Lough Ree, oh Lough Ree, where the three counties meet: Longford; Westmeath; and Roscommon. Well, El Paso has a similar relationship with Texas, Mexico and New Mexico. And when you're standing at any cross-roads in the world there is some primordial urge deep inside each and every one of us, that makes us want to pick a direction, take a path and blaze a trail.
So there I was propping up the bar and sipping a margarita, at The Lone Star Saloon in El Paso. I had been sitting there for three days sipping and supping, slipping and sliding, drifting from steamed to stoned - once again, I thought of Sandy, and slightly cynically I supped some more.
That previous Sunday, me and Sandy were slamming tequila and doing just fine, she went to get a pack of cigarettes and that was the last I ever saw of her. The barman handed me a beer mat, on it a note scribbled by her: seemingly, we had reached a crossroads and she was going her separate way.
By lunchtime Tuesday I knew she wasn't coming back. So I threw another quarter into the juke box, selected five more tracks and ordered another jug of margarita. They say drink helps you forget and maybe they're right, because for the life of me I couldn't remember what had brought me to that God-forsaken place - but memory loss is selective because my brain was still rattled by Sandy.
Sandy wasn't her real name, but that was what she went by. We first met in Boston almost six months earlier, not long after I had arrived from the 'auld sod. She had just been evicted; standing there in the doorway of my apartment building with all her possessions in a few plastic bags. I suggested she move in with me until something better turned up - obviously something better turned up on her way to the cigarette machine. She used to say I was her wood cutter and she was my Red Riding Hood, I was her Prince Charming, she was my Cinderella - but it dawned on me that day in El Paso, that if she was my Snow White, I was definitely Dopey.
For three whole days I sat at that bar counter my mind doing somersaults. What if she never loved me? What if she lied? What if she comes back? What if? What if? Then it occurred to me: ifs don't count in this world 'cause if this was Christmas we'd all be eating turkey. So I put another pretzel in my mouth and chewed. I never felt so down in my life, but sometimes the only way out of a hole is to keep digging.
We have a saying in Cork - if in doubt, go South. And that's exactly what I did. I headed across the border into Mexico - I was going all the way to Tierra del Fuego. But in the town of Ciudad Juarez, just south of the Rio Grande, the oddest thing happened. There I was in a cantina, drinking cheap tequila, soaking up sunshine and senoritas - and whatever glance I gave out of the corner of my eye, Maureen O'Hara was looking straight back at me.
They were watching John Ford's The Quiet Man (1952) on a battered TV screen. And in a most evocative and breathtaking scene, Maureen O'Hara as Kate Danaher was herding a flock of sheep, her flame-red mane billowing in the wind as she battled bare-foot over the rocks. And then the piece de resis- tance: a full-face close-up that captured the classic beauty of O'Hara, followed by a searing flash from the green eyed Goddess and every hot-blooded hetero was smitten by that sultry kitten - including John Wayne as Sean Thornton the returned Yank.
Obviously John Ford realised that some things are best communicated without words - and thank God that he did, because that particular version of The Quiet Man was badly dubbed into Spanish. Maybe it was because I was nursing a broken heart, maybe it was because I was 2,000 miles from home - call me fickle, but that day in that cantina, in the town of Ciudad Juarez, I fell head over heels, madly in love with Maureen O'Hara.
In some circles, this film has been slammed as being no more than a double dose of nostalgic, sentimental, fuchsia0-tinted Paddy-wackery - and maybe that's why I love it. This is truly a stylised, romantic, love story, not only centring on the passion between Thornton and Kate the Irish colleen but also exploring the love of another returned yank, John Ford, and his unbridled passion for a people and a place.
It's no surprise that The Quiet Man won two Oscars, one for cinematography and the other for John Ford's direction. But correct me if I'm wrong - I believe Maureen O'Hara has yet to be awarded an Oscar - incredible, considering her life long wooing of box-office punters.
This adaptation of Maurice Walsh's short story Green Rushes tells the story of the sparks that fly when two cultures collide in the arena of love. A bit like me and Sandy, the initial attraction of opposites is irrepressible and the sparks of passion have an uncanny knack of fuelling their own fire. But I often wonder what happened when the heat of attraction faded and life became hum-drum. Did Kate Danaher go out one day for fire wood and never return? Did Sean head into town for a pack of fags and just keep on going? Or do the Thorntons live on to this very day chasing sheep and racing horses in the magical foot and mouth-free zone of John Ford's imagination?
Who knows? Who cares? For me, Maureen O'Hara is the most beautiful woman to stride barefoot across the silver screen.
Somebody give that woman her well-deserved Oscar, for God's sake.
