Troubling memories on a Killiney Hill walk

Amazing how one relatively small patch of land can represent so many lucky escapes and character shaping experiences from our past. I imagine that there is a constant whirr of fascinating private thoughts in the minds of some of these solitary walkers here. And to the grave most of these secrets will go. And what a shame if so.

Ghosts of my past arrived and fled in different directions like speedy rushes of energy travelling along the tips of the trees and the hedgerow. I tried to grasp as many as possible but they often collided and spun away into another dimension. And so, on this unquiet earth, I kept pushing forward to keep gaining access to what was behind me.

Walk -Section 1.

'Nepro' and not losing my virginity

This late Saturday afternoon walk started at the gate of Victoria Hill. I don’t know how this small building on the inside of this big gate has now become a bakery/cafe for those of the upper crust, those who indeed have no shortage of bread. But when I was a young lad, 14 maybe , there were teen discos in the same ‘tearooms’ there, possibly put on by the local priest. It was really rough as a building and most likely a fire and health hazard with its rusty pipes and slippy floors.

There were often menacing gangs at these gatherings and one young man whom I think was called ‘Nepro’ allegedly carried a knife and it became local folklore that he wasn’t afraid to use it. I never even saw him but he filled my imagination. He represented one of these hidden fears that are worse than the ones you can actually see. But as a kid, it’s as if we need something to identify fear with. A character or a place. Something animated. He, or someone I knew in those days, successfully created a persona that activated the space that fear likes to rush into. Space Invaders if you will!

Anyway, a couple of years later ( this is related), I vaguely remember a strange matchmaking situation. I was rehearsing in a friend’s house very near Killiney Hill and we were practicing ‘Roxanne’ by The Police. We were trying to work out how to navigate that weird timing gap just before each ‘Roxanne’ line (one of the band was actually the spit of Sting). There was a pretty blonde hanging around, a friend of theirs from abroad I think, a little older than myself I think. I was told she was willing to have sex with me if I wanted. Me? I was so scared by the idea. I had barely even talked to her!

Anyway, I walked away from the offer on the day and had this weird feeling afterwards. Did I miss the chance? Did I not want to lose my virginity? Was I mad? Was I gay? I really interrogated myself afterwards. The peer pressure of it was intense. Saying no was intense. It stayed with me. I thought only girls said no!

The big house we were practicing in and hanging out in was really close to the aforementioned ‘Tearooms’, and the friend who lived there was such a charm…a warm, humorous and canny character . He didn’t play music himself but had a deep appreciation of the arts. His grandfather was the famous painter William Orpen Lynch.

Hang on…..Orpen. Orpen? orpeN.

The penny just dropped ! Was it him?

If so, then there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of, as we usually learn is the case.

Walk -Section 2.

Bono's underpants

The next stretch of scenic pathway had me peering down over Killiney Bay and Vico road, home to many rich and famous. I was in a relationship once with somebody who lived in an incredibly stunning house overlooking Killiney bay. The Def Leppard singer Joe Elliot initially owned it. Then the bass player of that band bought it from him and he got married to, and lived in the house with, the person that I subsequently went out with after they split up.

There was a studio built into the house for Def Leppard demoing I presume, and the Roguish Poguish irreverent band I was in at the time, The Barley Shakes, recorded an album there. Bono was one of her many famous local mates and he called in especially to listen to the whole freshly mixed album with us and chatted to us for ages afterwards. How fuckin cool of him. It was really generous of him to give his time like that. He said he liked the album but we should really push the percussive element and add even more of that to bring up the vibrancy. Make it more ‘street carnival-like’, I think he said.

I remember being in Bono’s house on Vico Road one day and I ended up at the entrance of his bedroom after wandering around looking for a toilet and I spotted a few pairs of folded underpants on what I presumed was his bed. I was so close to stealing them and putting them on eBay! But, alas, they were clean.

Anyway, going out with this woman wasn’t without its hairy elements, including being a little bit in the public eye. We were photographed coming out of a night club once and the photo was on the gossipy back page of a well known Sunday newspaper. (Bear in mind that I was absolutely broke in those days and had no claims to fame apart from being Pearse Rover’s defensive midfielder!). This was the same night club from which I used to experience dirty looks from her famous rock star ex-husband and Joe Elliot, daggers piercing through the smoky VIP air via those poodle-like hairdo’s. Hysteria-cal!

When we eventually split up I bumped into her on the Main Street in Dalkey and asked her how she was doing..

She said, “listen, I dated someone during the week, just thought I’d tell you before someone else does”

“That’s fine. Anyone I know?” I replied.

”Well you might know him but I’m not sure”

“Fuckin Peadar I bet ya, isn’t it? I knew it all along!

“No”

“Kinger?”

“No”

“Macker?”

‘No’

Who then? The Edge ?” “Ha ha ha”, I laughed. As if.

“No, Brian Eno “ She didn’t laugh.

“Oh, right” I said, feeling slightly relegated.

I thought to myself..at least he’ll be able to afford to pay for both of their dinners.

Walk -Section 3.

‘Killiney Punk’ politics

On the next section of my looped walk, there is a little old castle-like building where there is now antennae on top and bricked up windows all around. There was a gang called the ‘Killiney Punks’ that hung around there occasionally drinking flagons of Cider, and larking about back in the early 80’s. One of the punks, Cestie Byrne was dancing on the roof one night when it suddenly caved in and he tragically died from the fall.

