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So I bought an old hotel on the fjord of Killary. It was set hard by the harbor wall, with Mweelrea Mountain across the water, and disgracefully gray skies above. It rained two hundred and eighty-seven days of the year, and the locals were given to magnificent mood swings. On the night in question, the rain was particularly violent—it came down like handfuls of nails flung hard and fast by a seriously riled sky god. I was at this point eight months in the place and about convinced that it would be the death of me. I was a fretful blow-in, by their mark, and simply not cut out for tough, gnarly, West of Ireland living. They were listening, instead, to John Murphy, our alcoholic funeral director. The locals drank mostly Bushmills whiskey and Guinness stout, and they drank them to great excess. I wiped their slops from the counter with a bar cloth I had come to hate with a passion verging on the insane. Barely the toss of a glance I received. The talk had shifted to roads, mileage, general directions. They made a geography of the country by the naming of pubs:. The hotel had twenty-three bedrooms and listed westward. Set a can of peas on the floor of just about any bedroom and it would roll slowly in the direction of the gibbering Atlantic. The estate agent had gussied up the history of the place in the brochure—a traditional coaching inn, original beams, visited by Thackeray, heritage bleeding out the wazoo, etc. I was the last of the hopeless romantics. Behind the bar: the Guinness tap, the Smithwicks tap, the lager taps, the line of optics, the neatly stacked rows of glasses, and a high stool that sat by a wee slit of window that had a view across the water toward Mweelrea. The iodine tang of kelp hung in the air always, and put me in mind of embalming fluid. Bill Knott looked vaguely from his Bushmills toward the water. Off a slow road? Bill had been in haulage as a young man and considered himself expert. I had made—despite it all—a mild success of myself in life. But on turning forty, the previous year, I had sensed exhaustion rising up in me, like rot. Before forty, you think that exhaustion is something like a long-lasting hangover. But at forty you learn all about it. Even your passions exhaust you. I found that to be alone with the work all day was increasingly difficult. And the city had become a jag on my nerves—there was too much young flesh around. The brochure about the hotel appeared in my life like a revelation. I clutched it in my hands for days on end. I grew feverish with the notion of a westward flight. I lay in bed with the brochure, as the throb of the city sounded a kind of raspy, taunting note, and I moaned as I read:. The hotel had the promise of an ideal solution. I could distract myself from myself with its day-to-day running, its endless small errands, and perhaps, late at night, or very early in the morning, I could continue, at some less intense level, with the poetry. But I was thinking, The West of Ireland. It would all do to make a new man of me. Down the far end of the bar, Mick Harty, distributor of bull semen for the vicinity, was molesting his enormously fat wife, Vivien. Vivien slapped and roared at him as he stroked her massive haunches. She reddened and chortled as he twisted her around and pulled her vast rear side into his crotch area. Nobody apart from me paid a blind bit of attention to the spectacle. I was not well liked out in Killary. I ate at least five portions of fruit and veg daily. I had omega 3 from oily fish coming out my ears. I limited myself to twenty-one units of alcohol a week. I was becoming versed, instead, in the strange, illicit practices of the hill country. Cunts to a man. Outside, the rain continued to hammer away at our dismal little world, and the sky had shucked the last of its evening gray to take on an intense purplish tone that was ominous, close-in, Biblical. They were all nut jobs. This is what it came down to. This is the thing you learn about habitual country drinkers. They suffer all manner of delusions, paranoia, warped fantasies. It is a most intense world indeed that a hard drinker builds around himself, and it is difficult for him not to assume that everyone else in the place is involved with it. From the hillsides, everywhere, came the aggravated howls of dogs. These were amped to an unnatural degree. The talk in the lounge bar stalled for a moment in response but, just as abruptly, it resumed. Nadia, one of my Belarusians, came through from the supper room and sullenly collected some glasses. I believed all nine of my summer staff to be in varying degrees of sexual contact with one another. I housed them in the dreary, viewless rooms at the back of the hotel, where I myself lived during what I will laughably describe as high season the innocence , and my sleepless nights were filled with the sound of their rotating passions. She scowled at me as she placed the glasses in the dishwasher. I was never allowed to forget that I was paying minimum wage. It was by now a hysterical downpour, with great sheets of water steaming down from Mweelrea, and the harbor roared in the fattening light. Visibility was reduced to fourteen feet. This all signalled that the West of Ireland holiday season had begun. The little eyes would follow you around the room. But I had quickly had my fill of these maudlin bastards. This, by the way, was the Monday of the May bank-holiday weekend. Local opinion, cheerfully, was that it had been among the wettest bank holidays ever witnessed. Both couples held hands and appeared to be significantly tranquillized. Coming through the lobby again, I looked