The day was overcast and dry – not at all like the wet weather we had been having for the past week. The old Thames Trader truck was wending its way along the road towards Keady in South Armagh.
… We had just come over the hill from Newtown Hamilton and were now making our laborious way towards our next port of call, Keady. Today that part of the road has been planted on each side with trees but then, the landscape was dreary to observe, all bog land with nothing but a few sparse saplings and twisted thorn bushes – the rest seemed to be all bog, heather and whin bushes. The road at this part was that long straight section as you approach Wolf Island Bog.
We were journeying along nicely, with what was for us, the usual travelling sounds of gears grinding, tyres hissing on tarmac and this accompanied by the dissonant rattle of the bottles in their crates as they performed their relentless little dance, faithfully mimicking every sway and role that that old truck made on the uneven road surface. All of this cacophony of noise paled to insignificance when compared to the throaty bellow from our old Ford engine.
I was almost half asleep not paying much attention to what was happening around me: Brian the driver and I both silent, both immersed in our own particular train of thought.
I must confess that I did see the school bus as it came towards us, but I wasn’t paying it any heed. The first inkling I had that something was not as it should be was when I heard Brian swear and say something like …
‘How much of the road does that guy want anyway?’
………. more of ‘The Truck’ to follow ……………..