This week's Independent News & Media Irish regional newspapers' column.
Michael Commane
It really is amazing the wonder that is in front of our eyes. And what’s shocking is how often we miss it, pass it by, ignore it, simply don’t bother about it. It’s so true, we don’t see the nose on our face.
There must be something in the human psyche that sends us off chasing rainbows, always looking out for the extraordinary great things when so often it’s the little things, those seemingly inconsequential moments, events, acts of kindness, that bring joy to our lives.
The river Dodder rises in Glenasmole, meaning Glen of the Thrushes in Irish, flows into the Bohernabreena reservoir, which supplies water to Dublin, and on to Tallaght, Rathfarnham, Milltown, Ballsbridge and into Dublin Bay.
Over the years the relevant county councils have done great work in developing walk/cycle-ways along the river Dodder.
On Saturday, August 18, I cycled from Tallaght to Orwell Bridge.
Most of it along the Dodder in open parkland, away from roads and traffic. The six kilometre cycle brought me through open countryside, nature at its best.
Most of it along the Dodder in open parkland, away from roads and traffic. The six kilometre cycle brought me through open countryside, nature at its best.
Along the cycle-way there are barriers or stiles, in place to keep cars and motorbikes away from the track.
It means the cyclist has to dismount and negotiate through the barrier, opening and closing it so as to negotiate the bicycle through. They are clever mechanisms, that is, when they work.
Going through one of these barriers I had trouble manoeuvring my bicycle.
Ahead of me were two boys, probably between 15 and 18.
One of them was 100 metres from the barrier when he saw that I was having difficulty at the barrier. I saw him throw his bicycle on the ground and coming towards me to help.
My immediate reaction was to tell him I was okay. My pride had been hurt and felt that I didn’t need his help. But he insisted and explained that that particular barrier was a nuisance. Within seconds he had the bike over the barrier.
My immediate reaction was to tell him I was okay. My pride had been hurt and felt that I didn’t need his help. But he insisted and explained that that particular barrier was a nuisance. Within seconds he had the bike over the barrier.
Of course I thanked him and then quickly asked him how long did he think I was cycling. He replied: ‘forty years’. ‘No’, I said, ‘I’m cycling 64 years’.
At this stage he was back at his bike about to ride off and as he cycled off he shouted: ‘fair fucks’.
Imagine the goodness and kindness of that young man. He was spectacularly obliging. The two of them had been messing about on their bicycles, maybe even doing wheelies, they were enjoying the fine weather in a beautiful setting. And then one of them saw me in my difficulty and came to my ‘rescue’.
I was flabbergasted by his kindness. Having recovered from my immediate silly pride I was greatly taken by his action.
Two days later I was negotiating that same barrier, successfully this time, but of course I was back thinking of the genuine kindness of the young man.
It’s most unlikely that he or his friend will see this column, it will not appear on the news. In many ways it is a non-event and it certainly is not going to set the world on fire. And yet, that small tiny insignificant event was for me something marvellous to experience.
St Therese of Lisieux says that it is not the extraordinary things that matter but the ordinary things that we do extraordinarily well.
My ‘rescue’ along the banks of the Dodder was just that.
Thank you, young man, and remember Aesop’s words, ‘No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted’.
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