An unexpected encounter outside a hotel dinner dance, and the glorious sound of birdsong at night... For Sunday Miscellany on RTÉ Radio 1, listen to Blackbird Singing In The Dead of Night by Leo Cullen above.
In the car park, doors were banging shut, couples moving towards the hotel, talking, laughing. Women, shivering into their wraps, were arranging their gowns and asking other women to help straighten them. Men were thumping shoulders, working up thirsts: the buzz in anticipation of the Christmas dinner-dance.
The lawn was shaded beneath the Monterey pines, sound of a lapping sea behind, bulk of an island across the strait. Warmed by food and drink, couples would wander down there hand in hand over the course of the evening.
It was when Carole and I had got out of our car and were walking along the avenue that I saw him. He was hobbling along, coming towards us, silhouetted by the brightly lit windows of the hotel behind him. My heart gave a jump. He was on the walking stick, support for the hip that was to be replaced in Cappagh Hospital whenever he'd get the appointment, which as it turned out he never did. He’d lit a cigarette. I nudged Carole. 'Look. Why is he here?’
He wasn’t paying attention to those passing along, caught up in his own concerns, I supposed. But he stopped when I said hello, and then I said it again, at a loss for what to say: ‘Hello. How are you?’
Listen to more from Sunday Miscellany here.
