Annals of the West
Harrow International School Hong Kong , Kwok , Russell - 12
H ave you ever wondered why there are so many ancient mysteries in Ireland ? I know since I created them .
It started 19 years ago . On a bright sunny day with blossoming flowers on the countless orchards on the Wentworth-Nethercott estate and the buzzing of meek bees in our ears , I decided to have tea with the servants : footmen , chambermaids , cooks , parlour-maids , housemaids , kitchen-maids , scullery maids , gardeners , the valet , the housekeeper and even the butler Smithers himself !
Swiftly , on the table was laid a fine silken tablecloth embroidered with gold thread and the finest china of all the Orient painted with authentic lapis lazuli paint . Then , the foods and beverages came : The most gorgeous blend of Assam and Darjeeling , quaint cucumber sandwiches , fresh scones with warm Devonshire clotted cream , coconut macaroons imported from New Caledonia , rich chocolate éclairs , meticulously iced fairy cakes , and warm Eccles cakes going through thermogenesis with the most doddering of all veteran Stilton cheeses along with more treats than you could imagine would exist in the land ! Whoosh . An expensive vellum letter , sealed with sublime beeswax from the Mediterranean whooshed onto my lap . A letter .
Oh no ! I am exceedingly sorry to not have introduced myself ! My name is the Most Honourable Reginald Cecil Wentworth-Nethercott , third Marquis of Clitheroe , ninth Duke Shrewsbury , first Viscount Doncaster , twentieth Earl of Carlisle and sixth Baron Perciford . Anyway , you can call me Lord Wentworth-Nethercott if you please . Through my name , you might be able to deduce all my kin are aristocrats and royals from Europe and we meet annually . Most of these soporific ceremonies can be ignored but let me continue with my lovely tale .
Then , within the letter , with bold gold ink was written , ‘ The Crown Prince of Tara , Cormac mac Airt , cordially invites ye to the coronation the High King of Ireland on the 12th day of the 12th Month on the 12th Year of the 12th Irish Lunar Calendar in the most west of all known lands-Tara- . His prominent father , the great Art mac Cuinn , has just passed away to Tír na nÓg .’ Usually , a voyage to Ireland will take a fortnight or so . In that situation , there was a vast abundance of time , an epoch even ! Although I might arrive promptly before the deadline , I shall never be tardy and unpunctual . Nevertheless , I never knew such a lucid task would bring me to the verge of experiencing rigor mortis …
In time , I booked one of the returning galleys of the Fianna . Along with the pious chaplain from the local parish , Reverend Dominic and faithful bodyguard Finlay , we loitered patiently on the creaking decrepit wood jetty at Whitehaven .
Many hours past , though they were not wasted since the local pub on the staithe was open . Porter , ale , and beer of all kinds flowed majestically through the gravity beer taps into grubby pint-sized hand-blown Venetian nonic glasses . The venerable elderly sat on the wobbly weathered wooden stools sipping some bland imported fresh from the Shetland Isles . Pigs-in-blankets , bashed turnips and pork crackling was dished out like meretricious clothing from sweatshops and everyone was having the most frabjous time of their lives but then …
Swish ! Boom ! Honk ! The Fianna had arrived with their vociferous foghorns ! With haste , we perambulated , still looking dignified , onto the galley . Finn McCool was on the boat and he welcomed us with great hospitality . It felt more like a cruise than a hitchhike ! Soon , we set sail for Linns .
The weak but plentiful sunlight shone on us with warmth , giving the whole crew a sense of homeliness and snugness . The persistent but gentle waves lapped on the sturdy copper-plated hull , providing a constant jiggle that funnily , didn ’ t cause seasickness . However , within hours , a great storm brewed over the horizon , promising nothing but gales to level even the mightiest of trees . So powerful it was the throng though it must have been the creation of Beelzebub ! Then there was a bang . A groaning sound told us the ship had cracked . Then …