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Chapter One
Sometimes, no matter how well people thought they’d planned for something, there was always the chance of that unforeseen event which could threaten to throw schedules off track, changing the outcome of what they’d tried to achieve, or the mishap had felt designed to make life a smidge more difficult than it needed to be.
Even the best laid plans could go to hell if the circumstances were beyond the control of those making them, and what could be more unpredictable and upsetting for keeping arrangements than the weather?
Why was it everything ground to a halt in the UK because of a few inches of snow? Maybe they should send their planning department guys to Montana to take part in some practical workshops on how to deal with unavoidable winter weather, or make them attend webinars online for contingencies to cope with the pathetic snowfall the British Isles gets each year.
I’d been a reluctant attendee at Patrick’s wedding in the first place, but he was a bandmate and probably my closest friend. I guessed the reason I was less than enthusiastic was because I had still felt burnt out from our previous band tour, which had ended the previous month before.
Flying transatlantic could be tedious at the best of times, but I was luckier than most since I owned my own jet, but when it had been diverted to a whole other country because we couldn’t land in Belfast it had felt like an overdramatic decision by the airport ground staff.
I mean Ireland wasn’t that far away from Northern Ireland, and it was all joined to one island. Surely the weather couldn’t be that diverse just a hundred miles away in Dublin?
Glancing out of the window as the captain prepared to land, I became mesmerized by the flurry of large white snowflakes that streaked across the small oval window.
When I looked up to the snow falling from the sky, I had to concede the snowfall had become heavy, with a lot more yet to fall. The vast landscape beneath me looked like a single colored patchwork quilt, each stone wall separating parcels of land like the finest stitching of a highly skilled seamstress.
Surveying the beautiful wintery landscape helped ease the knot I'd felt in my stomach since first being advised of the alterations to my travel plans. The calm feeling I got from immersing myself in the weather dissolved the tension within me like bubbles bursting slowly on a smooth surface.
Exhaling, I settled back into my seat knowing there was nothing to be done apart from accept the change in our journey. Knowing I still had a day to get there, I figured it would work itself out.
Therefore, so long as the snow got cleared by morning from the runway, I’d make it to Belfast in time for Paddy’s low-key wedding on Saturday.
I continued to watch as we neared the ground and noted how rural and isolated some of the houses were. I wondered how it would feel to live somewhere off the beaten track.
Patrick O'Leary—or Paddy—my bandmate and best friend didn’t live rural. He lived in Holywood… Belfast. His place was a grand looking Victorian terrace with rambling rooms, bay windows, multiple stairs, and floors that went above and below and best of all—he was left mostly alone by his followers to live in peace.
Sometimes I envied him when he went home because there he was just ‘Paddy from up the road’, treated like the local man he was, instead of the famous rock star neighbour who was famous across the world. He moved around his city without constant interruptions and everything in life appeared instantly accessible to him—except when it snowed.
“Don’t worry, customs are usually pretty empty here, we should have you through in about twenty minutes and on your way,” the flight attendant told Donna, my PA, when I tuned into the conversation they were having.
“How long to Belfast from Dublin by car?” Donna asked.
The flight attendant spoke fast and although I could pick out words, my brain wasn’t putting her sentences together quick enough.
“Pardon me?” Donna said, in her slow Southern Texan drawl and the girl spoke slightly slower, I assumed repeating what she’d said.
“Usually it’s about an hour-and-a-half, but in this weather who knows? It’s about a hundred miles by road,” she added in her Northern Irish brogue. I stared at the petite brunette like she’d spoken in another language altogether.
Wow, they sure talk fast here.
Between Donna and I, we caught what she said the second time around. I was the same whenever Paddy’s mom called, the speed the Irish folks’ brains processed information appeared incredible.
As my brain clicked in recognition of what she had said the wheels of the plane touched down and the reverse engine screamed before my small Lear jet ground to a halt.
Without waiting to be told, I unclipped my belt and reached up to grab my soft brown leather carry-on bag and stood to full height. The cabin attendant said nothing but remained strapped into her seat.
* * *
The cabin attendant was right about customs. It was less than fifteen minutes before we entered the arrivals lounge. Donna had a huge crease in her brow and I knew exactly what was worrying her.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. If the weather continues, you may need to arrange yourself a direct flight back to New York,” I advised her. She smiled, relieved that I’d expected her to continue with her own journey, before her eyes narrowed again.
“What about you?” she asked, concerned as she slid the laptop she’d been working on back in its protective sleeve.
Walking into the terminal I glanced around at all the people dressed in vibrant green clothing. Many of them with huge bright green foam and felt hats on their heads with black shamrocks embossed upon them.
I shook my head and grinned because if I hadn’t been sober I’d have sworn I was tripping until I remembered it was St. Patrick’s Day that weekend.
