A Day At Knock Airport

I had to catch a plane for a one -day stopover at the weekend. I had many air miles behind me in my life and considered myself a seasoned traveler, having landed and taken off at most major airports in the world from Shannon airport to Sydney Australia and what was in between, and where mean was normal, but none quite measured up or down to a day at Knock airport in County Mayo.  

This was an airport built on a bog on the top of a small mountain. Alright, maybe it is a hill. But anyway, this was Ireland as it used to be as I remembered it with rose tinted glasses, greeted by women here of the comely kind who doubled at the reception desk, the information kiosk, and I’d swear one of them did the bathrooms as well. A stressed and hopeful passenger became relaxed again because she was told to be at reception, as a heavy iron safe lay half open behind her with paper money spilling out onto the floor. No one seemed to notice but me. Another mature receptionist grappled with a pencil on a mangled invoice for it seemed she had long viewed computers with great suspicion. I don’t blame her. Dinner was served a-la-carte just like your mother made it, though a lot more expensive than free.  Over priced covered everything for sale and if you were of the mean kind, whether you liked it or not, you still had to pay the €10 development charge before you got through the security gates or on a plane.

These gates was where friendly ended and a dose of reality began. A sign told you not to take any sharp or dangerous objects on board, pressing home the issue by drawings of same that included a gun in case you missed the point. Still in high spirits after being intoxicated by the Irish welcome that we are famed for, I was met by a security man, who must have wished that he was 20 years old in 1938, after just joining the Nazi party. “Any oils, creams or lotions” he barked at me. I politely answered that I had a very small bottle of eye drops. Sensing prey, he barked again: “ Must be in a clear plastic bag and visible.”  I took it out and lay it on top of my even smaller travelling bag. “There it is” I offered. “Must be in a clear plastic bag” he barked again, buoyed by the 4 strapping Irishmen behind him. It helped that he was English with a Yorkshire accent to stand my ground.

“No, there it is as clear as water.” He ignored me while telling me sarcastically that on the wall was a vending machine offering 2 plastic bags for €1. “ No” I growled at the little man with the syndrome that goes with it, “There it is”  

Listening to all the commotion, a kind and bemused lady behind me offered me a plastic bag to break the stalemate as Yorkshire man started to shrink at yet another Irish rebellion for now the strapping Irishmen on his side of the fence looked at him with unsaid words that could only mean ‘What an asshole…’  

Safe at last on the free zone side of security check I thanked the lady while reminding her that it must have been an Nazi moment for Yorkshire man. Thinking of peace terms she said, “ I suppose rules are rules.”  I answered helpfully that that was said to the Jews just before they entered the gas chamber.

The plane that I was on was called Sky Bee airways. It did exactly what it said on the tin. It looked like a bee and sounded like one too, or an un-serviced lawn mower. But I was free at last, free at last, thank God almighty I was free at last just before it took off when I thought it was going to land again……

Barry Clifford