out through the doors and saw a pair of minks creep over the harbor wall. They crossed the road, in perfect tandem, and headed for the rising fields beyond the hotel. I went back into the bar. I found that I had an odd nausea developing. Mine was one of four licensed premises in a scattered district of three-hundred-odd souls. This is a brutal scarcity, by Irish ratios, so there was enough trade to keep us all tunnelling toward oblivion. The bar was another of the elements that had sold the place to me. It was pleasant, certainly, with an old-fashioned mahogany finish, zinc-topped low tables, and some prints of photo finishes from fabled race meetings at Ballybrit. I always tended bar in the evenings. Bill Knott was now reckoning the distance to Derry if you were to go via Enniskillen. Mick Harty talked of the cross-border trade in stallions and looked faintly murderous. Nadia, meantime, was singing weird Belarusian pop beneath her breath as she got up on the footstool to polish the optics. A seep of vomit rose in my gullet. I was soul sick. I was failing spectacularly at this whole mine-host lark. I quietly leaned on the bar by the till. I looked out the small window. Watery, it was. It was lapping by now at the top of the harbor wall. The estate agent had assured me that the place never flooded. I had suspected, I had hoped, that the life I found out here would eventually do something for my work. Something would gestate in me. My poetry was known of but was not a difficulty for the Killary locals—there had never been a shortage of poets out there. Every last crooked rock of the place had at some point seated the bony arse of some hypochondriacal epiphany-seeker. He sullenly turned back to his stout. The people of this part of North Galway are oversexed. That is my belief. I had found a level of ribaldry that bordered on the paganistic. It goes back, of course. They lick it up off the crooked rocks. Thackeray, indeed, remarked on the corsetless dress of rural Irish women, and the fact that they kissed perfect strangers in greeting, their vast bosoms swinging. If I sold the place for even three-quarters of what I paid for it, I could buy half of Cambodia and do a Colonel fucking Kurtz on it. Lovely, coldhearted Nadia came running from the kitchen. She was as white as the fallen dead. He was eating soup when I got there. Carrot and coriander from a ten-gallon pot. Normally, they are terribly skittish, otters, but this fellow was languorous as a surfer. Nervously, I shooed him toward the back door. He took his own sweet time about heading there. Once outside, he aimed not for the tide-line rocks, where the otters all lived, but for the higher ground, south. I looked out toward the harbor. The harbor wall was disappearing beneath spilling sheets of water. I came back into the lounge. They looked at me, the locals, in quiet disgust, as if I could expect no less than otters in the kitchen, the way I was after letting things go. But of course them fuckers have any amount of a road under them since McSharry was minister. I was short-breathed, tense, out of whack. Again and again, the truth was confronting me: I was a born townie, and I had made a dreadful mistake in coming here. I set down a fresh Bushmills for Bill Knott. On the Killary hillsides the dogs howled again in fright-night sequence, one curdling scream giving way to another; they were even louder now than before. The dogs were so loud now as to be unignorable. We all went to the windows. The roadway between hotel and harbor wall had in recent moments disappeared. The last of the evening light was an unreal throb of Kermit green. The dogs howled. The rain continued. The rain came in great, unstoppable drifts on a high westerly from the Atlantic. We moved back from the windows. Our movement had become curiously choreographed. Quiet calls were made on mobiles. We spoke now in whispers. All along the fjord, word quickly had it, the waters had risen and had breached the harbor walls. The emergency services had been alerted. There was talk—a little late for it—of sandbagging. We were joined in the lounge bar by six of the nine Belarusians—the other three had gone to the cineplex in Westport, fate having put on a Dan Brown adaptation—and by the two elderly couples, who had managed not to die off in the library. We may be out here for some time. Applause greeted this. I felt suddenly that I was growing into the mine-host role. There was a conviviality in the bar, the type that is said to come always with threatened disaster. Great howls of wind echoed down the Doo Lough Valley, and they were answered in volleyed sequence by the howls of the Killary dogs. Four of the six Belarusians wore love bites on their necks as they sipped at their complimentary bottled Heinekens. They were apparently feasting delightedly on one another in my back rooms. They were the least scared among us, the least awed. I shot a glance outside, and on a low branch of the may tree hanging over the water a black-backed gull had apparently killed its mate and was starting to eat it. Alexei, the conspicuously walleyed Belarusian, had gone to survey the scene from an upstairs window and he returned to report that the car park beside the hotel was flooded completely. It was an inopportune moment to draw attention to the gull situation. Janey McAllister passed out cold on the floor. There was no getting away from the fact that we were being sucked into the deeps of an emergency. I was getting happy notions. She was frothing a little, and moaning softly. They called for brandy. Bill Knott signalled for a fresh Bushmills, John Murphy for a pint of stout. The water had passed the