Now the Killiney Punks, a bit of an oxymoron you’ll agree, weren’t so popular around our area back then. They came down once in their black torn t-shirts and their ‘Statue of Liberty’ soapy mohawks one evening, sporting chains, spikes and Dock Martins as we played football poshly, and they proceeded to kick us around the field instead of the ball. I pretended the kicks in the face I was getting were causing me to lose my eyesight.

“ I can’t see, I can’t see”, I screamed girlishly!

It was then that the Punk leader ( now a prominent Irish politician!) emerged from the blurry flurry of 18 hole docks and halted the kicks in the head and said

“Stop, lads, he says he can’t see”.

“You ok, Hingo?”

He was very concerned as I continued my Oscar winning performance. I managed to fool them and they took off back up the hill where big fearless Hego of the Sallynoggin Punks variety was waiting for them after he heard about what was going on. He told them not to bully us lads anymore and smashed one of their collar bones with a motor bike chain and sent him to hospital.

Myself and this kindly Punk leader who saved my face ironically became great friends soon afterwards while studying for our BA degrees in UCD. We would debate philosophy and psychology healthily, and played proudly for the UCD U-19’s ( well he was the goalkeeper, I was mostly sub, the manager hated me/my mullet). My Dad was so fond of him then and was entertained by our radical philosophy chats when he gave us occasional lifts home (Dad was Professor of Biochemistry in the same college and was also a Doctor of Philosophy….Jesus! He could have said!!!).

Anyway he is a much admired, gutsy politician now, a brilliant speaker, and had great vision seeing things more clearly than I did as a young lad. Then again, he probably wasn’t getting as many kicks in the head as I was!

Walk section 4.

Saving a boy's life

Next I descended some steps towards the quarry cliff top where there is a grassy knoll atop a 40m cliff edge. Myself and my best friend were there for a walk one day decades ago with his then -girlfriend and her son. She was a funny character, who could, among other talents I’m sure, fart loudly at will, anytime of asking. Even hilariously in nightclubs. A lot of us were quite jealous of this exotic skill.

Anyway, that day we were getting some fresher air, walking along that quarry top about 20m back from the edge when suddenly her little boy made a dash forward towards the cliff edge. I fired after him and rugby tackled him to stop him with about 3 metres left ‘of the end line’. I was a bit shaken but proud of my quick reactions.

She was strangely unmoved. Maybe she was in shock? It was a reaction more akin to ‘why did you just rugby tackle my son, you strange man? Not a word of thanks.

Looking at this patch of grass now, as I stand close to the edge over 30 years later, it gives me the shivers. What if I didn’t reach him or knocked him ( and myself) over the edge by accident in trying to save him. Or what if I didn’t react or move at all? Terrifying how many lives can be destroyed in a blink.

Walk section 5.

Being stalked by a self professed killer. Twice.

Lastly, and to finish this mazy journey, I walked back up through the car park at the top of Burma hill to get to the path back to the tea rooms. Then I remembered one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. Any mental health problems I might have ever had will have this included on the list of causal factors…

When I was in my late teens, I remember one night I was at a disco in what was then called the Killiney Court Hotel. There was a huge gang of us, mainly from Springhill Park area. I was always pretty wary of potential danger or troublemakers and rarely got plastered drunk in order to keep this part of my brain alert. I noticed this older guy was staring at me relentlessly for about an hour. Really creepy motherfucker. Unhinged for sure. He eventually came over to me and said.

“You know what I’m going to do, young man, I’m going to kill you”.

I was speechless and wanted to gulp all the saliva that rushed into my mouth, and just ended up making a weird croaking sound, as you do when someone tells you they are going to kill you. “Ork”.

But my intuition told me this person was a proper psycho. I told my friend Charlie and we both left when he wasn’t looking and started to run home up onto Killiney Hill Road and then onto Killiney Road stopping and hiding occasionally when we heard this Volkswagen rattling up and down the otherwise empty roads in case it was him. It was really eerie. We hid in gardens whenever we heard that old Beetle car engine. Then we would run again as fast as Eddie Irvine’s Ferrari when the sound disappeared. Not many street lights then on those roads. No other cars. It feels like we’ve run a mile already and only passed one house (Enya’s). Mind you, she does have a very big garden.

It’s sounds cowardly to run but this was seriously sinister. I have good intuition and hunches, a bit like my mum had. I would have had a period in my life where I developed a little mild paranoia ( more on that in another blog soon) but this was really real.

I eventually got home safe and went in and told my Dad who was reading Biochemistry books in Latin in the sitting room. He just did his usual little warm chortle and said , as he always did, “don’t worry everything will be fine”. I went to bed becalmed a bit, but could hear the Volkswagen going up and down Killiney rd a couple more times until I heard it no more.

Maybe a year later, I was into jogging (for some reason), and I ran up Killiney hill and around the Obelisk and back down Burma Road and right at the base of that same car park I was on now, I looked up and who did I see? The same psycho fucker in his Volkswagen staring at me. I ran shit-skidding down the hill as fast as I could. Full of a returning fear.

When you think about it, I should have told The Police. Maybe they could have arranged a Sting.

****

Epilogue

And the hill I ran down full of fear that day was the same hill I followed my Dad up one night many years later to make sure he was safe. Dad had trouble with his memory, as opposed to having troubling memories. Things just didn’t stick. He had developed Alzheimer’s and early enough into the illness he had a habit of heading out of the house and up Killiney Hill in the middle of the night, this time with a pair of his underpants ( or were they Bono’s ?) in his hands .

“Where are you going, Dad?”

“To a student party somewhere up here”.

There, but for the grace of God, for now, go I.