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In my time I have been to places that are considered to be centers of peace and serenity, the holy island of Iona off the coast of Scotland, in younger days I walked the Cosán na Naomh ( The Trail of the Saints ) on the Dingle P, watched the sunrise at Newgrange and set over the Uragh stone circle, marveled at the city of Florence from the top of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, watched the Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi rise up out of the morning fog, stood alone at midnight in Saint Peter's Square, seen the Green Man at Rosslyn Chapel and climbed Minaun Hill on Achill Island of all these places the one spot I have found that I am totally at peace with my world and myself , no easy task to be sure, is Cafollas, Tolan Street, Ballina, County Mayo... go figure, but there it is. I first walked through the doors of Cafollas a hundred years ago when a very young Donnybrook Fair was performing in Ireland, I have since made the holy pilgrimage to Cafollas many times over the years. You may find it odd that with all those famous places of peace previously mentioned my most peaceful spot would be a small eatery in the wilds of sweet Mayo.... again go figure. Through the doors of Cafollas there is peace, there is inspiration, there is the best damn sausage and chips in the universe. Here is a story I wrote while savoring my hefty feed of sausage and chips on my last pilgrimage.
'Thoughts Upon Seeing a Farmer Eat His Breakfast at Cafollas, Ballina Co. Mayo.’
K.McKrell
Well,….now…. didn’t he have a epic head on him. Whoever was in charge of the handing out of heads did this boyo no favors at all. A massive fifty dollar pumkin of a head. How his neck held up under the strain is anyone’s guess , to be sure the pure genius of the mystery of engineering it took to accomplish this task must have been the subject of much talk throughout the vicinity.......
Well,….now…. didn’t he have a epic head on him. Whoever was in charge of the handing out of heads  did this boyo no favors at all. A massive  fifty dollar pumkin of a head. How his neck held up under the strain is anyone’s guess , to be sure the pure genius of the mystery of engineering it took to accomplish this task must have been the subject of  much talk throughout the vicinity . Wouldn't ya think,  in all fairness, if the good Lord had seen fit to put that much head in one spot He would have made it easier to look at. But sadly no, for smack dab in the center of that milk bucket of a head was a face that would have seemed more at home with a mouthful of hay then sitting there two tables over pounding down a huge feed of sausages, puddings ,eggs, toast and mushy peas. The color of the head in question was variables of red, ranging from a baby pink up around the apex of the thing, where stood a wispy memory of what was at one time a patch of hair , to a  purplish red, and fair play to ya if you  claimed magenta, as the face cascaded it’s way down to the neck whose engineering competence we had questioned earlier. As my eyes jouneyed down to that lump that I am sure at one time could have been referred to as a nose. I think to myself , feeling sorry for the ould fella, would it have  been a problem at all for him to be the bearer of a lovely set of lips , who would it have hurt to at the least give him that, but no , he was absolutely lipless, like a butchers slice in a joint of pork  into which he hurled sausage after sausage, a steady stream of full Irish into this lipless maw which was only interrupted by noisy slurps of tea . Yer man was clad in that one piece coverall common to farmers throughout the West , it was at one time, pure conjecture here, blue . The color of the thing was now beyond description  subtle hints of tractor grease , turf, sheep shite, cow's piss and countless long days of farmer sweat created a color only found in the garb of one who fought a dawn to dark struggle with the land. Following his legs down to their conclusion, was the essential footware of any self respecting farmer in this part of the world, a pair of  wellies, his coveralls packed into the top of each  so as to keep said coveralls out of the mountains of shite he slogged through for most of his day ,for most of his life truth be told.
He had a snowman's eyes , little bits of coal stuck hapazardly into his mug with seemingly no effort nor attention paid to proper alignment .  On each side of this monster were lumps of skin that had obviously suffered greatly at having been pinned to the outside of this monumental noodle, these lumps, inspite of  their appearance, seemed to work well as the waitress called across "more tea  Neddy ?" a  grunt from Neddy  never losing the rythm in this ballet of sausages, toast and tea. I did not at all fathom the meaning of that grunt, the waitress however signaled her understanding of Neddy’s needs, nodded and went about her business. Ah but did he look happy ?  My thoughts in regards to this was that he was one of those to whom happiness was not a function he needed to waste any thought on. If asked the question he would give you a look from those tiny eyes stuck in that massive skull, what does happy have to do with it he might say .With work to do ,  stock to tend , rock walls to mend , and shite to shovel. Happy gets naught done . Now if asked if he were unhappy you would very well get the same response. With a big slurp of the last of his tea, pushing away the plate now completely devoid of the massive feed of Full Irish that had previously occupied that space ,  yer man  rises up out of his chair and very carefully sets coin down on the table with a look around the place that says if any touch the coin but fer herself I'll feckin' do ya. Then in a waft of pungency that left little question as to occupation, Neddy was gone . I finished my sausage and chips, my large Club O, no ice please, and went about my day.......