Cavan Calling Steph Booth

I have a friend, Steve, who created what he calls his Zen garden. It's just a small space within his much larger garden, made up of pebbles and artistically arranged large rocks and driftwood.

Steve reckons it's a good spot to sit, just empty your mind and relax. As he is a lecturer in design I suppose he is allowed some pretensions, but he also has a valid point. Life can be horribly hectic and demanding at times and it can prove quite difficult to reach a calm physical or mental space. My problem is that my mind empties at completely inappropriate moments - such as when I'm driving. I suddenly realise I've driven for several miles and have no recollection of it. So, who was driving while I was away?

Other times, weird and wonderful thoughts thankfully, normally suppressed, arrive unannounced in my head.

I'm sure this happens to other people, but it is extraordinary where one's mind can travel. For instance, I have recently become preoccupied with tractors. I have noticed there seems to be an awful lot of tractors in Ireland and I find myself pondering the ratio of tractors per head of population. Where we live is very rural and inevitably there will be a concentration of them, but wherever you go in Ireland there are tractors - most specifically, chugging down major roads at a sedate pace with a massive stream of traffic following in their wake. I have even spotted tractors in the outskirts of Dublin - why would city dwellers need tractors?

Speaking of the unexpected, Tony and I became hopelessly lost one winter evening in Dublin and ended up on a housing estate somewhere in the hinterlands. I was surprised to see a horse tethered in a front garden - a very Roddy Doyle experience.

Tony did not appreciate the moment, as we'd been driving around for well over an hour trying to locate our hotel. Furious, he was issuing threats about catching the next ferry home. I failed to calm the situation when I pointed out we would probably have the same difficulty finding the port as we were having finding the hotel. Seeing a man walking down the street, I thought it would be useful to stop and ask directions. Wrong.

Leaning in through the car window, the man uttered the immortal words, "Well, I wouldn't start from here if I was you". I thought Tony would explode with frustration. Eventually we did make it to our destination - the hotel, not the ferry port.

There are people though who seem to possess a natural serenity without resorting to Zen gardens or thoughts of agricultural machinery. How do they do it? Is it something they are born with, or is it learned? I wish I knew the answer. Sadie, the practice nurse at the doctor's surgery in Blacklion, is one of those blessed individuals. She was the perfect foil for our energetic and committed GP, Pat Harrold, who looks like central casting's idea of the romantic Irishman - tall, with a mass of black, curly hair.

Unfortunately for the community, Pat has, for family reasons, now moved on.

Like the priest Father John, Pat was a pivotal member of the community. When Tony and I went to sign on at the surgery my consultation was pretty businesslike. I wanted to discuss medical insurance and an impending trip to Manchester to have a pacemaker fitted. My family and friends were simply happy I had finally agreed to the procedure and thought jollying me along was enough support. To my relief, Pat understood I might be nervous and find the whole thing a daunting prospect.

Then, it was Tony's turn. I sat outside Pat's office listening to the roars of laughter as they regaled each other with stories - both of them being excellent raconteurs.

Unlike in England where our good but overstretched GP did his best, Pat had time. It was a clever and friendly way of extracting information from his patient - and possibly discovering Tony's rampant hypochondria. A few years ago the Guardian newspaper ran a series in the Saturday supplement on strange and unusual diseases. In the end I used to hide this section of the newspaper, as without fail Tony would recognise some of the symptoms and decide that was what was wrong with him. The man is as fit as a flea, but is determined, in final justification, to have on his headstone - "I told you I was ill". I think he got the idea from working with Spike Milligan.

Next Monday: problems with the TV