It was a Monday night early in March when I had my 鈥淩obert
Frost Moment.鈥 I had to meet an A-Level Drama Moderator,
(though the title rendered him a bit Starship Enterprise,
he was actually the best of fellows), to give him samples
of my students鈥 coursework. We had a brief chat in
a hotel car-park outside Toome, a little village which hugs
the North-west shoulder of Lough Neagh. We departed, after
each passing comment on how busy life was between work and
home, each eager to be out of the bitter cold, away back
to that busy life. Toome, I remember as a child, before
ever having travelled there, thinking that 鈥淭oome鈥
sounded strange, a fearsome place all dark and haunted,
or maybe a deserted cowboy town complete with tumbleweed
and solemn bell tolling.
I laughed at these early Gothic reminisces and, having
negotiated a couple of roundabouts, I headed in the direction
of Ballyronan, thinking of my never-ending list of 鈥淭hings
to be Done鈥 and feeling no inclination to do any of
it. As I drove I became vaguely aware of a presence over
my left shoulder, something demanding to be looked at. It
was nothing more mysterious than the moon, though not the
usual pale, silver, distant disc, but deep-orange to blood-red,
and incredibly close. I drove on, endeavouring to keep my
mind on the road ahead and life ahead, (things to do and
all that), but found myself turning the radio off, and taking
occasional glances offered tantalisingly through breaks
in hedges.
I almost laughed again when my hands rotated the steering
wheel left in automatic response to the 鈥淢arina鈥
sign on entering Ballyronan village; heard the car crunch
over gravel and killed the twitching, unsure engine. Now
that I had succumbed to the temptation to stop, I was not
sure what to do. Questions beginning with 鈥淲hat kind
of eejit..?鈥 tumbled into my head. It was a cold night.
All seemed quiet. The Marina was, surprise, surprise, deserted.
Uncertainly, I got out of the car, which would surely have
been giving the old harness bells what for had there been
any. I felt a slight sense of shame. Would this not look
a tad iffy? A drug dealer? A midnight rendezvous with a
married woman? Then, shame at my shame. A memory of former
stints on soap box about the all-important, all-consuming
need for things to look 鈥渞ight鈥 in front of
others.
Debate over, I looked around. I was face to face with the
moon, beautifully, ridiculously huge. A calm presence just
above me, not peeping coyly through, and withdrawing again,
behind screening hedges as it had been. It was just the
moon, (or so I told myself), yet the fantastic, orangey
bridal train it trailed across the surface of the still
waters of the lough made me think again. Already dominating
the night sky, the reflection magnified the moon鈥檚
radiance to a liquid gold. I looked now at the boat masts
nestling together. But for the cold this could be the harbour
of some little island in the Aegean.
I did not want to go. I tilted my head upwards. The stars
seemed to ignite spontaneously, tiny forget-me-nots in the
purple-dark sky. Magic. Beauty. Stillness. I am lost in
all this. Time, and life, and self are suspended. I am caught
somewhere between blissful self-forgetfulness and being
totally tuned in. Off radar. No beeps. You will never forget
this. You were right to stop. Drink it all in. Peace. Standing
slapbang in the watery heart of Ulster, and not a one to
see you.
Reluctant realisation creeps in. Got to move on, though
it takes a surprisingly genuine effort of will to do so.
I resist for a few minutes, half in, half out of the reverie,
but even when I force myself back into the car, things are
not as they were before, not so immediate. They would have
to wait. I was still aglow with what I had seen and felt.
I leave the village, but the moon is now travelling with
me, trusts me, golden light spills in sporadically, I am
not to forget her. I slow down where hedges break off, unashamedly
now, this is a reluctant parting. The road veers eventually
inland from the lough, as loath to leave as I. I drive home
in moonlight through town-lands who huddle close under her,
laughing once more at how I will find words to explain all
this to my wife.
