IT WASN'T part of my original plan, but I spent much of last weekend exploring that part of Ireland formerly known as the "long acre",writes Frank McNally
The tour began on Saturday when, driving north for a communion, my old car broke down on the M1. It had been hinting at problems lately, though the hints were not heavy enough for me to have joined the AA in the meantime. So that rescue route was closed.
Nor did flagging down passers-by seem feasible, either. If you stand near enough the carriageway on the M1, you might just get noticed by one of the drivers flashing past at 80mph. But he would have to run you over first.
Luckily, my McNally family membership subscriptions were up to date. And after a delay that was just long enough for the children to start going mad in the back of the car (letting them out to play on the side of the M1 was hardly a sane option) my brother was soon rushing to the scene.
The problem was describing to him just where we were. Satellite navigation is only one of the countless extras my old car didn't boast. And although the M1 has many admirable features, filling stations and points of visual interest are not among them.
I still know every hill and hollow of the old N2 through Slane. But apart from the toll plaza, the Boyne bridge, and the first dramatic view of the Gap of the North, the M1 is designed not to distract drivers. We had paid the toll, I knew. For the life of me, though, I couldn't remember if we had crossed the bridge - probably because, when we had, the children were asking me if we there yet.
I thought my exact co-ordinates might be available from one of those emergency intercoms helpfully located at regular intervals along the road, until a recorded voice in the nearest one told me that the person I was calling was not reachable at present.
So we had no choice but to wait for our rescuer to
find us - which he did about three minutes before I would have happily let the kids play on the side of the M1 anyway.
THE N3, by contrast, is full of visual interest, despite Meath County Council recently spraying all the hedgerows with a pesticide only slightly less aggressive than the one the Americans used to strip Vietnamese jungles. The hawthorn is still blooming everywhere. And as they wait on death row, the ragwort and dandelions are putting on a brave face.
Travelling north to Enniskillen on Sunday, I saw a lot of the side of the N3 for a combination of reasons - chief of which was my eight-year-old son having a tummy bug. There were several false alarms en route, and a couple of fully justified alarms.
There was also a fallen tree on the road near Kells. I don't know what happened to the tree. Maybe it was high winds, or maybe it had just been attacked by Meath County Council. But after seeking local knowledge, we took a cross-country detour to avoid the tailback, stopping along the way at yet another grass margin.
I had a gleaming new car by now. Not so new that I couldn't look the German ambassador in the eye, or that I wouldn't feel slightly embarrassed if they called out my registration number at the National Concert Hall. But new enough that we weren't expecting any further breakdowns.
So imagine my surprise when, somewhere in darkest Cavan, a piece of debris suddenly shot out from the underside of the car and disappeared in the rear-view mirror. Pulling in for the umpteenth time, I found that a plastic splash-guard had come loose. Most of it was now flaring wildly out of the wheel-well, like the nostril of a frightened horse.
An even bigger surprise was that, when we pulled up, so - unbidden - did a friendly motorist going the other direction. Not only did he stop, he immediately produced a tool-kit. And before I knew it, he was under the wheel, prizing the rest of the splash-guard free with a screwdriver.
I'll say this for the N3. The bottlenecks might sap your will to live, but the locals are friendly. Not that our helper was local. He was a Cavan-based Italian - from Rome - called Luca. If you're reading this, Luca, I repeat what I said in person. I love your city and your country. Forza Roma! Forza Italia! So it was on Sunday that, after one of those epic journeys that make Ireland seem much bigger than it is, we finally reached Enniskillen, and the lovely Brewster Park, with all of 10 minutes to spare before the start of Monaghan's glorious march to the All-Ireland. Or so we thought.
The game was not very old before we realised that our adventures en route had been ominous. Soon, my son was not the only one with an upset stomach. And yet I was still hoping that the team's mechanical problems were not as serious as they looked right up to the point where, finally, all the wheels came off.
Forza Fermanagh! As for Monaghan, it remains to be seen whether we need a new master plan, or whether the old one can still be fixed. We have eight weeks in the garage now to find out.