THE
MAN OF THREE COATS
They're regulars – could be late seventies,
early eighties, look fit still, are on first name terms with the other
regulars. They come in every morning, between six-thirty and seven, hardly ever
miss, always sit at the same table, clear view of the changing moods of the sea.
Some days, if it's a quiet start, one of the regular barista girls has their
cups of flat white on the go and the morning paper ready even before he fronts
the counter, with the right cash and loyalty card in hand. They're as
predictable and (at a glance from an unknowing eye) as blend-in as the rest of
the regulars.
Outside of summer, he never wears anything
over his shirt but one of three coats – never a jumper, cardigan, windcheater,
vest, or puffer jacket – just one of the same three coats as the weather
changes through autumn, winter, and spring, although sometimes a light
showerproof on top. But always one of these three coats.
They are graded in thickness, in warmth,
and each matches his always jeans well enough, not that he’s at all
fashion-aware, or looking to sport a style. He dresses to please himself.
Himself and the weather gods.
The heaviest coat – they’re all a touch
travelled, well-worn-ish – is thick and brown and huggy, zips clean up to the
chin. His wife actually bought it for herself, from one of those walker-camper
shops that have pup tents and anoraks and gear you need to climb Everest. It
was a size too large, but she’d intended it for their overseas travels, able to
accommodate several layers under it, as they loved to be in Ireland for winter.
But their travelling days were over soon
after that, and the coat just seemed too good to donate to the Salvos. So she
laid it on him, and he hummed and hawed as if suspicious (because it was
something new), but he hung it up on his side of the wardrobe, tried it out on
the first burst of chilly mornings, fell in love. It has no markings, except
for a subtle name logo stitched on one sleeve. He refers to this coat as The Bearskin.
His next-to-heaviest coat is a black
polar-fleece that usually comes out in late autumn and early spring, when
mornings can’t quite make up their mind. It’s a looser fit, but warm, and is
soft, soft and scrunchable, able to be threaded through luggage handles, spend
endless hours on endless flights as a pillow, or be a backrest, maybe a blanket. On zero degree Irish mornings when
the hills were white it was often worn comfortably under yet another, even
looser, coat.
On one shoulder there’s a simple patch, a black
shield that says “KERRY”, above a yellow harp and a castle keep, that symbolic castle
keep that proudly proclaims “The Kingdom of Kerry”. They have been there often.
On the other shoulder there is also a black
patch, one rimmed in red, with “WUDINNA” across the centre, above that a Merino
ram’s head in full fleece, and below it a sheaf of golden wheat. These two
places could not be more different from each other, one small and soft and green,
with a rich Celtic history, the other vast and brown and agricultural,
surrounded by grain and granite, and the most ancient of ghosts. But at any
opportunity, he says they’re his two spiritual homes, as he was born in one and
re-born in the other. He refers to this coat as his Travelling Coat. In his
innermost heart he reckons – with a smile – it tells the world that he’s a bit
outdoorsy.
His lightest coat is black also, and is the
oldest of the three. And starting to look like it. It’s for those beginning and
ending days, when early mornings are just on the turn, too fresh for
shirtsleeves alone, but spring is gaining enough momentum to make him shed
anything thicker. It also has a patch on each shoulder, patches in green and
gold that look identical at a glance, the icon of a backpacking walker in the
centre. But one says “I Have Walked The Beara Way” and the other says “I Have
Walked The Kerry Way”.
These two long distance walking trails
between them cover – in his mind – God’s Own Country, and while he has never
managed to walk the entire length of either, but tramped pieces here, pieces
there, he still believes he’s entitled to wear the badges. Because of what’s in
his heart. He thinks of this one as his Brag Coat.
Everyone has ways, ways of telling you what
is in their heart.