Tir na nOg

Tir na nOg

In the land of Tir na nOg there lived a faery that wore size 14W Adventure Crocs. Some would call him an ogre and some would call him Grumpy Gramps. What was clear was that he enjoyed feasting on the stories of the realm of the Otherworld, the place where the faeries lived and heroes visited on quests of honor. Tir an nOg was a place just outside the realm of man, off to the west on the Ring of Kerry, where there was no illness or death or time, but only happiness and beauty. The beauty of the ageless and the happiness of family and friends, who served the faery Keogh’s Grilled Irish Steak Crinkle Cut Crisps and Diet Coke or alternatively, Coke Zero, or perhaps a wee taste of Sprite. Homes in Tir na nOg went for about 200,000 Euros or 150 Bitcoin if you were lucky enough to own the cryptocurrency, but the ogre had his own Ithaca and Escondido and no interest in another slice of Emerald heaven.

One morning the ogre arose and sat looking out at the Irish Sea or what the ancient maps called Cove Harbour on the Ballinskelligs Bay, just west of the Kenmare River, but which was less river than fiord, only no person in that Kingdom would willfully invoke the pagan craven words of the Vikings for fear that the memory of the Norsemen that reigned terror on the land and took the womenfolk off by the hair to the land of ice to the north would bring bad karma to the land. The problem the ogre had this fine cool Irish morning was that his mind was racing, thinking of the paths he must run and the buses he must avoid in the day’s quest to find the treasures of Kenmare. The ogre cared not for treasures, but only for the affection of his charges, who fed and watered him in his afternoon repose. And the little ones were either talk talk talk or quiet quiet quiet while the grown folk told tall tales in voices slurred by wine and Budweiser mead. They were the Clan of the Cave Bear, otherwise also known as the faery ogre Grumpy Gramps.

There was Jason and his Las Vegas Argonauts, there were the Barf Brothers of Ithaca and the fair MMMer, the Stationary Statinites, The Maccicci Twins, the Gowanus Gang of Four, Junior Pete Patrol, the Poway Plenipotentiaries, and the fair Candice (pronounced CAN-deechay). They were led at the behest of KiKi von Shopsomuch. It would be a fine day for treasure hunting and gathering and hunting and gathering, and Kenmare would n’er be the same.

But there was looming vaguely on the horizon the prospect that Gerard the Surly, who would lead the Clan into the wilds of Kenmare, would encounter Barf Brother #2 and declare him bossy-boss and send him scurrying with his tail between his legs. There was no predicting the outcome of the encounter since the ogre watched over his flock and would have no man or beast take the piss out of his Clansmen and would jingle his change purse in the general direction of Gerard to subdue him. Ex-policemen like Gerard the Surly are particularly prone to purse jingling according to Junior Pete Patrol.

The goats were bleating in the crisp morning air and all of this was on the ogre’s mind as he wondered where his croissants and current-less scones were at. Perhaps it was time to rouse the household with another three-alarm smoke detector drill on account of over-toasted toast? It was already half-past seven in the morning and the frost was on the Irish pumpkin so to speak. The Gowanus Four were likely already braiding hair and berating Dad over his showering practices. The Staten Islanders would be up and about and wondering where their land of Tir no NOg lay. Jason was getting his teeth brushed while he slept by Mama Argonaut, who was busy pondering such issues as why we were on a friggin’ island. The Poway Road Warriors of the Bent Rim were thinking about where they could go in France that was more roadworthy. The fair Candiche was taking her ablutions. And KiKi von Shopsomuchmoreandmore was preparing her shopping bags by strengthening their handles. Meanwhile the Maccicci Twins will have walked to Dingle and back for their morning constitutional.

Tir no nOg was not so much an afterlife as an earthly place, a land of eternal youth that could be reached only by way of magic and Celtic symbols. The ogre sat back and decided that today would, indeed, be a fine day, one day closer to God and one day further from immortality. The ogre was The Highlander and there could be only one, so he would race on the Ring of Kerry towards a quickening, which would likely be found on some random bench in the town of Kenmare. The beauty of the entire program was that if the ogre got it wrong this week, there was always next week in which to do it all over again. Tir na nOg or bust.