A dozen miniatures
Earlier, during the better times, when Bren- dan and Beatrice had rented a peat-burning Connemara cottage, I went to see him, meeting them off the Arran boat, they hav- ing had a wonderful day walking and 'pie- nicking and being blown by the wind. We had a few draught Guinnesses in Galway. He was all right on draught Guinness, because the bulk and the weight of it imposed its own natural discipline—and it was a constant struggle preventing fools who recognised him from buying him tumblerfuls of Irish. As we left for the cottage a few miles up the wild coast where the land breaks up into the sea, Brendan ordered a dozen or so miniature bottles of his favourite Irish whiskey—Powers, I think it was. He said. 'The Irish are lazy and the Irish are cheats. If you buy a bottle of whiskey, they'll have watered it. They can't be bothered to water miniatures.'
A further explanation emerged back at the cottage, where he immediately went to bed on a couch in the living room, filled with the sweet smell of the peat fire. Before swaddling himself in blankets and rugs and curling up and falling asleep as an infant does, swiftly and thoughtlessly, he first fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the miniature bottles of Irish. scattering them all around him. In the morning, awakened by the smell of coffee and the noise of Beatrice renewing the permanent peat fire, he fumbled around again until his hands encountered a miniature bottle. 'There you are, George.' he said. 'now that's better than having to look for one big bottle which might he full or which might be empty.'
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