INSIDE IRELAND

There are eight words I love to hear in Ireland. "Do you know where you are at all?" They mean that I have lost my way and a self-appointed guide will try to put me on the right road. Or he will offer to come along part way on my journey to be sure I won't get lost again. You don't have to go looking for these offers of help. Sometimes I think old men lie in wait. Then as if by magic they appear. Mostly on serene and remote country roads. But if you're lucky they can also be found in Dublin, Cork or Limerick cities too. Once you have a conversation with an Irish volunteer road finder, you will never be quite the same again. These men have the pregnant wisdom of a philosopher, and the exquisite touch of the poet. Combine these with wit, spontaneous friendliness, poetic word turnabouts, sprinkled with non-sequiturs and malapropisms, the ability to see as vividly and truthfully as through the eyes of a child, and you have memories storing up for fantastic return trips to Ireland. Once I was looking for Ariel House, a Dublin guesthouse. All of the fine old elegant red brick buildings in the Ballsbridge area began to look alike and I had lost the address on Lansdowne Road. Coming towards me was a tall old man with an orange cocker spaniel was by his side. "Excuse me," I said, "I'm looking for Ariel House. Do you know it?" Removing his beret he bowed and said "I do indeed. We will soon have you there. We are out for our afternoon constitutional and would enjoy company along the way now that the day is fine." I asked him his dog's name explaining that I had a cocker at home in San Francisco. "This is Yeats the seventh - Yeatsie for short. God forgive me for diminishing that fine name. Patrick Kavanagh the fifth is at the flat. He's not walking that well these days. Are you wondering about the names? I've named all the dogs I have had after Irish poets. What is your dog's name?" "Shooey" I said. "Well he said, "They can't all be named after poets, can they? It's a nice sounding name but I'd find it hard on a dog. Would you like to hear a story? It's about dogs and boys and poets. We will have time for it anyway before you are at your guesthouse. I was headmaster at a boys' school in the country and also taught Irish poetry. I always had at least four dogs. Spaniels and Jack Russells mostly. Each one was called after favorite poets of mine. Thirty years there you can understand there were a few repeats. Near our school was a village with a sweet shop. The best treat a young lad could have was a trip to that store. I had a fine scheme and there was a method in my madness as you will see. To go to the shop a lad could choose whichever dog he wished as his companion - on a lead of course. The boy was honor bound to recite the verses of the poet for whom the dog was named, back and forth on the journey. I can close my eyes now and see three or four dogs and the lads going down the road shoulder to shoulder singing out their verses. Yeats' 'The Wind is old and still at play, While I must hurry on my way, For I am running to Paradise.' That was a great favorite of theirs - wouldn't it be where they were heading?" He stopped, took out a white handkerchief and wiped his eyes. "A bit of soot," he said. "Many a night now in front of the fire, I can see one of the lads, grown into a fine strapping man walking down a street here or abroad and he spies a small dog of certain breed and color. Without being able to help himself he begins to spout at the top of his voice: 'For I am running to Paradise.' It's a lovely thought, isn't it?" We turned into Lansdowne Road. The brass plate of Ariel House shone in the sun. My companion bowed and said "It was fortunate to have met you. It broke the day for us. We will be on our way now. God bless. Come on Yeatsie. I'll give you a verse or two for the journey home."