Tom Crean

It is said that Ireland is a haunted place full of spirits; a land where the dead are celebrated.

Tom Crean

The journey to the Emerald Isle had been a lengthy one: Northampton to Holyhead by car, ferry across the Irish Sea to Dublin followed by a five hour drive from east to west until finally arriving near Annascaul, County Kerry. It was getting on for midnight when my red Audi pulled up outside the farmhouse we were staying at. Wearily, we carted our luggage along the brick path to our new lodgings, all of us ready for bed. Despite the odyssey, my wife Gabby was still in a tolerable mood. Just. The kids were tired and jaded.

That night everyone slept like proverbial logs. Exhaustion, I think. It wasn’t until the second night that strange things started to happen. There was an archaic atmosphere. Single story like a bungalow, the place seemed trapped in time, a throwback to a bygone era. Every room seemed to host shadows cast from walls, a darkness brooding regardless of how much light came in through the windows. The owner was an aging farmer who lived in the same building, our respective orbits separated by a partition wall. Scattered outbuildings littered the yard out back, fields filled with sheep and cows.

We had spent that first day at Dingle Bay. The highlight: A fishing boat taking us and a gaggle of animated tourists in search of wild dolphins. It was in the evening that I remember staring at Gabby pondering why she was taking photos of the bedroom with her mobile phone; her slender fingers clicking away, shiny sable hair caressing the sides of a cogent elfin face. The last of the day’s light was filtering in through an open window, a gloaming that prefaced the need to turn a lamp on to illuminate surroundings.  

She peered at me nonplussed asking how I could have missed them. I enquired as to what it was that had passed me by. She sat me down on the side of the bed, her eyes directing to look at an image on screen. At first, all I could see was a still of old-fashioned wooden wardrobes and worn gnarly dressers. Looking closer, I saw what she was alluding to. Orbs. Strange patches of globular light that floated about in darkened rooms. Conventional thought was that they were dust motes or maybe insects but believers took them to be evidence of spectral activity.

This was a curious phenomenon. I knew of them from watching paranormal shows on cable channels like Really. I only ever payed scant attention but this was something we did together, my scepticism subsumed by her steadfast belief. I remained non-committal and noted the time as getting on for 11pm. Perhaps the witching hour and beyond would bring more ghostly shenanigans. All I knew is I wanted my bed.

That was that for a couple of days. It was on a bright sultry morning with warm gentle winds blowing in from nearby mountains that the next notable incident occurred. With the four of us perched around a small circular table in the kitchen, Gabby was chattering to our daughter Emily. Our teen belle was ready for more adventure, as industrious as she was restless. Her pert nose, sparkling blue eyes and unswervingly straight black hair with sweeping fringe made for the spitting image of her mother. The room was filled with the aroma of percolating coffee and toast; clinking noises signalled bowls of cereal being consumed with spoons surfing through semi-skimmed milk.

They seemed to be comparing stories as though establishing an alibi to counter an accusation of wrongdoing. Exchanging glances with my son, James, we simultaneously turned heads to tune in to the parent-child discussion. After a brief conspiratorial silence, my wife declared hesitantly that both she and my 13-year-old daughter had seen a roman soldier in the night. Of course, not an actual soldier but a ghost. A wraith, perhaps. I think Ireland was famous for banshees rather than ethereal apparitions of fighting men with short-swords and helmets but there it was; another ghostly incident.

Wife and daughter were convinced about the sighting. James belied his ten years with sage-like objectivity. Dressed in Micky Mouse tee-shirt (a memento from a Florida sojourn) and dark blue shorts, his pudgy face was alive with questions, his cropped fair hair boyish in keeping with his tender age. He mentally dangled on the border of belief and scepticism; I remained in the hinterland of doubt. This did not go down well with my better half. She was adamant that there were lost souls roaming about the place. I’m sure there must have been some sort of logical explanation for the presence of ancient militia in our holiday let.

I decided I needed to take some time out and think about the whole affair.

So here I am sitting outside The South Pole Inn nursing a pint of Guinness; the holiday itinerary fractured by my desire to be alone for a while. I guess the intrusion of occult occurrences could and should have been mitigated and taken more lightly but sometimes it pays to escape from the bizarre and reset quietly. I said I wanted to go for a walk on my own.

On arrival, I had dutifully pinged Gabby a message telling her where I was. She said that they would be along in a while. There’s nobody else sat at the exterior picnic benches. I imagine things get busier closer to early evening. Those out for a lunchtime drink and/or food are inside the dark and pale blue-liveried establishment. I pan across the large windows either side of a porch-entrance with a wooden door. Above are four plain sash-windows with two painted-blue chimneys at the extremities of a tiled roof. It’s a welcoming sight.

