Task 37

Excerpt 4 - "The Road to McCarthy" by Pete McCarthy

Once I had heard our next Word Voodoo task was travel literature, the first thought that swam in my mind was if I was unsuccessfully going to choose a desirable excerpt that I would honestly enjoy reading! Travel literature isn’t my forté, so I sincerely gave up hope producing a satisfactory piece of work. However, once I had read Pete McCarthy’s extract from“The Road to McCarthy” my doubts just vanished! His diction purely astounded me – the unmistakeable way he describes the simple things in life really puts me to shame! I also idolised the way he encapsulated Ireland in a few paragraphs; (Something which I struggle to do!) he narrated its beauty as well as discussing the idiocy behind horse – racing, both of which Ireland are renowned for. He almost looks at the whole picture and not just what we see behind a film of false happiness. I would like to stress how important I find this in a novel; some people want to pick up a book to get away from real life, but I feel I find out more about the world if the text is blunt and outspoken. To finish, he ends on quite a philosophical note and rhetorically it makes you think. No matter who the reader is, we all have different interpretations on this last quote: “You can’t plan these moments. You just have to know them when fate sends them your way, and accept them for what they are.” It can conjure up all sorts of thoughts about life in your mind!

Life's Many Pots of Gold
It’s rather ironic, isn’t it? How the wealthy preach about the world’s demising ecosystem, yet they feel purchasing the latest Land Rover is the way to outfox their competitive friends. Do they feel a sense of power being hypocrites, or is it just their instinctive ability to always “keep up appearances?” But, to be frank, you can’t blame them – the Land Rover is a beautiful car and I couldn’t help but feel a sense of power as I elegantly strolled out of its comfortable interior and slammed its doors shut. It reminded me of a faithful dog; always at your service and blissfully unable to judge what horrible emerald dress or metallic gold killer heels you may be sporting: unlike your real friends. However, as much of a grateful person I am, I did feel the bothersome sensation in my stomach that I have to sustain every time that emotion named “jealousy” creeps up on me; because neither this car or the closest thing to heaven, in other words, Finchingfield was mine! Still, why be envious of what I can possess some day in the future? When one day, I could wake up to the tranquil melody of birds composing the closest thing they can exert to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 4 in B- flat major, or relaxing in my three acre garden surrounded by honeysuckle and lavender and red roses! What a dreamer I am! A dreamer that tries to make sure my aspirations become a reality, not just a figment of hope that harbours uselessly in my mind. There is nothing worse than gloating to the world that you will do something today, yet you are still wallowing in your reverie the same time tomorrow . . .
Away from the Burberry adorned Wags’ that have pink bathrooms and gyms in their Chigwell manors, (Why are people so stereotypical? The tabloids always claim that Essex is all about clubbing and binge drinking! When in reality, it's not all bad!) I surveyed everything my bespectacled eyes could consume – traditional antique shops bordered with white gates and achromatic canopies; quaint tea rooms and whitewashed shopping emporiums that sold vintage glamour and objet d’art. Ice cream parlours, pâtisseries and gourmet cafés (Please take note of the diacritic on top of the “e”. Cafés in Finchingfield are far from greasy spoons!) dotted their charm around us. It was like a picture postcard. Everything seemed to be perfect: apart from one small problem – hairy bikers spawned the entire town! Finchingfield is very spacious and has many winding roads, which is the obvious reason why they choose to ride in the vicinity – I suppose that’s how they get their thrills. (Like I get my thrills from scoffing crème brûlée ice cream!)
Making our way to Duck End Mill; the 18th Century windmill that dominated Finchingfield, I happily allowed the ice cream (Made from Devon clotted cream, of course!) dribble down my fingers in the late August heat. It was a hot day; temperatures reached 26○C and I recall wearing what used to be my favourite chocolate brown jumper around my waist. For an unforeseen circumstance, I was unaware of the humid weather that would follow later that day, therefore my clothes did look rather autumnal. Even with the amount of my Uncle's sun tan lotion I had applied, it didn’t prevent what looked like specks of brown sugar from dusting my nose! Unfortunately, we discovered that the mill is only open once a month on a Sunday in the summer, (August the 28th, 2007 was a Tuesday!) so we irascibly had to walk back to the town square to search for somewhere else to roam. After an exhausting five minutes of precious time wasted, me and my mum both found ourselves naturally walking into the threshold of an antique shop. (My uncle and grandmother had gone their separate ways). The walls were coated with floral Edwardian wallpaper and every imaginable clock ornamented the room. Cuckoo clocks, grandfather clocks, carriage clocks – their hands almost clapped in appreciation as I gratefully listened to their ticking harmonies. Being so aware of the time, I stood wondering in disbelief at how momentous the hours had drifted away into a beclouding night.

Stepping outside accompanied with the small treasures I had bought from a grocers earlier on: Victoria plums, Little Scarlet strawberries, a pot of clover honey and not to forget, an overgrown courgette that looked like a marrow, I knew it was time to start our journey home. I climbed into the Land Rover, in exactly the same fashion as I had done when I arrived, yet something was different – I didn't feel my hope bubble into a vaporous and irreplaceable morsel of matter; I didn’t wish that I could have a few more hours lounging in the sun. I moved on without looking back: as I knew that some day, I would certainly be here again . . .