A Galway voyage with ‘three wise men’

He was wise enough to know what is precious in life and any wisdom Sean had was a gift from him

Galway mooched into Christmas with one eye on the past and the other on the opportunity. The ’60s were changing into the ’70s with the steady momentum of a hooker sailing in the bay and, small as he was, Sean went on three journeys with three wise men.

He was hoping for half crowns, a trip to Kenny’s bookshop, and even a Wimpy in Salthill. Or at least a bag of chips and a coke from the caravan on the side of the road at Rusheen Bay on the way home.

The first wise man was his uncle the farmer, from somewhere out back, who offered to take him into Galway to see the Crib.

They pulled up at the market.

The piles of spuds, carrots, and cabbages from the winter countryside had been joined by turkeys, and there they squatted, trussed beside huge stalks of Brussels sprouts, gasping indignantly while their weights were disputed.  There were geese too, hissing malevolently at their betrayers.

A forest had magically appeared on the bridge over the Corrib where little children sold big trees, which were then tied to roofs of Anglias, Beetles, and Morris Minors and taken away through the narrow streets.

His uncle haggled a bit and bought some horse tack. The first and smallest bit of his day was done, but Sean stood transfixed for there was music in the air.

A gnarled old man sat on a chair playing the fiddle. The sweet sound soared over the market, swirled around corners, and dropped like blessings on the shoppers.

Sean fingered a thrupenny bit. It was all he had, but he had lots of uncles and surely more was coming. He was leaning towards the fiddler’s hat when his uncle jerked him away.

“Keep your money in your pocket. Don’t be such an eejit,” he growled as he marched Sean into a pub called The High Stool. It was full of smoke, talk, farmers with corrugated necks, and lads home from England; calloused hands engulfed brimming pints, fags waggled from lower lips among the winks and nudges, muttering about bets and strokes, grants and football. 

It was late evening when Sean’s eldest girl cousin found them in the gloom of the Corrib Bar. A search party had gone out. They left his uncle there. He didn’t notice Sean was gone. Sean decided after hours of listening to his farmer uncle that he might not have been wise, but he was cute.

The following day another uncle, the second wise man, parked his hire car in Eyre Square. He frowned at the market. “Goddam nonsense.”

The fiddler was still playing as the crowds rushed past him.

Sean reached for the thrupenny bit, but was jerked onwards again.

“Goddam beggar,” said his uncle a bit too loudly.

The Skeffington Bar was dark and smelt of money. The men there wore good suits and talked of rugby, business, and politics. They had big wallets stuffed with notes. It was the only place they went to. On the way home, as the city fell away and stone walls appeared, Sean’s uncle lectured him about how Christmas was only a racket and the guys in ‘the Skeff’ were good guys, most of them, apart from a few grifters. Sean decided that his second uncle was clever, but he was not sure if he was wise.

The third wise man was his grandfather. They parked up in Eyre Square and the old man froze, keys in hand.

“Listen to that. It’s Tom Pat Paddy! I’d know that sound anywhere.”

He dashed over to the fiddler and they shook hands, speaking rapidly in Irish. After a few minutes they started singing, eyes closed, as the farmers and the good guys hurried past on their way to The High Stool and the Skeff Bar.

Sean was introduced. Never forget, said his grandfather, the day you met Tom Pat Paddy. Sean could see the top of a pound note was now peeping out of the fiddler’s pocket. When they left him, Sean spoke up.

“My uncles say he is a beggar.”

“They would,” said his grandfather. “He’s a knight of the road. He carries a thousand years of wisdom. Not one in a hundred who hears him now appreciates it, but when he’s gone the scholars and musicians will be listening to a few old recordings and here he is for us to listen to in person.

“Right. First Kenny’s. We’ll only give it a couple of hours. And we’ll see if Santa is in Moons yet. And you might get to the Crib in Salthill before your hamburger yoke.”

His grandfather was not a bit cute, and he wasn’t clever in the ways of the world, but he was wise enough to know what is precious in life and any wisdom Sean had in later life was a gift from him.