Free 1998 - Round Ireland with a fridge by Tony Hawks, Prefers to remain anonymous Page B

camera cock-up had been my fault and I knew it, so I’d had to look around for someone else to blame and American tourists are ideal for this.
    Bloody camera. As with all new purchases I had completely ignored the accompanying booklet with ‘Please read these instructions carefully’ boldly written on it, and had jumped in at the deep end, confident that common sense and a healthy slice of good fortune would be enough to ensure a long and fruitful relationship with this particular piece of Japanese shite.
    ‘Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks!’
    The American tourist was beginning to feel relieved that he hadn’t pursued our relationship beyond a light-hearted exchange. I sat down on my fridge, angry with myself, the camera, and the world’s desire to make things smaller, failing to appreciate that it was the world’s desire to make things smaller which had afforded me the very luxury of sitting on a fridge.
    A car pulled up and a window was wound down. ‘Whereabouts are you headed?’
    Oh no, the driver thought I was hitching. He must have registered my look of disconsolate despair and perceived it to be that of a marooned hitch-hiker. I tried to let him down gently.
    ‘Well, I’m not really hitching, I was—’
    ‘You’re the guy who’s bringing a fridge round Ireland, aren’t you?’ I could only manage a nod. ‘I heard you on the radio yesterday, now where are you heading?’
    ‘Bunbeg.’
    The man, in his forties and a smart suit, hesitated for a moment. ‘But this is Bunbeg.’
    ‘Is it? Splendid, I’m done for the day then.’
    ‘What are you doing in Bunbeg? There’s nothing here.’
    ‘I’m going to get the ferry out to Tory Island.’
    ‘I don’t think it’s running. Isn’t it in Killybegs being re—’
    ‘—furbished, yes. I think it is.’
    It suddenly occurred to me that there might be little point in my staying here, Tory Island was inaccessible and that was that It wasn’t as if Kevin was going to hold me to the very letter of the bet. I elected to find out whether this fellow, who looked like another travelling salesman, could be any help to me.
    ‘Where are you headed?’
    ‘I’m heading down to Dungloe and then I’ll be going on to Donegal Town. Jump in, I’ll give you a lift.’
    My journey was a celebration of the ridiculous, and I the champion of it, but even given that proviso, I couldn’t accept the absurdity of having spent an entire day hitch-hiking only to end up by nightfall at exactly the same spot where I’d started in the morning. It was for this reason, and this reason alone, that I decided to hang on here and see if there was any other way of getting out to Tory Island. I thanked the driver and he drove off looking at me much in the same way as the Cavan bus driver had. I felt surprisingly free of guilt My goodness, life on the road was making me pretty damn hard, I just didn’t mind who I rubbed up the wrong way.
    The sun almost came out as I hauled my load down a small hill and made a right after a pub, admirably shunning its hospitality. I was now on a particularly quiet lane, the reverberations of a fridge in transit echoing through the surrounding hills in an audio tribute to incongruity. I turned a corner and there in the distance was a derelict house with what looked like two ladies stood painting at easels in front of it I drew ever closer becoming more and more fascinated by what their reaction might be to the bizarre spectre with which they were about to be confronted. They looked up, startled by the distant rattling sound and, as I edged closer, their interest in the subject of their paintings became secondary. Finally I drew up alongside them, one elderly and a younger attractive lady.
    ‘Good afternoon,’ I said. The more senior of the two looked at me in disbelief.
    ‘My, oh my, a gentleman travelling with a refrigerator,’ she said in an American accent.
    ‘Not so. I am just part of a surreal dream you’re both having.’
    ‘I can believe