My manager in the Walsall, West Midlands UK base had been headhunted by a small venture capital funded upstart logging company. Brian was now making overtures to me to jump ship and join him as its UK base manager.
The new Walsall manager was an abrasive type not like easy going, pipe smoking Scottish Brian. Farat was hyper.
Farat called me into his office.
“I have just the job for you, heh?”
“Ireland, Co Cavan, wherever that is. Dublin based operation want to frac an old gas well. Usual stuff for you, cement bond log, perforate the well …”
“You’re Irish, perfect job for you. The explosives will come up from the Irish Army base in Cork. Get the truck over there by the weekend”
My stomach sank. Ireland? I’m a Northern Ireland Press Button B. (Presbyterian) This was the early 1980s. The ‘troubles’ were ongoing.
The last place I wanted to be was just south of the border in Co Cavan.
“The Customs Agent is the publican in the pub in Belcoo. Make sure you temporarily export all our equipment and get it all back when you’re finished” Farat helpfully shouted as I exited his hot office.
I felt chilled.
No engineer refused a job, that is if you wanted to keep your job. Plenty of fresh top graduates were queuing up to work for Big Blue. Adventure and amazing pay…
After hours of driving and an uneventful ferry crossing our little convoy wound our way to Belcoo stopping outside the biggest pub in the village. There are always more than one. I drove my English registered Cortina Huntsman estate and my crew of three Englishmen followed in our gigantic blue International Harvester truck with the logging lab mounted on the back with the three mile long logging cable wound on the big winch drum. We couldn’t have stuck out more if we had arrived with a circus.
Entering the smokey dark interior I could only see three locals propped up at the counter each nursing their glass of stout. Just about to ask for the Customs Agent when ‘your man’ appears from a door behind the bar. Drying cloth over his shoulder.
“Bee Jesus, you must be the fella with the gelignite “
Saying nothing I offered my equipment documents over the counter.
“Everything’s just outside if you want to check”
“Wouldn’t know what I was looking at. Must be a lot of oil or gas to bring you fellas all the way over from England?”
He studied the papers carefully for all of 10 seconds while the three drinkers gave me a good look over.
“Don’t know yet, but if it’s there we’ll get it out for you” I offered.
Stamp. stamp. stamp. The papers came over the counter.
“Thanks, better get going and find the rig, its been a long day”
“Ah yea cannot miss it. It’s beside the slaughterhouse on the old Belcoo road. Two miles at most, it’s a portakabin, mind.”
The road was just wide enough to take the truck, the rear wheels over grass in the tight turns. Soon the skeleton outline of the rig derrick could be seen in the distance. Pulling into the roughly gravelled site, an old portakabin among weeds in one corner. I was reassured by a new mobile home, lights ablaze in the evening gloom. The drilling office.
Stretching and relaxing for the first time that day I strolled over to introduce myself.
The Company man and driller, it was a small operation, gave me a firm handshake.
“Glad you made it. This is Sean, Garda Scheacona, your protection.”
Plain clothes Sean stood up from his cup of tea still cradling his snub nosed Uzi machine-gun.
“Nice to meet you, Sir. The ‘boys’ know you’re here and they would like to get their hands on what you’ve got.”
“Christ”
We three sat down to mugs of hot tea as the night closed around us. I’d never seen a gun so closeup before. It never left Sean’s embrace.
My crew were already laughing with the drilling crew in their hut. No doubt impressing them with their American truck and English accents.
I needed to telephone Farat to report that we had arrived on site. The driller directed me to the only telephone – in the portakabin slaughterhouse.
“It’s always open”
The blood and sawdust encrusted Bakelite telephone had a little handle. Winding it got you through to the operator.
“Belcoo 2, reverse charges to etc”
“England you say, that will be quite expensive, you sure now?”
“They will pay, don’t you worry”
“Your accent now, you’re from the North, yes?”
“Yes, but I do need to call England, for work.”
