Tales from Larno: Prologue
If you ever find Larno or Tranilee on a map, please let me know. For some reason that had something to do with paper shortages during the not-so-great war, Larno and Tranilee were left off the one and only ordnance map that was ever created. Subsequent governments never bothered commissioning any serious study, topographical or geographical, arguing that if a place was there at one time, it was probably there still. It was cheaper to just to announce to the world that one was being carried out, and then simply extend the blocks of ink around the few centres of population in line with the birth rate every ten years. Any new super two-lane highways that were built, were but simple black lines with numbers attached. Larno and Tranilee are still there.
Larno is perched just under the tip of Veester Inch; down that mountain and directly across and there, up the opposite mountain of Veester Cra, just under the tip, lies Tranilee. They are separated by history and a long valley that is served and severed by the River Mo. Even the new-fangled Google maps can't spot Larno or Tranilee. The Google car tried to photograph the area once, but had to be guided home by satellite with the driver a gibbering wreck. This geographical, topographical omission has never bothered anyone particularly. Since the postmen are, and always have been, local folk, the letter and remittances from abroad get through all right as long as the simple title of Larno or Tranilee is on the envelope, and life rolls on. Beneficial correspondence from the Government is responded to, and the inconvenient left to gather dust. Most of the young, like myself once was, continue to leave when the time arrives, but it is understood that a remittance to Ma and or Da is a point of honour. The young know and are proud that any monies remitted are spent in the village and that this ensures the maintenance of the Larno way of living. For it is to that way of living they may return: by choice, or by way of other men's decisions. So the young emigrants do come back, either as successful failures or failed successes. There is always someone there to know them, to welcome them and remind them of their family history, going back as far as the not-so-great war. One must not get above oneself.
I went back often, usually because of unemployment, or, rather, because I was 'resting'. Now, I don't go back so much for I am a star. A film star. I am a success. After fifteen years of trying, I was an overnight success. Another Larno man – they are everywhere – was directing a Greek war epic. He gave me a small part as an army commander. It was my job to sit on an empty horse – nothing to a Larno man. He had insisted I be given a line, just to raise my pay. I had to raise my sword and yell out: 'By the Sisters of Delphi we will be avenged.' Just as I shouted the horse decided to rear up, kick out his legs, and bolt. Luckily, I had the presence of mind to wave my sword around. But it was not really my acting ability or coolness that won me fame. My accent was so thick that it became a source of fun for the youth of the world. All over You Tube and Facebook and any other social media, my accent was imitated as a million youths sat in their bedrooms and yelled: 'By the Sisters of Delphi we will be avenged.' while waving any instrument they could lay their creative hands on.
My Blog became alive. Magazines wrote up the phenomenon, and some treated me as a serious classical actor. I did not disagree. I had arrived. Within a few years somebody decided that my pawky humour was ideal for a late-night sofa show. Who was I to argue? By the Sisters of Delphi I jumped at it. Now I live the life-style that keeps me in the Los Angeles loop, but I do not see much of Larno.
Sometimes I wish the agents would not come calling. I miss Larno - and even Tranilee. But I do send back my remittance faithfully. I say 'even Tranilee', for I am a Larno man. Larno and Tranilee folk have despised and disliked each other since, on June 23rd, 1160 A.D., at three o'clock, in the morning, the McCra tribe descended and diverted part of the river so that it flowed more generously in to their half of the valley. Centuries of civil engineering raids took place, that left families bereft and bitter to this day, although the Valley of Cra and Inch is the most fertile in all the land due to its superb irrigation. But old sores are as deep as the River Mo itself. There is the Church of Redemption in Larno. There is the Church of The Redeemer in Tranilee. This is an example of the slyness of Tranilee folk; they reckoned that a Redeemer must come before a Redemption. This unarguable piece of grammar and logic still sits hard with the Larno folk. Early on there was traffic between the two churches: services were alternated ,with one church offering morning service, and the other the evening service. The timetable of the alternating services was often confusing, but could be properly guessed by observing what direction the penitents were trudging in. On the basis that God could be fooled into thinking that His peace had broken out if each congregation attended the other's service, this reluctant tradition was established in time immemorial. A double dunt of God's forgiveness was seen as no bad thing anyway, and ensured employment for at least four folk, if you include the cleaners. Over time the worn-out track became a path, and the path became wider, but muddier and new-fangled cars could not carry folk like doctors and ministers.
A lorry-load of tarmacadam, driven it has to be said, by a Tranilee man, and bound for the new super two-lane highway, was 'diverted'. Not to be undone, a lorry of aggregate, driven by a Larno man appeared. In a rare, rare show of silent co-operation the two populations shovelled it down, brought and even broke down stones, patted it all flat, by use of home-made wooden paddles, until a new single-track road lay between them. Retreat from one another's church services would always be much easier now.
At a suitable part of the river, a log bridge was slung up that would have gained respect from the Romans and Archimedes himself, as long-lost geometry was allied to the strength of men, women and even children to raise and hold the spans to the proper angle. Cheers were strangled in throats, however, as this might have been interpreted as a celebration of co-operation. After much muttering and measuring, each village Taoiseach painted half a white line across the bridge's centre. There was a little amusement when their arses bumped in the middle: a bump that left the line with a shaky-looking semi-circle in its centre. Finally, each Taoiseach pretended to break a bottle of the respective local hooch on a span.
There follows lots of piping and dancing and singing well into the night, but all on separate sides of the river. Competiton grew as to what village would have the last man or woman standing, but in the morning no-one claimed the victory. Life went back to what passes for normal. Roads are meant to improve communication, the cross-fertilisation of ideas, the movement of goods and people. The road between Larno and Tranilee served these purposes, but did not improve them much between the Larno and Tranilee folk. Some Larno folk were particularly incensed that, in a direct line from the Capital city, any traffic bearing lost or especially brought tourists, would pass through the Mo valley fifty yards nearer Tranilee than Larno; others were of the view that any such happy wanderers who ventured there should remain in Tranilee, fearing that the more folk stumbled upon Larno, and spread the word, the greater danger that new ways might creep in. Odd walkers did appear, usually kitted out as if they were climbing Annapurna and all set off with some kind of laminated maps flapping on their chests. They are always made welcome, no matter the view of the person they chat to. Since Larno men and two Tranilee women have gained employment with local tourist companies, busloads of tourists are often diverted via their respective villages. What the tourists learn about the village and the area, depends upon who happens to be around that day. McGinty the Miser, a man who never danced a step in his life in case it wore out his shoe leather, has even been known to dance like a dervish for them while whistling and clapping like a banshee. This is, of course, always followed by the passing round of his cap.
The tourists, the walkers, the genuine climbers are all coming though. Some young are not returning, except in their salty dreams. Larno will change. Even a double dunt of God's blessing will not hold back the tide. But I hope the valley is not breached until I have had had my fill.
