Scotched in the Mist

Dear me - Easter Monday, and I haven't posted since Mrs McElhone caught me breaking my blogfast and confiscated my laptop. Lots has happened since then, but it was rather unfair of me to leave you all wandering about on the moors so I had better update you on the goings on at Trollington.

The Moors

The Monsignor and I were forced to slow to a crawl, and eventually, thanks to a flock of sheep, we ended up in a rather unforgiving ditch.  I saw a gate, and a cart-track, and suggested that we head along it,in the hope that a friendly farmer might offer us his tractor to heave us out of the quagmire, and perhaps a few fresh eggs to pacify Mrs McElhone. The Monsignor took a more jaundiced view of the potential helpfulness of the theoretical farmer (something about the Kulaks being revisionists and capitalist lackeys) -  and grumbled as he picked his way through the boggy terrain in his Gucci loafers. 

Our journey became more and more like the final sad return of Fanny Robin, in Far From The Madding Crowd, but as I listened to the plop plop of the Monsignor's shoes in the cowpats, his muffled groaning appeared by some acoustic trick or other to get both louder and farther away. As I was about to comment on this, I suddenly bumped into the boot of Fr Lonergan's ancient Skoda. good heavens - what was the equally ancient prelate doing out here, in frail health, after his operation? Paying pastoral visits to sheep farmers? What a trooper! 

With a spring in my step I skipped along the path, confident that I would soon be inside the farmhouse of a welcoming Catholic family, with a beaming housewife, a cosied teapot, and a plate of fresh scones. The moaning got louder, however, and I could make out some fierce oaths and rather a lot of rattling and banging going on. I turned a corner, and there was a fifty-seater coach, with  

Lonergan's Coaches, 

Lonerganstown 

Co Wexford

Trips to Knock a Speciality

 written upon its boot.

It was empty, the keys still dangling in the ignition.