Denis Lehane: After all, it wasn’t the bluebottles

And sure enough, the mighty erections behind our house, namely the four wind turbines, the bane of my life, had vanished into thin air during the night.

Putting on my britches with haste, I rushed downstairs, and out into the yard I galloped, to look skyward. Again, no turbine could I see.

All four had completely disappeared.

I couldn’t believe my luck. With a heavy mist covering the land, I did a lively jig in the garden, such was my delight.

So where had they gone? Well, I figured all that out later in the morning, while sitting at the breakfast table topping my egg. It had been the work of the great American tycoon, Donald Trump.

You see, only a few days earlier, Trump had put paid to plans for the construction of wind turbines near his golf course in Doonbeg, Co Clare.

Planning permission was refused because of the impact the wind farm would have on the fresh water pearl mussel.

Isn’t it the quare old world today, that nobody gives a flying fig about how you or I might feel about wind turbines, but show those in authority a shellfish, or a bird, or a bee, that might be put out by their arrival, and Bob’s your uncle.

Anyhow, while sitting at the table chewing on a crust of toast, I came to the conclusion that Mr Trump had been up the fields behind my yard, and had found that the blue bottles weren’t swarming, or something, and it was all the cause of the turbines. So they had come down, most likely with the swing of a back actor.

The turbines couldn’t be seen last Thursday, I figured it was thanks to Mr Trump.

To show my appreciation, I took hold of a pen, and grabbing a sheet of paper, I made a drive to write the great man of business a ‘thank you’ letter.

I started my correspondence by complementing Mr Trump on his beautiful mane of hair. ‘Like the tail of the Connemara pony,’ I wrote, ‘your hair is a sight to behold.’ I then expressed my gratitude for the work he had done in keeping Ireland green, and free fromgrotesque wind turbines. “To think that it took a Yank to put a halt to their gallop. ’Tis like John B’s ‘The Field’, only in reverse,” I wrote.

I wrapped up my letter by assuring Mr Trump that there would always be a stool at this table, and a glass of the strong stuff at his disposal, should he ever venture to this corner of the world again.

With the writing business behind me, I went out to inspect the cattle and sheep. And without the dreaded overhanging wind turbines, it was a pleasure entirely, in spite of the foggy conditions that had prevailed throughout the day.

It was evening when I eventually returned home, and with a mind for a jar to toast the demise of the turbines, I put on my old gansey and headed for the back door. But before I could lift the latch, disaster struck.

An ominous shadow started to flicker around the room, just like it did when the turbines had been there.

And opening the door, to my absolute horror, didn’t I see the spectre of the turbines starting to appear again. They hadn’t come down at all, but had been hidden away for the day behind the low cloud. And now they had returned in all their gory detail. They were back to haunt me.