A Very Peculiar Standoff
“Sure it'll be grand!”
Fiona’s attitude to all of this was worryingly relaxed. The big sign written in red by the gatepost was clear enough, but she was quite insistent that we wouldn’t be shot at, even though we were about to enter the grounds of an Irish Defence Force firing range. Doubtfully, I trotted along after my cousin and her two gangling hounds, expecting to hear the first rifle crack at any moment. But for a few minutes, all was peaceful as we gazed across the harbour towards Cobh, where our late grandfather was born a hundred and twenty years earlier. We were indeed questioned by a young man in civvies, who told us we needed to go because he was leaving and was about to close the gate. I breathed a sigh of relief. And nobody shot at us. The locals here really are quite sanguine about stuff and nonsense that would cause a minor security incident at home. Try that on Salisbury Plain and you'd probably be in a bunker underneath it half an hour later, trying to convince military intelligence that you're not in the pay of some rogue power, and were only out for an innocent stroll with the dogs.
A couple of days later I was encountering evidence of a similarly easy going approach to life here on the Dingle Peninsula, a place where nobody seems to be in an enormous hurry. It took me a while to notice it, and at first I thought the gesture was the Kerry equivalent of the “thank you” wave employed by motorists when one driver waits to let oncoming traffic pass through a bottleneck in the road. I get quite cross if I haven’t received a thank you wave. Don't you? Especially if you have the right of way but you're in a benevolent mood and wave a queue of approaching cars through? No? Well you're a better person than me then. Back here on the peninsula it occurred to me that I hadn’t actually stopped to let the car come past me because, although it may have been a bit on the snug side, the road was comfortably wide enough for us both to proceed without coming to a halt. Not long afterwards, the next driver to come my way did the same thing. I replied in kind and felt good about the world. From then onwards, I watched for, and witnessed the barely imperceptible gesture almost every time I passed another car, no matter how narrow or wide the road might be. It seems here that the casual lifting of an index finger from the steering wheel is just a way of saying “hello” to passing drivers. That's a finger, not the finger. At least I hope it is, because otherwise I’m wondering what I was doing wrong with such splendid consistency. Especially as I was making sure I returned the greeting each time, sometimes even being bold enough to initiate the exchange as confidence in my surroundings grew. What a lovely human gesture it is. An effortless one that costs nothing too. Much nicer than the other way in which some road users are all too keen to lift a finger when they feel you’ve offended them. Although that’s rare in Cornwall because we’re a pretty relaxed kind of community too.
It was as I took this final batch of shots towards a snowy Mount Brandon that I was treated to an even more unusual display of consideration by one of the locals. By now I was standing next to the roadside by the car at Clogher Head, still unable to sever the Dingle connection and set off in the direction of Inch Beach. To my lasting surprise, the approaching small van actually stopped right there on the road to let me finish taking my pictures. He wasn't to know that the telephoto lens was trained on the distant Brandon Mountain range and that nothing within the first two or three miles immediately before me was going to appear in any of this group of pictures. But what generosity of spirit. Can you imagine a driver stopping in the middle of the road so that some lone oddity might point his camera into space where you live? No, me neither. Of course it's not exactly the M25 interchange near Heathrow Airport here when it comes to traffic volumes, but even so it's a refreshing display of how effortlessly thoughtful some people are. And I was clearly wrong in thinking that the regulars of Kruger's, where I'd stopped for a pint the previous evening, never left the warmth of the bar to feel the Atlantic breeze at their backs. I instantly recognised the wisps of grey beneath the black and white bucket hat, the crumpled profile and the impassive eyes that gazed ahead, just as I'd seen them as I left the bar and stepped outside into the rainy night. A perfect Kerry gent, in a quiet and undemonstrative sort of manner. Never once did he turn his head towards me and engage in any kind of way. He just waited patiently until I held the camera at my side again. For a moment I thought he might wait there silently all day in the politest of standoffs if I kept on shooting, as if some invisible barrier had been lowered across the road in front of him. What else could I do but offer a “thank you” wave? When I pretended that I was finished, he shuffled into gear, and off down the road towards Ballyferriter Village he went. I waited until he was out of sight, and then carried on shooting.
