Denis Lehane: My tasty old wellington boots and the beast of West Cork
Eating wellingtons is a recipe for disaster. The whole thing has left nothing but a bad taste in the mouth.
I don't know how to say this without scaring half the country, but something ate my wellingtons the other night. And while the fiend is at large, none can sleep soundly in their beds. For the beast who eats a wellington, is liable to eat anything.
Fortunately, my feet were not in my wellingtons at the time, otherwise, I might not be here to tell the tale. My misfortune began when I kicked off my wellingtons outside the back door.Â
I have a habit, on a fine night, of leaving them outside. The bit of night air, I feel, reinvigorates the wellington. It refreshes the sole and prepares the boot for a busy day ahead.
Anyhow, on that particular night, if memory serves me correctly, my wellingtons were covered with dung, with perhaps a few sops of silage and a sprinkle of ration here and there - a sort of 'sweet and sour' wellington I suppose, if you were to put it into culinary terminology. So perhaps tasty in some respects.
I recall the night passed away peacefully enough. I read the paper, said my few prayers and went to bed. I heard nothing untoward outside; no creature great or small was howling at the moon.
But the following morning, I arose at dawn, or a couple of hours later, and looked out my window only to see my cattle making a nuisance of themselves. They were attempting to go onto land that certainly doesn't belong to them, or me either.
Yerra cattle can be rambunctious at this time of the year. It's breeding season. They can be inclined to ramble off in an effort to sow a few wild oats. It's nature's way. It's the most natural thing in the world.
Anyhow, I went outside, barefoot, with ambitions of putting a stop to their gallop. However, on reaching for my wellingtons, to my horror, I discovered they weren't there at all. They must have become a late-night snack for some midnight caller.
My wellingtons had been eaten and what remained, frankly wasn't worth talking about. This naturally put a chill down my spine, not to mention a chill in my toes, for ‘twas a cold morning.
What depraved class of an animal would stoop to the level of eating a man's wellingtons? Well, l suppose, a hungry one for starters. Obviously, and I can only imagine, but my guess is that we are dealing here with a creature with a mouth as large as can be.
A mouth that eats all before him, and a long tail that slashes at all behind him. I suspect he is a furry creature, but far from friendly, and stands over eight feet tall when on his hind legs.
In other words, he's a sight to behold and I imagine best avoided considering what he can do to a man's boots. Beyond that, it's hard to say what he looks like. Anything more would be pure speculation.
There and then I wanted to phone the guards. But with very little of my wellingtons remaining, I figured I didn't have a leg to stand on. Clearly, in the wilds of West Cork right now, there lurks a beast so fierce that he will happily dine on a farmer's wellingtons.
And with the busy season about to kick off, heaven only knows what harm will be done on the ground with such a creature on the loose. He needs to be snared, captured and generally brought to heel.
Eating wellingtons is a recipe for disaster. The whole thing has left nothing but a bad taste in the mouth.
