There was plenty of strategic waving on the weekend gone by. The nine mile drive from the town to the house is purest waving country, a barren and long stretch dotted by houses, mussel farms on the sea and one hundred thousand fields.
We'd pass only seven or eight cars on this lonely old road, thin and never ending. Johnny drove and was the chief waver, acknowledging every passing Paddy with a friendly lofting of his paw.
Things got ugly, though, when one or two didn't return the greeting. I warned him not to become cynical, that cunts still exist on the seemingly friendly peninsula. Aisling told him the non-wavers were from 'The Bad Parish,' hence the title of the ninja post.
Still, I felt a part of him die before the realisation dawned that these shirkers were visitors too and that they hadn't become accustomed to the customs of the Goat's Path. They were clearly from Germany, from Britain or from Dublin.
At the finish of the path so went the waving. I wondered why.
"Radge, everyone knows you can't wave on a main road."
It's true, you know. You mustn't wave on a main road.