“Right away, right away”
I could only imagine the gossip…
“That’s one of those oil men in Belcoo, there must be oil in Cavan!”
Holding the porridgy earpiece distant from my ear I made contact with the Farat.
“Good to be in Ireland,heh?”
“Yes, of course”
What else could I say?
My calls were kept to a minimum. The portakabin was small and foul, used only for slaughtering sheep surely? Still, cattle could be cudgelled outside and dragged in…
Plans were quickly made for the morning. Directions given to our accommodation, a grand B&B with lovely hosts John and Mary. Sean’s protection only extended to the edge of the drilling site so he disappeared for the night.
My crew included Bruno a large gentleman who could eat more than all the rest of us put together. Don’t ask Bruno if he would like some more. The answer is always yes, yes, yes. I dreaded my embarrassment in the morning if the breakfast was a buffet. How high can Bruno pile eggs, bacon and sausages on a ten inch plate? High.
The morning cleared to reveal this B&B overlooked a large lake and gently rolling hills with the forlorn, abandoned stone cottage that some grandson in America will never return to restore but never sells.
“Sure it’s their little part of Ireland and the old family farm.” John sympathised, perhaps remembering an old emigrant uncle…
Breakfast was full Irish and plentiful for us working men. Bruno getting two extra sausages when Mary noticed how quickly the first two vanished.
The work on site proceeded well with Sean keeping a tight eye on me during the whole operation.
“How much of that do you use?”
“Where did you put the rest?”
“Is that lot locked up?
“God, the ground shook when you set off that last one? How deep down was it?”
I had lots of questions to ask Sean about his Uzi and large facial scar but didn’t dare. I was just glad he was there.
One day as we waited in the truck for the drilling crew to do their thing on the rig a large Mercedes car pulled up. A fine suit strides towards the open door of my lab.
“I’m one of the consortium investing in reworking this well. How much gas have we found?”
“It’s more than my jobs worth to reveal any confidential information, sir.”
“Look son, I’ve driven all the way from feckin Dublin to get here. It’s my money in that hole!”
“Sorry sir, I appreciate you coming all that way but I cannot give out any information”
He turned on his heel and slid down the road in his grand car.
“Could have been anybody, I’m hungry” chipped in Bruno
Information of a gas or oil find in the North Sea or even Co Cavan can send a companies’ share price soaring. Early information could lead to insider trading, illegal!
At the end of the job Sean explained to me that I was to drive the remaining unused explosives back down to Cork in my Cortina. A police escort car would lead me and be swapped on the run by another as we crossed each county border. This blue lights flashing, high speed, nonstop run did not allow me a comfort stop. On reaching the Cork Army barracks having stashed the various items in their correct bunkers I demanded of the accompanying soldier :
“The loo, quick, please”
“I don’t blame you son, driving with that lot on your passenger seat, this way.”
Telephoning Farat that all had been successfully completed he screamed:
“Where are you? We urgently need some of the equipment you have on the truck in Belcoo. A chartered DC3 cargo aircraft will land at Belfast International airport to pick it up. Get there pronto. “
Back to Belcoo in my empty car then retracing our route into the North.
Stamp. Stamp. Stamp
Over to the airport to meet Biggles himself. Handlebar moustache, old military flying suit on an old military type, probably as old as his aircraft.
“Where were you lads? Where’s the gear? I’ve got to get going, you know.”
We loaded up the taildragger with the heavy sondes, twenty foot long electronic down hole instruments. Some of the sondes used radioactive sources now safely locked in their heavy protective shields. Big yellow barrels. Biggles wanted these secured against the bulkhead immediately behind his pilot seat. Weigh distribution, you know. I tried to explain sitting for hours right beside even a protected source was not a very clever idea. A compromise was reached with the ‘yellows’ secured half way down the fuselage.
We watched the graceful DC3 lift its tail and climb into the setting sun, both radials purring at full chat, then turning East towards England.
“There’s a man happy in his work”
“I’m knackered. Let’s get home”
“Dinner time, dinner time” someone said.