Never too late to get into Northern Ireland

THINKING wistfully of the gaiety, the sunshine, and the hospitality, and even more wistfully of the pair of trousers, the cheque book, the driving licence, and the insurance certificate that I had left behind at Baltray, I hurried on towards the Border. It was now 6.30, and through trembling lips I muttered: "Motorists reporting after 5 p.m. without having given prior notice to the Northern Customs are liable to a fine of £2 and a charge of 45 per hour for attendance."

As I thundered into the Free State post, thrusting forth hundreds of documents, clamouring for attendance, the Customs officer stretched himself gently, and gave a favourable opinion of the weather. "Am I late, am I late?" I roared.

After consulting his watch, and putting a little coal on the stove, he suggested that I was late if, say, I had an appointment in Belfast for lunch, or hoped to reach Portrush in time for dinner. "Am I too late to get into Northern Ireland?" I bellowed. He stepped back a foot or two, and looked at me intently. "It's never too late to get into Northern Ireland," he said and handed back a fair proportion of the literature I had given him. Two seconds later I was in the Northern post. A cloud of dust drifted away across the countryside".

In comparison with his brother officer, the Free State man had been of a nervously excitable temperament. Northern Ireland was reading a newspaper, and not even my headlong arrival caused him to lift his head. It went on for quite a time like that he reading by the stove, I hopping up and down, sorting and resorting the literature. Finally he marked his place with a thumb and looked up. He had a good look, and went back to his literature. The traveller staked all on one throw, and represented it to the officer that he, the traveller, had it in mind to enter the Six Counties. The matter was of some urgency, and, if the officer could see his way to stamping and signing on lines selected for signing and stamping, he, the traveller would consider himself considerably indebted to the officer.

You're late," said the officer "but I'll have you through in time." The traveller wondered if the officer meant in the course of time or in sufficient time; but so great was his relief that it didn't seem to matter.

"Motorists reporting after 5 p.m. without having given prior notice, my eye, I said happily, and bought a slab of chocolate. I sat on the counter of the post, eating and swinging my legs without a care in the world, while the good, efficient and kindly Customs officer rang up several times and examined a bus. I believe I could have stayed there for hours; but the good, efficient and kind Customs officer had his work to do. He looked at the fire engine, increased my stock of literature, and then told me to go to a private address in Newry, where I would find someone to carry on the task of preparing me for my reception by the Six County authorities.

As I approached the house a small boy opened the hall door. What should I say? "Is daddy at home? is Mr --- there? - could I see your father?" - or what? Eventually I decided upon, "Is the Customs officer at home?" though "Customs officer" seemed rather elaborate for so small a child. The extraordinarily intelligent lad got it in a moment, however, and "the Customs officer" appeared, putting on his hat and coat. He seemed to have no doubt about the reason for my call; and subsequent question and answer revealed that he is used to this sort of thing. Sometimes they drag him out of bed at six in the morning, all on fire to get into the North. We went to the office in Newry, and I got fresh supplies of paper. Every one of the Six Counties now was my oyster.

With abandon I raced out of Newry, joyful that all my troubles were over for three days, and five miles further on found that I was lost. Then began the weary business of asking the way of people who regarded it as inconceivable that I wished to travel to anywhere so remote as Newcastle. They suggested better places much nearer, and got angry when I refused their invitation. Finally, by getting back with difficulty to the Customs office and beginning, less precipitately, again, I got on the right road.

For a while it was uneventful, smooth going, and then bit by bit the road became more and more wild. Terrible doubts again possessed me. Petrol was getting low. The night was inky black. A succession of right angled and unexpected corners completed the route. I thought sadly of the joy I had known with the merry Customs men.

Suddenly the road began to climb. Like a flash I remembered something from school. "Ireland is shaped like a saucer, mountainous on the coast line, sloping down towards the centre." I must be near the coast and Newcastle. As the moon came out I smiled again; but my appreciation of its beauty quickly turned to helpless irritation at its contrariness. The thing settled itself directly behind the windscreen wiper, and with each bend and bump in the road shone briefly into my eyes. I could have borne the steady light, or no light at all; but this hide and seek business was maddening.

We seemed to be nearly at the top of the mountain range, and with pitiable relief I prepared myself for the great joy that shortly was to be mine. The sea and the lights of the town spread out below me. And it was typical of this miserable night that it should end in an anti climax; for beyond the mountain top the road wandered on until it vanished into trees. Eventually, after asking the way twice, I entered Newcastle, quite unexpectedly at the wrong end.

The journey at least was over, and in half an hour I was sitting down to the best meal of bacon and eggs I have ever eaten. It's a curious thing, but any meal of bacon and eggs taken out of its ordinary schedule is always the best meal of bacon and eggs you have ever eaten. The eggs can have that loathsome, burnt brown frill round their edges, and the bacon be thick and salty, but still it's the best meal of bacon and eggs you have ever eaten. Why cannot duckling and green peas be the best meal you have ever eaten, or roast baby lamb?

In bed I made my first acquaintance with a lunatic machine that 5 to pursue me around Ireland. In appearance it looked like a huge soap dish, with a ring on the top. It was made apparently of cast iron, with each half welded together. The thing was blazing hot to the touch, and from this fact, together with the fact that it had been placed in my bed, I surmised, in the face of the evidence, that it was a hot water bottle. It was; and when you kick it out of the end of the bed, tortured beyond endurance, the resultant crash gives you a fright truly appalling in its intensity.

After this first experience I wrapped subsequent water tanks in my overcoat to prevent too painful a burn, and deposited them outside my door, where the boots always fell over them. It's so much more simple and sympathetic to make hot water bottles of rubber.