Bernard Two A Man of Good Taste

The gardener at Ostan na Rosann (hotel of the Rosses), Dunglow, Co Donegal, never seemed to dirty his clothes. He worked a long day. At 7 am he was mowing the grass. At 10, he was watering dozens of hanging baskets and potted plants scattered around the building and grounds. Joy and I departed for old St. Patrick's Church, now renovated and converted into a multi-use facility, standing as most old churches, on the highest point in town. The downstairs housed the town library and visitor centre. Upstairs, computer room with broadband and a hall for concerts. We checked our messages, gathered info on local attractions, and headed out for Cruit Island, Kerrytown after a late lunch at Butter Rock. And Joy had a few items to pick up at the Cope.

By the time we returned, the sun was well down in the western sky. As we pulled in the hotel drive, I noticed the gardener, crazy guy, still at work deadheading plants that overflowed their large pots near the flag poles. Joy gave me a look that said, "You've done it again." The old dreaded look.

"I got us back, didn't I? Okay, so it's 8, instead of a decent, civilized hour, say like 6."

Now, she can't relax, unwind, end her day like a normal person, maybe even feel like writing a little before bed (we are supposed to be writing, you know, while the events of the day are still fairly fresh in our minds.) But you, oh no. Perfectly happy to have a quick drink at the bar, which turns into an hour's chat with a total stranger then a late supper barely getting in our order before the dining room closes. And what a pleasure you are in the late evening! Propped up in bed with the light on at 1:00 sound asleep, TV blaring, the remote fallen to the floor.

All that in a look.

I shrugged, walked over to the flags to introduce myself and have a chat with this industrious man who worked in rather stylish clothes and didn't seem to soil them. He looked nattily dressed, freshly showered, neat as a pin. I followed as he picked up a 5 gallon bucket and watering can and moved toward the baskets and pots near the entrance.

"You must be the owner of this place," I ventured.

"Not a bit of it," he chuckled. "Just a local farmer with about 80 sheep."

"Well, you must like working late."

"Not really. But it's been quite a breeze up today and the plants are thirsty. They talk to me."

"Well, the bar's talking to me," I said. "I'm going in for a drink. Let me buy you a pint."

"I don't drink," he replied, intent on his watering, "but I'll take a Coke. Tell the lad at the Bar it's for Bernard, and he won't even charge you."

Another Bernard, this one fully Irish.

Joy was standing at the bar when I arrived, and to my surprise, spoke to me. "I'm going outside for a smoke," she said and snatched up her soda. "Dining room is closed, bar food til 10." She looked at me over the rim of her glasses. "Order me a bowl of soup, if you have time." She turned to leave. I called after her, "Tell the gardener I'm on my way with his Coke."

Bernard had moved around to the side of the hotel and was working the basket under the eaves, Joy right at his side. I shouted to get their attention, raised the Coke in a kind of salute and placed it on the patio table then rushed back to get my order in.

The waitress dropped off a hot panini with crisps and salsa and a bowl of creamed vegetable soup. Joy scooted into the cushioned bench across from me with her back to the Bay, now shimmering in early twilight. I braced myself for a quiet meal. But Joy was beaming, radiant, refreshed, eager to talk. Without even looking at her soup, she leaned over.

"Bernard said to tell you you're one lucky devil and I quote, ‘your husband must be beside himself."

I placed the still warm panini back on my plate and stared at the bubbly little redhead in front of me who hadn't finished.

"Sure now," he said to me, "I'd be watchin over ye. Tell him to forget the Coke. I'll take his wife."

The next morning, as we were checking out, the gardener, of all people, just happened to walk into the lobby. When he saw Joy, he came over to her and gave her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

I turned to complain to the management. "Mary (medy), your gardener, what's his name, Bernard, just grabbed my wife and gave her a kiss."

"Oh, that's Bernard Neely," she said and then added with a wink, "surely a man of good taste."

Written by Joy Davis - Summer of Travel 2007