Let’s Go
written by: Eamon O’Leary
We made it. After weeks spent huffing ‘n puffing, dithering over 99 or more reasons why we shouldn’t, a penny or something dropped, and Ruth, arms outstretched, palms upturned for greater emphasis, declared.
‘To heck with it, we’ll go. Only God himself knows how many more years we have.’
And so, with my dodgy hip, fluttering ticker, and unreliable plumbing system, we headed off for a bit of sun, back to our favourite spot.
At the airport, check-in was akin to Killorglin during Puck Fair, but we managed. The steps to the plane left me feeling as if I’d climbed the south face of the Matterhorn, but again, I survived.
On our first morning, as we waddled along the path to the beach, we wondered if any of our old friends made it this year.
Indeed, they had. An eclectic, cosmopolitan mix of familiar faces greeted us with handshakes, cuddles, and kisses.
We plonked ourselves down and slathered on copious amounts of factors 30 to 50, knowing in all probability the damage had been done years earlier. On picking up the hint of a not unpleasant smell from bygone days, I looked over at my friend Jim. I couldn’t help but giggle and watched as he mixed a tube of Wintergreen with sun cream and covered every exposed joint with the concoction.
‘Big game today,’ I asked.
‘Yeah, Champions League Final tonight,’ came the reply, accompanied by an infectious laugh that appeared to originate in the depths of a well-nourished tummy.
As the days passed, conversation, needless to say, interspersed the beach routine of sun, sea, and snoring. For us lads, we discussed problems with the prostate and related bits at length, but our greatest dilemma was the inability to no longer hit the golf ball further than 150 yards.
Meanwhile, the girls exchanged stories, many joyful, others sad, of their children, grandchildren, and, in one case, great-grandchildren.
We grazed constantly. Feasting on strawberries, cherries, and mouth-watering mango. Someone said it looked like a teddy bear picnic, although in fairness, I think our group was more like a cross between Last of The Summer Wine and Dad’s Army.
The week flew, and we regretted not booking for longer.
On our last day, Jim announced he’d brought no food. Instead, on opening his cool box, he produced a bottle of champagne and a supply of plastic glasses. After popping the cork and doling out the bubbly, he raised his glass.
’A toast and a wish. Good health and hoping we all make it back next year.’
And once again, we hugged, kissed, and high-fived. On noticing a tear or two, I decided a song was called for and belted out a verse or two of Always Look on The Bright Side of Life.
As other bewildered beachgoers watched this raggle-taggle group waggle their backsides and sing with gusto, I glanced at my watch.
It was 9.35am!
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