Colm Toibin-Island

I phoned from Spiddal at half past three to check that I was booked on the four o’clock flight to Inis Meáin and to say that I hoped I would be in time for it. ‘There’s bad weather,’ the man at the airport said. There was a calmness and resignation in his tone, a politeness verging on dry good-humour. ‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘There is no need to hurry at all. We won’t be travelling anywhere for a while.’ ‘So I’ll have a minute to stop at the cash machine in Spiddal?’ I asked. ‘We’ll be still here, I’d say, when you come,’ he replied.