A Very Peculiar Standoff
“Sure it'll be grand!”
Fiona’s attitude to all of this was worryingly relaxed. The big sign written in red by the gatepost was clear enough, but she was quite insistent that we wouldn’t be shot at, even though we were about to enter the grounds of an Irish Defence Force firing range. Doubtfully, I trotted along after my cousin and her two gangling hounds, expecting to hear the first rifle crack at any moment. But for a few minutes, all was peaceful as we gazed across the harbour towards Cobh, where our late grandfather was born a hundred and twenty years earlier. We were indeed questioned by a young man in civvies, who told us we needed to go because he was leaving and was about to close the gate. I breathed a sigh of relief. And nobody shot at us. The locals here really are quite sanguine about stuff and nonsense that would cause a minor security incident at home. Try that on Salisbury Plain and you'd probably be in a bunker underneath it half an hour later, trying to convince military intelligence that you're not in the pay of some rogue power, and were only out for an innocent stroll with the dogs.
A couple of days later I was encountering evidence of a similarly easy going approach to life here on the Dingle Peninsula, a place where nobody seems to be in an enormous hurry. It took me a while to notice it, and at first I thought the gesture was the Kerry equivalent of the “thank you” wave employed by motorists when one driver waits to let oncoming traffic pass through a bottleneck in the road. I get quite cross if I haven’t received a thank you wave. Don't you? Especially if you have the right of way but you're in a benevolent mood and wave a queue of approaching cars through? No? Well you're a better person than me then. Back here on the peninsula it occurred to me that I hadn’t actually stopped to let the car come past me because, although it may have been a bit on the snug side, the road was comfortably wide enough for us both to proceed without coming to a halt. Not long afterwards, the next driver to come my way did the same thing. I replied in kind and felt good about the world. From then onwards, I watched for, and witnessed the barely imperceptible gesture almost every time I passed another car, no matter how narrow or wide the road might be. It seems here that the casual lifting of an index finger from the steering wheel is just a way of saying “hello” to passing drivers. That's a finger, not the finger. At least I hope it is, because otherwise I’m wondering what I was doing wrong with such splendid consistency. Especially as I was making sure I returned the greeting each time, sometimes even being bold enough to initiate the exchange as confidence in my surroundings grew. What a lovely human gesture it is. An effortless one that costs nothing too. Much nicer than the other way in which some road users are all too keen to lift a finger when they feel you’ve offended them. Although that’s rare in Cornwall because we’re a pretty relaxed kind of community too.
It was as I took this final batch of shots towards a snowy Mount Brandon that I was treated to an even more unusual display of consideration by one of the locals. By now I was standing next to the roadside by the car at Clogher Head, still unable to sever the Dingle connection and set off in the direction of Inch Beach. To my lasting surprise, the approaching small van actually stopped right there on the road to let me finish taking my pictures. He wasn't to know that the telephoto lens was trained on the distant Brandon Mountain range and that nothing within the first two or three miles immediately before me was going to appear in any of this group of pictures. But what generosity of spirit. Can you imagine a driver stopping in the middle of the road so that some lone oddity might point his camera into space where you live? No, me neither. Of course it's not exactly the M25 interchange near Heathrow Airport here when it comes to traffic volumes, but even so it's a refreshing display of how effortlessly thoughtful some people are. And I was clearly wrong in thinking that the regulars of Kruger's, where I'd stopped for a pint the previous evening, never left the warmth of the bar to feel the Atlantic breeze at their backs. I instantly recognised the wisps of grey beneath the black and white bucket hat, the crumpled profile and the impassive eyes that gazed ahead, just as I'd seen them as I left the bar and stepped outside into the rainy night. A perfect Kerry gent, in a quiet and undemonstrative sort of manner. Never once did he turn his head towards me and engage in any kind of way. He just waited patiently until I held the camera at my side again. For a moment I thought he might wait there silently all day in the politest of standoffs if I kept on shooting, as if some invisible barrier had been lowered across the road in front of him. What else could I do but offer a “thank you” wave? When I pretended that I was finished, he shuffled into gear, and off down the road towards Ballyferriter Village he went. I waited until he was out of sight, and then carried on shooting.