Piano Van on the N17

Word came through from cousin Ed in Limerick: ‘Good news, I’ve a piano for you that’ll fit in Paul’s van.’ ‘Great stuff’ I enthused, blithely disregarding the challenge of getting it as far as my house in Sligo, let alone up the steps and through the door.

Remarkably, cousin Paul agreed to make the trip on a dank evening in January when winter seemed interminable: ‘sure a road trip would be a bit of craic.’ Relative to other possibilities on that first weekend of January he was probably right.

A layer of ice shrouded the tarmac as we set off from Sligo town on Saturday morning. At the Toberbride roundabout outside Collooney we bought what were apparently small Americanos. When these appeared in pint-sized cups it begged the question: what manner of receptacle is reserved for a large one? The proprietor clearly understands the importance of motorists loading up on the dark sludge before driving the first leg of the N17, especially on a bleak January morning.

Collooney gives way to Ballinacarrow, where you find signs for Coolaney on the road to Cloonacool, then Tubbercurry anticipates Curry, and you’re into Mayo by the time the caffeine wears off.

The Saw Doctors travelled the N17 from Tuam to Galway with ‘thoughts and dreams,’ a state of mind not recommended for the winding road to Tubbercurry, an accident blackspot. As for ‘stone walls and the grasses green’, although there are plenty of the former, the boggy fields are more fawn than green at this time of year, until you get past Tuam at least.

The road widens before Ireland West Airport, outside Knock. There, Our Lady, Saint Joseph and Saint John the Evangelist appeared to Mary Byrne in 1879, but the opening of the airport in 1985 was the real miracle, as Christy Moore insisted. The messianic zeal of Monsignor James Horan brought this solitary crumb of infrastructure to a neglected north-west region in 1986.

Only featherheads now dream of the Western Rail Corridor being resuscitated as far as Sligo, despite tangible evidence of surviving track under public ownership, recalling Monty Python: what did the British ever do for us? The 2024 All-Island Strategic Rail Review proposes new lines are restricted to connecting settlements with populations over fifty thousand, but how is a city, such as Sligo, supposed to expand sustainably without further rail infrastructure, and is Donegal to remain the forgotten county forever?

The N17, which serves as the main north-south transport artery through Connacht, abuts a curiously desolate landscape, almost entirely devoid of native woodland. It offers a foretaste of the Midlands, without the charm of the waterways. Far from wild Atlantic shores, it’s scenery that nurtures disappointment.

Beyond the seemingly supernatural marilyn of Knocknashee (‘hill of the fairies’), there’s barely a hillock in view along the entire route to Galway. There the slick motorways of another Ireland come into view. I’ve never taken the route other than under a sky that promises rain, and usually delivers.

Many of the super-sized bungalows along it appear to have been constructed in the 1980s, when Ireland still exported its children. Aesthetic considerations did not figure prominently in the considerations of draughtsmen, who might as well have been paid by the room. The influence of Southfork, the Ewing Mansion outside Dallas, Texas is apparent in the expansive Southern Colonial style of some of these over-sized residences.

Ribbon developments streak from historic towns, where the number of pubs diminish with each increase in the price of a pint. They say the kids prefer to go to the gym these days in any case.

Beyond Galway, the gentle scenery of east Clare barely registered such was the speed we reached on the N18 motorway. Before long we were crawling through dystopian industrial estates outside Limerick. At last, we reached the city’s attractive inner core, including the country’s only Georgian Crescent, near the house where our piano was located.

Ed had let us know there would be 5.5 men on hand to lift the piano. It turned out the .5 of a man was a blind Jack Russel, and that the additional men were piano players rather than heavyweight lifters. Undeterred, we hefted it out of the house – which mercifully had no steps at the entrance – and squeezed it into the van, albeit at a slightly awkward angle, without too much bother.

There followed an evening of revelry, as the additional piano lifters, who turned out to be Maltese, revealed their real talent, as musicians. At one point, I am convinced, the blind dog chimed in, but sadly we lack documentary evidence to this effect. The only regret is that cousin Ed declined to sing his cult – a small cult admittedly – classic, ‘Mow’, about a young man taking refuge from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune in the gentle comforts of cutting the grass.

On Sunday morning we awoke early. Cousin Paul had taken further precautions against the January blues by booking a seaweed bath back in Sligo for that afternoon. The road rose to meet us at 9am, as we traced our way back home along the same route.

At Milltown, Galway a large, modernist church that spoke of a more self-confident era was welcoming the remaining Cathaholics that shuffle through its doors. Among the pillars of Old Ireland, only the GAA continues to thrive. Today its brash, new club houses might pass for aircraft hangers. This is Supermac’s country of ersatz, super-sized Americana.

After passing Tuam, we required further lashings of the dark sludge. At the petrol station in Ballindine a screen saver at the till read: ‘Coronavirus COVID-19 – Contactless – We would prefer if you could pay be contactless card.’ Covid frayed the social bonds like no other event in modern Irish history, and along the N17 it’s a gift that keeps on giving to a corporate aspiration for a brave new, cashless world.

The real challenge came at the other end. Another cousin Johnny was thankfully on hand, and our photographer’s boyfriend Shane, a strapping Mayo man, was enlisted too.

The great weight of a piano – most uprights weigh well in excess of 200kg – proved more of a challenge than anticipated, but after much heaving and straining – ribs were almost popped – we maneuvered it into the space. It now could do with tuning, and awaits a suitable hand.

All Images: Síoraí Photography