My favourite job of 2005 was three days of dry stone walling up on a hill on the northern edge of Doolin. We worked silently, interrupted only by tea breaks from a flask and passers-by in cars, who would slow down to get a look at our handiwork then wink or shake their heads. “What about some concrete?” smiled one local, and winked as if to say “Some might say that concrete is the thing to use nowadays, and in fact you might think I just said that, but what I meant was that concrete might be used, but only as a shortcut, and secretly I agree with your reliance on more traditional methods – though, of course, I wouldn’t admit that to my friends.”
It was a good wink. We just smiled and carried on, working silently except for the odd murmur of appreciation at the positioning of an especially idiosyncratic-looking stone, or asking whether the other needed some more materials.
For the past four months I’d been attending the Kieser Training gym in North London, for former-sportspeople whose backs had started to give out. I get twinges just playing with my three year old boy, but dry stone walling seemed to do my back the world of good.
At the end of the day we looked out to sea, then gathered our tools and wandered back down the lane to the old cottage. A tractor pulled past us and the driver shot us a look and winked.