News from Ireland. (Jaysus!)

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a deep and abiding affection for Ireland. When I first stepped toe in the country (way back in 1973), I fell in love with it in a way that I would not have expected. After all, I had all those years behind me of my grandmother saying "If Ireland were so great, we wouldn't have all had to come over here."

Nanny, of course, had never stepped any of her toes in Ireland. But her parents were immigrants, and I'm sure she was raised on plenty of 'why we had to come over here' stories. 

I'm glad that they did come over (subject to change if this country goes arse over teakettle into authoritarianism). Still, I love Ireland, and have been there many times. I have a deep appreciation for the people, the scenery, the music, the books, the craic, and - surprising to this someone who ate her grandmother's cooking - the food. 

And I always love that there's always some eccentric story or other coming out of the country.

The most recent eccentric story of the main headline variety is, of course, the Irish fishermen taking on the Russian naval fleet by protesting their war games off the Irish coast. But there was a story of the lesser headline variety that definitely caught my eye.

The story took place in Carlow Town, County Carlow, one of the many small shabby market towns that dot the Irish landscape. And what happened there is that a man went into the local post office, located in a small shop, and tried to cash a pension check. A pension check that wasn't his. 

The pension check belonged to one Peadar Doyle, and the man trying to cash the check was informed that Mr. Doyle would have to come in person to collect his cash.

Where there's a will, there's a way, so the first fellow soon returned, accompanied by another guy and Peadar Doyle. Peadar Doyle sort of.

What the two younger fellows were dragging betwen them was the propped up body of the ould one.

A woman in the shop got a tiny bit suspicious and alerted the staff. They called the emergency number, the two live ones fled the scene, and the amulance and gardaí arrived and declared Peadar dead.

Turns out one of the draggers was Declan Haughney, a nephew of the draggee. Declan was accompanied by friend Gareth Coakley. Declan lived with his uncle, and claims that he didn't realize that Peadar was dead when they headed out to the Oifig an Phoist. (That's Post Office to you, bucko.)

He has since admitted the pensioner may have died in transit as his body 'went a bit slumpy' while the trio were en route to the Post Office. (Source: Daily Mail)

Although there's no sign of foul play, the gardaí are saying that Peadar may have been dead up to three hours before he made his final journey. (Declan and Gareth have been arrested and detained for questioning.)

Declan is sticking to the story that he thought his uncle was still alive, if not kicking, when they set out. He says that his uncle had been going down hill, "under the bed...deteriorating" for the last while, but:

‘Peader was so frail and only weighed about six or seven stone so whenever he went out I would have to hold him up,’ he said. 

‘Looking back at what happened, I think he died at the bridge because his legs suddenly went limp, but myself and Gareth had no idea he passed away because this has happened a number of times before.’   

There is the question of what they were doing going out, given that Peadar was so weak and slumpy that he had to be dragged. But whatever. 

The family - Peadar was single, never married, had no children, but was close to his relatives, including many nieces and nephews - are apparently buying Declan's story, as he was one of the pallbearers for Peadar's funeral. (That's Declan with the red hair there.)

But some locals roughed him up, accusing him of being a murderer. 

I suspect Declan Haughney isn't a murderer. But he may be what the Irish (c.f., my grandmother) might call daft, an amadán, soft in the head, an eejit. Which Declan denies:

"I wasn’t trying to rob him. I’m not an eejit,” Haughney, who has lived with his uncle his entire life.

“Why would I want to rob my uncle? I’m 40 years of age yeah, I’m not a child, I’m not a young fella. I’m not an eejit to walk into Hoseys with a dead man and collect his money." (Source: Irish Central)

Talk about giving new meaning to "over my dead body."

Anyway, this strikes me as one of those quintessential Irish stories that, for all of Ireland's modernity and prosperity, continues to crop up from time to time. 

Is it any wonder I'm in love with this country?