Denis Lehane: Warm books on cold nights

Keeping warm the past few weeks has been a mammoth task but here in West Cork we managed it in our own unique way

Keeping warm over the past couple of weeks has been a mammoth task.

I remember in them old James Bond movies, whenever 007 felt a chill up the Alps or someplace, he'd always rush to a big bed and all the comforts pertaining to it.

And there under a heavenly duvet, he would dream perhaps about saving the world one more time.

And there in that bed of his, he would remain a prisoner of the sheets, a prisoner right up until the blood started to circulate once again.

Yerra 007 was a lot of things, but he was never cold.

He knew the value of keeping the hood up.

He knew the cold was a killer, along with that giant with the metal teeth and the old lady with that spike in her shoe.

007 had a lot of problems for sure, but keeping warm was never one of them.

Alas for us, out here in the wilds of West Cork and elsewhere, keeping warm over the past couple of weeks has been a mammoth task.

Cattle fortunately enough have a coat of hair to protect them from the elements. We ourselves do not.

And with turf now outlawed, and newfangled coal about as appealing as a blister on your big toe, there is precious little to keep us warm in rural parts.

But as usual, we managed in our own unique way.

I received a call the other evening from a man who wanted to thank me profusely for the gift of books he received over the winter.

I told him I had sent him no books and he told me he was aware of that fact too.

He knew I had written them you see, and wanted to thank me for all my efforts with the pen and paper.

I told him: "It was no bother."

I received a bundle of your books for Christmas," says he, "and they were my greatest companion by the fireside. They were better than a bale of briquettes!

"If I felt the fire was going down in any way, I'd lob in a book and the heat generated from it would fill the room with a glow.

"What kind of ink did you use at all and what made the paper so crispy and so appealing to the flame?" he asked.

I told him I didn't know, but I said I was delighted he got some use out of them.

"Use!" he laughed heartily.

"They were terrific altogether.

"Them books of yours," says he, "should be a best-seller every Christmas, for they burn like the rubber on an old remould tyre.

"When is your next book due out?" he then asked, clearly excited about the whole thing.

I told him: "At the end of the year with the help of God."

"Man alive," he roared, "sure we could all be dead from the cold by then!"

Anyhow, I thanked him again for his encouragement.

"Them books of yours," says he "kept my toes from falling off and my dog from rambling.

"With the turf gone, they were the greatest thing one could hope to have in the fire basket.

"Keep up the good work," he shouted down the blower before heading off, back to the fire no doubt.

I promised him I would "keep the fires burning" with regards to writing books, for I could tell he had greatly warmed to them.