I stare out at fir trees, low stone walls demarcate areas in the near distance. It looks like there is something behind a tree-lined horizon but I can’t quite make it what it is. Gannets glide in the skies above, terns patrolling the vista. It’s a beatific panorama. A pang of guilt tells me I shouldn’t be alone. As that thought trails away, a silhouette appears directly in front of me. A reflex takes my flat hand to my brow shielding the glare of the sun. Before I can focus properly, the interloper circles the table and sits opposite.

It’s a man with a rugged, weather-beaten face. In one hand he is holding a smoking pipe, bowl pointed upwards ready to light. He has an unkempt beard along with unshaven features. His brow is furrowed as though the weight of the world has been carried on his shoulders. A brown woollen jumper with a folded over crew-neck makes him look like a nautical sea-dog. He smiles and asks me how I am. His voice is deep, a gravelly baritone soaked in colloquial Irish. I pause considering how to reply. I don’t know who the man is but my preconception is that local people are predominantly friendly.

I mull over the last few days. It would be easy to simply utter a glib response but the interloper makes me feel at ease somehow. I reply that it’s been an interesting introduction to Ireland. This elicits a wry expression as he tips a pint glass to his grateful mouth; he is also drinking Guinness. I peer searching for a shamrock in the froth. There isn’t one. He wants to know what’s been so interesting about my experience so far. I tell him tales of the unexpected. He listens intently, looking away occasionally as patrons arrive in dribs and drabs.

It’s a question of belief in a way. And also what’s important. He asks “Where are my manners?” in that Gaelic enunciated rise and fall that’s so enchanting. He shakes his head, offers his hand across the table top and introduces himself as Tom. Still gripping hands, I declare my name as “Steve” and leave it at that.

It’s then that he tells me his extraordinary story. Expeditions to the Antarctic – all three of them. There’s a compelling narration about the hardships and the challenges of endurance that went with traversing such harsh landscapes. My head is full of images of snow and ice, huskies and sledges. It’s an alluring, intoxicating tale, one that makes me ponder about perspective.

We both reflect on the qualities needed to undergo experiences like extended excursions to such brutal locations. I think of my drive across Ireland and how it pales into insignificance when hearing his saga. He tells me that he declined a further invitation to travel to the South Pole because he got married and started a family instead. We ruminate on the subject of personal qualities and attributes and which ones get you furthest in life. Of the many considered, belief and self-belief come high on the list; the former requiring something to believe in, of course.

I take my leave, mumbling an apology as I rise to go to the toilet. When I return, the man is gone. Instead, Gabby and the kids are walking towards me. My wife has a knowing look on her face as she spots the empty pint glass on the table. We decide to take a stroll before returning for something to eat. I’m curious to see what is beyond the tree-line in the foreground. Clouds throw shadows onto hedgerows. We enter a memorial garden. Standing in the middle is the bronze statue of a man, his left arm cradling dogs, his right holding hiking poles. He looks familiar.

The monument is marine-coloured with an undercoat of black showing through, a noble head is imperious atop an athletic body. The man has a far-away stare. It’s then I realise that this is the person I was just talking too. The heat of the day permeates the air and I gasp wordlessly. Needless to say, it simply can’t be the same individual. Not unless he’s been turned to effigy by a hidden Medusa. My head is reeling; my grasp of the fundamental laws of reality shaken. This soaring sensation of déjà vu is mentally parked. I crave the banal, the stiflingly normal. We shuffle back to the pub.

Inside there are framed pictures on stone walls and attached to wooden slats above a bar. A quiet chatter is coming from a few people dotted about. A tall elderly gentleman with walking cane and cloth cap is hunched over a table-top talking to a woman opposite. A black and white border collie lies dutifully at his feet. Gabby and the children sit at a square table with continuous booth seating on one side. As they inspect a menu, I stand in front of a row of bar stools and catch the attention of a middle-aged man with a gold cross earring. He is wearing an open leather waistcoat and absently cleaning glasses with a cloth.

I smile and tell him that we will be ordering shortly. I mumble a story about the man talking to me outside earlier. I sense others are listening. He looks at me quizzically, shrugs his shoulders and then directs me to the paraphernalia that adorns the room. It seems I am in the public house of former owner and proprietor Tom Crean – an explorer who bravely served with both Scott and Shackleton in the early 1900s. It’s his statue outside; he died in 1938. It’s hard to say who it was that was conversing with me at the picnic bench. Perhaps it was a ghost; perhaps not. There are some curious folk in these parts by all accounts.

Re-joining my family, each in turn announce their food and drink orders. I exchange a fond gaze with Gabby and wonder when to tell her about the ethereal incident. It can wait for now. Our late lunch will be arriving soon and we have the rest of our lives to experience what the world has to offer. Our minds are open and our bodies willing. Ireland has more to show us if we let it.

Information about Tom Crean at: https://www.historyireland.com/tom-crean-1877-1938-an-irish-hero/

Image free to use via WikiCommons at: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/11/Tom_Crean_statue%2C_...