In the pitch dark, we stormed from the house to the pick-up truck and screeched out of our farmyard with me shouting: ‘Come on! This is our only chance! If we don’t get there now we’re done for!’
‘They won’t sell to us because we’re English. It’s like those stories you hear about idiots who move to Wales’
It was nearly 10 p.m. and I had just scored something on the phone so elusive on this remote hillside that I was physically itching from the desperation of trying to get it. The dealer concerned had answered his phone after I had rung him repeatedly, on the hour every hour, like a stalker.
When it came to it, I burst into tears. ‘I’m desperate,’ I sobbed. ‘Please help me.’
There was a pause before his tone changed and he said in a soft west Cork brogue: ‘Don’t be desperate.’ ‘So you’ll help me?’ I blubbed, pacing up and down the kitchen.
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