Dismay at the centralisation of cancer services could cost the Yes side in Mayo, Keith Dugganhears, as he joins local TD Dara Calleary canvassing in Ballina
IN THE light June drizzle, children throw an oval ball around on a rugby field on the edge of Ballina town.
Just after 7.30pm, Dara Calleary's silver car pulls in to park. It is a typical Thursday for the Fianna Fáil TD. He made decent time motoring to the heartland from Dublin, took in a local meeting and will chase off to another party gathering in Foxford later tonight.
First, he has two hours for a brisk stretch on the necklace of country roads around Creggs Road, armed with leaflets and the intention to make sure his townspeople behave as good Europeans.
The Calleary name is gold standard in Mayo politics: his father Seán and grandfather Phelim both served in the Dáil for the soldiers of destiny. After the votes were counted in the last election, he was Mayo's only Fianna Fáil TD - Castlebar's Beverley Flynn had stormed the polls as an Independent.
Calleary grew up by the river Moy and even the crows passing overhead seem to know him by his first name. Before politics consumed him, he played rugby here. Watching the action on the field, it is hard to believe that Gavin Duffy, the Irish player who is on the bench for the New Zealand game this morning, learned his stuff here.
Creggs on a gentle June evening seems an awful long way from the rugby theatres of Wellington. And then, Ballina in general seems awfully far away too from Europe's corridors of power.
"We have been busy with this," he confirms as we walk up a lane. "We had Dick Roche down last week. With the auld bus. That kicked it off. And it will intensify over the next few days. It will be tight."
Flanked by Johnny O'Malley, Annie Mai Reape and Willie Nolan, he rings bells to talk about the future of nations but is happy to drift into more pressing matters. "That hedging has been taken care of," Willie assures one voter. "Sure, great. Lisbon is working for me already."
By 8pm, most people are getting children ready for bed or making coffee. The Lisbon Treaty is an assault on the senses.
"Can we read it? The whole thing?" one lady asks with a grin.
Calleary, somewhat dubiously, gives her the web address. "It's fairly big," he warns. "Maybe open the bottle of wine before you go at it." Most people who intend voting for Lisbon explain that they are doing so out of a vague loyalty to the EU. However, there is confusion, doubt and anger too.
"I met some young people, Dara, who are not happy with the explanations for this," a family friend explains.
"Neutrality is a big thing with them and eastern Europe doesn't seem that . . . popular. Revenge for Dustin or something! You know, we always voted Yes in Europe before but we don't know where this is going." The biggest critics were people dismayed at the Government decision to centralise cancer services for Mayo at the university hospital in Galway.
"I am rotten disappointed in you," one farming man says to Calleary as he walks up the drive. He had twisted his Lisbon leaflet and pointed it at his visitor accusingly, half humorous and deadly serious.
"You and Mrs Castlebar - ye didn't stand up for your hospital in your own town. I always stood behind your father but . . . I am rotten disappointed."
The canvassers do their best to explain their belief that the centralisation of the cancer service will ultimately save lives.
Johnny O'Malley, who recovered from the disease, puts his hand on the neighbour's shoulder and says, "Mattie, it is about giving people a chance. If I had to swim to Ellis Island to get the best treatment, I would have swam to Ellis Island."
But this is a burning issue in the town. Several people come to their doors to tell Calleary that they will vote No to Lisbon in protest at the cancer service policy. It is not difficult to understand the connection in their minds. If Lisbon means moving the decision-making farther away from the edge, ever farther from the west of Ireland, then Ballina people, after seeing what they believed was a perfectly fine cancer service disappear from Castlebar, want nothing to do with it.
"Dara, ye won't get in again after the way ye have upset the people," explains an elderly lady who was successfully treated in Castlebar. "I will vent my feelings and there are an awful lot of women in Mayo."
Calleary knows it. Many of them picketed his office on this matter a few weeks ago. But he has a treaty to sell.
Someone tells him that the Quays, his old primary school, has just won the Cumann na mBunscol football tournament. Calleary has a country politician's genes - unflappable good humour and a chin as tough as a boxer's. He talks about commissioners, Quays football, tax bands and problematic guttering with equal felicity.
"You should have done a tutorial on this down in Keane's bar," one man advises. "Sure, we did," Calleary smiles. "We just didn't advertise it."
They may need to hold more. There are plenty of good Europeans in General Humbert country, plenty of dissidents too and plenty of busy people for whom the Lisbon Treaty is just another scrap of bumf dropped through their letterbox.
"How will it go?" asks one rugby acquaintance, shaking hands warmly when they meet on the street. It was hard to know if he was referring to the rugby match or to the vote.