The drive to Galway from my hometown takes about an hour and a half. All via a motorway through an Autumnal landscape. Some leaves cling to existence on now mostly barren branches. I was sitting in my electric wheelchair, which was clamped to the bottom of the van in close proximity to my driver Ronan.
On the way, we discussed what was happening in our lives. With me, nothing much. My life in my thirties had become somewhat stale – get up, work, watch TV, repeat. For me, this trip was a chance to refresh my mind and break up the monotony. Ronan’s life was progressing at least. His second child was on the way, and he was a firefighter. For God’s sake, a hero. Not that I was jealous or anything, more that it was inspiration for what my life should be like. And, anyway coming across car crashes, drownings, and suicides, not my kind of thing.
About half an hour into the trip, our conversation had quietened somewhat and the radio went on. There’s nothing quite like driving and rocking away especially when you have done it for a while. A bit of Queen there and then some Prodigy.
It was raining heavily on the way up but the forecast said that it would clear. I hoped they were right. Nothing worse than being in wet clothes and in a wheelchair for getting a cold.
As we approached the city, Ronan turned on his satnav. Galway’s a maze of one-way streets for those who don’t know it intimately. Our destination was called the Imperial Hotel on Eyre Square right in the beating heart of the city.
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