had still believed that the loan would come through. The alternative was unthinkable. All our hopes and the money we had scraped together were tied up in the corner house, and without development it would become a white elephant.
We went back to the bank the following day and after much negotiating came away with a loan of hundreds instead of thousands. It was far short of our requirements but enough to get moving, and we were determined to make a start. In the meantime the architect had begun to draw the plans and gradually our guest-house began to take shape. The entire plan was for seventeen bedrooms – as it had to be above a certain number to qualify for a grant – but this was to be reached in two stages. Part one reckoned on eight bedrooms opening in the first year, and the remainder would follow the year after.
When the plans had been completed we posted them off to Bord Fáilte and waited for their decision. Back came a letter stating that they did not approve and recommending certain changes. We implemented the changes and resubmitted the revised plans to Bord Fáilte. Back they came again with further recommendations, and again we did as they requested, but despite this they came back again and again and this game of volleyball continued for weeks. Gabriel had already begun work by taking down worm-eaten partitions and was coming home late at night covered in cobwebs and dust. But we could not begin any structural changes without Bord Fáilte’s approval or we could lose the grant which was vital for our financial survival. Christmas came and went but still we received no decision. Yet summer and the forthcoming tourist season were hovering on the horizon, and we just had to
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