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A Bridge Too Far The late Lord Killanin, hereditary peer and former Chairman of the International Olympic Committee, had his country seat in County Galway, just outside a small Irish-speaking village near the sea. On a winter's day it made a rather gloomy impression when seen from the outside, its entrance gate being surrounded by a profuse tangle of bare trees and other vegetation, unusual in Connemara which is mostly barren and treeless. Flowing through the grounds is the Spiddal River, a small boulder-strewn stream which turns brown during the rainy season (about nine months of the year!) and empties itself into the sea a short distance from a bridge over the road. It was a place I passed every day on my way to work and it fascinated me. It reminded me of something from a Bronte novel and I always half-expected Heathcliff to appear out of the mist, riding through the gate on a white charger. One day I couldn't resist the temptation to go inside any longer. The winter storms had abated and a bright watery sun hung over the strange landscape. One of my workmates was in my car on his way home, but neither of us were in any hurry. Instead of going for an after-work pint in the village pub as we were wont to do, this day we decided to check out the Killanin place. The gate was always left invitingly open and I had my fishing rod in the boot. With any luck there would be no one at home and we would get away with our bare-faced effrontery. Still with some misgiving, but egged on by my companion, I drove slowly inside. The trees seemed to shiver. The sun went in. The dank grounds looked desolate and the stagnant pools of water beside the river were full of dead and decaying leaves. The place was devoid of wildlife, with not even a bird to be seen or heard. I wanted to go back, but the narrow, twisting road didn't allow for a u-turn, so we edged on. After what seemed an age, we came to a clearing and then a small bridge over the road, leading to a big house in the distance. Like all anglers, I can never resist stopping to look over a bridge and this day was no exception. But I had hardly got out of the car before a large black limousine appeared out of nowhere and pulled up behind us, blocking our retreat. A face poked itself out the window. A rather imperious-looking lady, who spoke like someone used to giving orders, said angrily: "You'll have to turn round!" A quick getaway was called for, even though there was no room for manoeuvre. In tones of the most obsequious meekness I replied: "We're turning round." "Not on my grawss, you're not! Go on up to the front of the house and turn around on the gravel there!" We did as we were told. It was one of the most embarrassing minor episodes of my life. I would like to apologise publicly to the Killanins for my trespassing, all of fifteen years later. But I'm sure I have long since been forgiven. Ð extract from (as yet unpublished) 'Memoirs of a Jackeen in Connemara' by Jim Carew
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