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From Wexford to Work
It is now nearly six months since I last
contributed to this site. Don't think for one moment that this is
being written out of some misplaced sense of guilt, some bizzare form
of loyalty to the digital arts. No, this is being written out of an egotistical
desire to see my name in print again. Well, at least I'm honest about
it.
Since my last contribution, I have been living it large in Wexford and
have been commuting to and from work. Not just commuting. Commuting is
too small a word for it. Embarking on daily expeditions might be nearer
the mark. That is not to say that I am unhappy with my lot in life. Far
from it! It is to say that I am glad not to live any further from the
office and I am not going to complain about the long waits between visits
from family or friends. Frankly, when Saturday comes, I just want to have
a lie in.
Commuting on the N11 is a strange thing. Every day there is something
different. It is quite unlike my experience of commuting in Dublin, where
cars move at an average speed of 5 or 6 kilometres per hour and rush-hour
trains bear a disturbing resemblance to cattle trucks crammed with humanity.
Commuting on the N11 is definitely different. For a start, traffic actually
moves and you can get the welly down (I used to have boots or shoes to
put down, but then I moved to the country). In fact, if you try driving
at anything less than the maximum speed limit you will be rightly abused
and bullied by some of the speed demons that can't do the math (if a car
leaves Gorey at 07:00 travelling north, what speed do they have to do
to reach Dublin by 8:30...answers on a postcard to the Garda Siochana
Traffic Section, Phoenix Park Depot.).
At this time of year there is also a certain beauty to be seen in the
rearview mirror; a long train of white headlights trailing off into the
distance as others join the marathon trek to the "big smoke". It is as
if a long snake with flashes of white, red (and occasionally yellow) has
decided that I am to be its breakfast and is doggedly snapping at my rear
bumper (for any Americans reading, that's bumper = fender. To me fender
= guitar).
The sight of a slow rising dawn over the Irish Sea is an experience which
can only be described as pantheistic rapture. The image of the night time
constellations playing a celestial/terrestial counterpoint with the road-tied
traffic likewise stirs the cynical cockles of my heart.
When I lived in Dublin I found commuting to be incredibly stressful. I
found it to be incredibly stressful even when I lived 5 minutes walk from
the office. The serenity of the open road and the ability to move along
it (relatively) unimpeded actually makes the commuting a de-stresser.
This is helped by the beauty you can observe even at 100kmh.
Last time out I wrote about leaving behind a social framework I had taken
for granted. This time out I hope I have captured for you some of the
beauty of commuting. On balance, given that I talk to my family more than
I did when I was in Dublin, moving to Kilmuckridge was the (second) best
decision I have ever made.
Yes, I have to get up early and I have a long day commuting. Yes, it is
a pain in the arse when I get a puncture in the dark just south of the
Arkla (that's Arklow to all you city dwellers) bypass. However my quality
of life is better than it would have been trying to fund a homestead in
Dublin. I also talk to my family more often than I used to when I was
living at home, or even living in Dublin. Perhaps the geographical distance
has made me appreciate those bonds more and have focussed me on making
a greater effort. Or perhaps I am just making sure I will always have
a bed in Dublin if I need it.
And the local shop stocks choc-mallows
for my tea and biscuit cravings.
Life is good.
by Daragh O'Brien
30th January 2002
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