Chapter 1 - Your journey begins...

COUNTY ARMAGH, NORTHERN IRELAND 

SHAUN STARED INTO the glass he was holding and idly shook it causing the few remaining drops of Guinness to froth with the motion. Time was passing and he was becoming impatient. For once none of his friends had appeared and he had only himself for company. Not even a stranger to break the monotony, he reflected. 

Not that Shaun really expected to see strangers for the pub was tucked well away from the beaten track; its clientele mostly local farmers and field hands. For them and Shaun, the pub was an oasis in the Irish countryside, a watering hole where they could escape from their wives and the dull monotony of country living.  This October evening, however, no one other than he had sought refuge within. Even conversation with Tom, the rotund, middle-aged, red-faced barman, had dried up. Loquacious by nature, Tom was strangely quiet this evening, seemingly absorbed in the newspaper he was reading. Then again, it was one of those evenings that promoted silence. A depressive atmosphere seemed to pervade the air with nothing to dispel it.

Sitting within the dilapidated century-old building with its heavy wooden beamed ceiling and panelled walls, Shaun sighed inwardly and gulped down the remnants of the liquid in his glass. He toyed briefly with the notion of ordering another but decided against it. Maureen would already have his meal on a low flame and besides, it was getting late. He decided that no one would appear now so he had best be home. Sliding from the bar stool, he made for the door, pulling up the collar of his old tweed jacket as he did so in anticipation of the chilly ride ahead.

“Night Tom!”

“Night Shaun!” came Tom's perfunctory reply as he lifted his eyes momentarily from his newspaper to acknowledge the short, squat man's departure.

Outside, Shaun felt the night air clutch him in its raw arms, a stark contrast to the warm interior he had just left. It seemed to be unusually cold for this time of year. Giving an involuntary shiver he tugged up the collar of his jacket even more. 

“God! It’s freezing tonight!” he muttered to himself as he recovered the bicycle he had deserted an hour before. Switching on the bicycle’s headlamp, he mounted and pushed off down the narrow winding lane; the lamp's beam reaching out and capturing and then releasing the jutted ragged asphalt as he rode along. Soon the dampness of the seat began to reach through his trousers and the piercing wind made him snuggle deeper within the confines of his coat to keep warm.

It would be stew tonight he knew as he pedalled briskly home. Maureen was entirely predictable when it came to cooking. With her, the bill of fare for the week was always rigid. Today being Thursday, lamb stew would be on the menu. How welcome it would be on an evening such as this. In fact, her no-frills wholesome cooking was always well received by Shaun as evidenced by his ample waistline. 

Phlegmatic by nature, Shaun's life was a contented one. When he could escape from the small petrol station he owned in the village of Carrickcross, he would be found either with his wife and daughter or with the locals in 'The Harp of Erin', the pub he had just left. Mostly in the latter for like most Irishmen, he enjoyed a drink in the company of men.  It was the Irish way in those parts and had never been questioned, certainly not by the women of the land. 

After all, "What did women have to complain about?" the men would ask. “As long as they had good men to provide for them, what more could they want?” As for women's liberation, that was a non-event. The word “liberation" in this country was solely reserved for the 'Cause'.  The cause was the liberation of Ireland from the English, not the liberation of women from men. 

Paddy, for his part, had no desire to change the 'status quo' of his humdrum life, but then again, fate is capricious.

Head down, lost in thoughts of the meal that awaited him at home, he did not notice the glow in the night sky until he had breasted the hill. Then his heart started thumping as he saw that something was burning fiercely off to the right a half mile or so away. British soldiers patrolled these lanes sometimes and he thought for a moment that the IRA might have ambushed a Brit’s armoured car; a not-unheard-of occurrence in these parts. 

Freewheeling down the hill towards the blaze, he eventually came to the burning object, a small tree that was flaming frenziedly. The brakes of his bicycle combined with the slide of his feet to halt his progress and he dismounted. Standing there before the fire, he tried to speculate as to what had caused it. 

The heat provided a welcome relief from the cold and he lingered there longer than he should have. The sparks shooting forth into the sky as the tree burned furiously held a strange fascination for him. He knew the Irish Republican Army had better things to do than set fire to trees so he dismissed the situation as being a dangerous one. Some children, no doubt, having a lark, he decided. Whatever, it was none of his concern.  Time to get off home for that stew but he dawdled for a moment longer to soak up more heat for the journey ahead.