There's quite a difference between 'dismount' and 'go down'

In Mullingar, the mind gets bombarded with fresh information every time one walks out the door

I LAY in bed on Saturday morning reading Dermot Healy’s new novel and then I went for a walk around town. It’s amazing how a walk around the town stimulates the mind.

That’s why I’d be reluctant to go back to Leitrim, where I used to sit too long at the stove with the old Labrador at my feet. Nothing ever happened, apart from the occasional visitation from some other long-haired artistic type, who would drive into the yard in an old rusting van, hoping for a leisurely chat.

A leisurely chat meant the entire afternoon. We’d hug the stove for heat, rolling cigarettes and looking out at the grey mist, talking about the meaning of life, the nature of love, the novels of Dermot Healy, and why we were lucky to be living in Leitrim.

Of course we weren’t lucky; we were just insecure artists who couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. Bohemians who invaded the scrawny fields and hills around Manorhamilton and Ballinamore, in the 1980s, with sprogs dangling from every hip, in the hope of finding a cottage for three grand. We sat in the rain for years, wondering might our children evolve gills, or bicycle pedals instead of feet, as we convinced ourselves that Leitrim would be paradise if it wasn’t raining.

I gave up that delusion when I hit the sidewalks of Mullingar and discovered that urban landscapes are more intellectually stimulating because the mind gets bombarded with fresh informat- ion every time one walks out the door.

Even walking along the canal, on Saturday, I was assaulted by a sign for cyclists on the towpath, which said; “Gabh Anuas – Dismount.” But to my mind “gabh anuas” means “go down,” and there’s quite a difference between “dismount,” and “go down.” Imagine if you were in bed, with your Beloved, and she only spoke the Gaelic tongue, and you wanted to pleasure her! You’d be completely confused if she whispered “Gabh Anuas” in your ear.

I was thus absorbed as I strolled by the canal when a friend approached me on the towpath. She was smoking, and pulling a reluctant little Springer Spaniel on a leash, and her hair was short and blonde like dead straw.

I said, “It’s a lovely day.”

“Not if you’re a dog,” she joked, and then she told me she was going to the vet to get him neutered. I was almost relieved when she passed, because there was something in her eyes that made me think she might have enjoyed seeing me on a leash; but such is the cut-and-thrust of life in a Midlands town, you never know when you’re going to meet someone from St Petersburg with a wicked imagination.

The rest of my ambulation was dull enough. I saw a few boys kicking a football, and men trying to corral three horses in a back garden. I saw early morning shoppers carrying Supervalu bags down Austin Friar Street, an old man talking to himself up Spout Well Lane, and a girl glossing her lips outside Xtra-vision.

Xtra-vision was closed so I couldn’t go in and waste half an hour rummaging through piles of trashy American movies. I always feel ashamed when I walk out of a video store with the latest Holly- wood junk under my arm. I feel I should be buying Russian or Iranian arthouse movies to improve my mind, but Xtra-vision doesn’t sell much of that stuff in Mullingar. So I was almost glad the doors had not yet opened for the day.

Then I saw Paddy Dunning on Dominic Street, thin as a whippet, with posters for the Festival of Fires under his oxter.

“How’s Mr Gulliver getting on?” I inquired, because the rumour is that Paddy is planning to erect a giant Gulliver statue somewhere near Mullingar, as a tourist attraction.

Paddy looked up at the bank behind us and said, “Do you see the top of that building?”

I said, “Yes.”

“Well,” he said, “Gulliver will be twice that height, when we have him made. He’s going to put Mullingar on the map.”

I wished him luck and walked home, delighted with myself for having the good fortune to live among such sophisticated society, and then I got into bed and read another chapter of Dermot Healy’s new book.

Reading Healy is a slow, seductive experience; other books can be read on the train or in airports, but I find I need to go to bed with a Dermot Healy novel, to really savour its magic.

I feel I should be buying Russian or Iranian arthouse movies, to improve my mind, but Xtra-vision doesn’t sell much of that stuff in Mullingar