Everyone has to find somewhere to lay their head for the night; whether you live at your parents house and are trying to escape, or homeless and looking for a decent enough railway bridge, or, in our case, you’re on tour and need a hook-up. We’d set off late from Dublin, having run errands around the city all day. The motorway - the 6 – led us west. Although it was getting dark by the time we were hit the road the country slowly revealed itself. I’d seen it before, and everyone I was with were locals so they’d seen it many times, but you always seem to be slightly more interested in somewhere that isn’t your home. Having the front centre seat I probably had the best vantage point in the van.
This girl was meant to be putting us up for the night in Ballinasloe. That was all I knew. I think she was a friend of a friend or something like that. Anyway, she had floor space. We just had to make it there, and as long as we didn’t stop the van probably wouldn’t konk-out either. In the morning we’d just have give it a push and get it going again. I don’t know if Dylan named it ‘Old Ivor’ after the engine or not, but that tank engine has a human-like soul all of its own which seemed pretty fitting. Everyone else had two more full weeks of gigs – and pushing the van – to do yet, I was just tagging along for a couple of days. Driving in Ireland the first time I went it struck me that the scenery, the roads and the signs at least, seemed much more European than British.
Somehow we found her house and pulled up on the gravel driveway. All nine of us introduced ourselves on the doorstep and went inside to find our own nooks to sleep in. ‘Always sleep behind something,’ that’s my motto on tour. I pulled out the sofa a little and set up camp for the night. Then a couple of us looked around the big cold house. Plants grew out of pots in every empty space available, some looking rather tropical and out of place in rural Ireland. Long, thin windows with push-up wooden frames stretched themselves down every wall but showed nothing except darkness. We killed time for an hour or so. I talked to some kid who appeared out of nowhere about photos, of all things, whilst some tried to get to sleep and some walked around talking in weird voices with leopard-print bandanas wrapped around their heads. Eventually I climbed over the sofa and into my waiting, welcoming sleeping bag.
In the morning I sat on the doorstep first thing shackled by a chilly breeze. I flicked through a couple of Irish zines and smoked a ciggie or two. Ivor sat on the drive. Various members of the touring party came and went through the huge front door. Eventually we were all called in for an unexpected breakfast. Fresh homemade blueberry muffins, strawberries, yoghurt, pancakes and coffee, which I drank at the time. It was an impressive little spread and a salute to the touring party. We tried not to gobble it all down too quickly and made small-talk whilst staring at the food in between bites to prolong the feast. We’d hit some sort of jackpot.
Driving away from the big old house we all waved backwards at our hosts, or ex-hosts. There were a few more miles to do before the next gig – an afternoon affair in a small Galway youthclub.
