Tread softly on the Border, because you tread on nightmares
Oliver Callan: Its fate is always decided by faraway people who will never smuggle soup
After all the hubbub from peers, buccaneers and Brexiteers, we’re now assured we’ll get an invisible Border
Inniskeen Road, December evening. The Beemers go by in twos and threes, there’s a dance of old souls in Billy Brennan’s barn tonight. The row over the Irish border at Europe’s highest levels this year brought Patrick Kavanagh’s ghost whispering to my mind.
He could never have believed his little townlands lurching against Armagh would actually find themselves, as he wrote ironically in his poem Epic, “important places, times When great events were decided, who owned That half a rood of rock, a no-man’s land”.