fourth step and was sweeping over the porch. We were on some vague level aware that house lights still burned on the far side of the harbor, along the mountainside of Mweelrea. Then, at once, the lights over there cut out. The worst of the news was that the emergency appeared to be localized. The fjord of Killary was flooding when no other place was flooding. The rest of the country was going about its humdrum Monday-night business—watching football matches, or Dan Brown adaptations, putting out the bins, or putting up with their marriages—while the people of our vicinity prepared for watery graves. I felt, finally, as if I had been accepted. And I felt that the worst possible course would be to close the bar. There was a kind of hilarity to the proceedings still, and this would not be maintained if I stopped serving booze. The pace of the drinking, if anything, quickened now that the waters were rising. The Belarusians carted boxloads of old curtains down from the attic to use as sops against the doorways, but the moment the last boxload reached the bottom of the stairs the doors popped and the waters entered. I moved everybody upstairs. There was a function room up there that I used for the occasional wedding. It had a fully stocked bar and operational disco lights. As I trailed up the stairs, keeping to the rear of all my locals and Belarusians, I cast an eye back over my shoulder. The function room was used less often than it should have been—the locals got married in Alghero if they had the price of it at all. More calls were made on mobiles. We were promised that the emergency services were being moved out. I turned off the harsh strip lighting overhead and switched to the mood lighting, which moved in lovely, dreamy, disco swirls. Even yet the rain hammered down on my old hotel at Killary. Bill Knott reckoned the distance to Clare Island oversea, if it should come to it. Vivien Harty whispered to Janey McAllister. Vivien swirled it in the glass and fed it to the old lady; her tiny gray head she cradled on a vast lap. I went to the landing outside the function room. I looked down the road. It was like the attack on Dresden. With her sister. Vivien approached her husband, and embraced him, and planted a light kiss on his neck as they held each other against the darkness. Then she bit him on the neck. Blood came in great, angry spurts. I vomited, briefly, and decided to put on some music. I looked out the landing window as I dashed along the corridor to get some CDs from my room—this was a bad move:. Seven sheep in a rowing boat were being bobbed about on the vicious waters of Killary. The sheep appeared strangely calm. I picked lots of old familiars, old favorites: Abba, the Pretenders, Bryan Adams. Oh, and we danced the night away out on the fjord of Killary. I went out to the landing to find the six Belarusians sitting on the top step of the stairs. The waters of Killary were halfway up the stairs. Footstools sailed by in the lobby below, toilet rolls, place mats, phone books. But what could I do? And the view was suddenly clear to me. The world opened out to its grim beyonds and I realized that, at forty, one must learn the rigors of acceptance. Capitalize it: Acceptance. I would accept all that was put in my way, from here on through until I breathed my last. Bill Knott danced. John Murphy danced. The McAllisters and the Fettles waltzed. The Hartys were in deep, emotional conversation in a banquette booth—Mick held to his bleeding neck a wad of napkins. I myself took to the floor, swivelling slowly on my feet, and I closed my eyes against the swirling disco lights. The pink backs of my lids became twin screens for flashing apparitions of my childhood pets. I ran out to the landing for a spot-check on the flooding situation, and was met there by Alexei, the walleyed Belarusian. He indicated with a happy jerk of his thumb the water level on the stairs. It had dropped a couple of steps. I patted his back, and winked just the once, and returned to the disco. Now random phrases and images came at me—the sudden quick-fire assaults that signal a new idea—and I knew that they would come in sequence soon enough, their predestined rhythms would assert. I felt a new, quiet ecstasy take hold. Save this story Save this story. Original beams. Traditional coaching inn. Copy link to cartoon Copy link to cartoon. Link copied. I returned to the function room and served out pints hand over fist. All mobile signals were down. Kevin Barry has contributed to The New Yorker since Don Luigi Ciotti leads an anti-Mafia organization, and for decades he has run a secret operation that liberates women from the criminal underworld. Annals of Psychology. By Eren Orbey. By Michael Schulman. A new biography of the late British monarch is also a book about the dream life of her subjects. By Rebecca Mead. Briefly Noted. The Pictures. By Alex Barasch. A Reporter at Large. Four daughters in the royal family were kept drugged and imprisoned for almost two decades. A physician who tried to free them speaks out for the first time. By Heidi Blake. Musical Events. An Idyllic Music Series in the Hebrides. Mendelssohn on Mull celebrates chamber music away from urban pressures. By Alex Ross. The Theatre. By Helen Shaw. Anxiety causes gray hair in mice. By Paul Rudnick. The Lede. Treating political violence as a contagion could help safeguard the future of American democracy. By Michael Luo. The New Yorker Documentary. A short documentary goes behind the scenes with the Montana state representative as she fights for trans medical care and makes a momentous decision in her own life.

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