The Prince of Meander
The road is long and winding from my humble abode to the Pig ‘n Whistle, my favourite haunt in the village. I set out on the journey by foot, the goodwife having disallowed my taking the cuddy. I lost her once and the trust the nag put in me was forever altered, although the donkey forgave me.
I minded not the walk. The country road I rambled boasted two crossroads and thus two public houses which would take my coin. The sun had barely dipped beyond its meridian when I buttoned my breeches and put on my coat, the threadbare elbows my credentials. Atop a table-board, they’d counted the hours put into gleaning wisdom from like-minded luminaries and a pig of ale. I prided myself on a natural inclination to scholarship.
Strolling the yard, I saluted an affectionate adieu to the goodwife and her hens. She returned a pecking glare. “Meandering fool,” she muttered. “Prince of meander!”
“Life is but a meander, goodwife!”
“What do you know of life?” she sneered, scattering her chicken feed. “Life is not measured by pleasure!”
Her homily arrested me. I had always thought it was. “Pray then, how?”
“By industry!” She huffed and tossed seed. Guardedly, she peeked at me. “By love.”
Unable to refute my idleness, I replied, “I love you, dearest.”
“Devil take you!” she shrieked, then turned her back and chased after the fowl.
Better she wring their necks than mine. I went on my way, saddened by the encumbrance life placed upon the laughter-loving nymph I had wed. My resolve was increased. More determined than ever was I to adhere to my merry glass.
Taxed by the first leg of my journey, I arrived to the Bull’s Head and entered the place where friendship reigns. Jovial boys welcomed me to their table. Following a bumper, I remarked, “The goodwife tells me life is measured by industry.”
Soberly they nodded. The commentary began. “There is great honour in industry.”
“Only by industry can wealth be accumulated.”
“Riches made.”
“Bah! Riches are a snare.”
“The rich man is forever vexed by strife and worry.”
“Once you have it, you are beholden, must keep it, guard it.”
“The greater one’s wealth, the greater one’s cares.”
“A life lived in grimace! I do not envy the rich man. He has no more life than the poorest.”
“Being content with less, that is true wealth. Life is not to be bought.”
“Nor health. Indeed, as bags increase, health decays.”
“And to what end, a hundred years hence?”
“Look into the grave of king or slave, you will find the same dust.”
“Dust without distinction.”
I peered into my tankard, the grave of my cares. I sipped the elixir and sighed, content in the knowledge that watering-hole wisdom outweighed all temporal wealth.
I bade my friends farewell and walked a country mile to the Kilt and Clover. The proprietors, two brawny Gaels named Angus MacDonald and Ailill O’Hannagain, were confirmed bachelors. Angus had departed Scotland and Ailill had departed Ireland and they found one another in Shropshire, then opened a pub.
I sat at table with jocular souls. Angus and Ailill brought us a flask. “The goodwife tells me life is measured by love,” I mentioned to our servers.
Angus and Ailill half-smiled at one another. Ailill replied, “An’ so conventional wisdom informs. Only wi’ love can the true meaning o’ life be kent.”
“Aye,” Angus confirmed, “anither heart beatin’ in rhythm wi’ your’n.”
The table commentary began. “Bah! Love is to be scorned.”
“The female sex is true to no man. Their delights fickle, their tempers worse.”
“Hens that peck.”
“Say one thing, mean another.”
“Infernal incomprehensible creatures!”
“A pox on that nonsense!”
Angus and Ailill half-smiled at one another. Angus proposed a toast. “A’weel, then, lads, here’s a health to honest men!”
We drank to the reasonable sex.
I took my leave, secure in the knowledge that neither an increase in gold nor hen-peckery could bestow any greater value upon my mortal state.
I marched to the Pig ‘n Whistle. The hearth was inviting. A wing chair made a berth for me and my tumbler. A wolfhound basking in the fireside warmth lay curled at my feet. I raised my glass to him. “To wisdom and wine,” I said. “The greatest virtues.”
The placid canine peered up at me. “You do not worry about the measure of life, do you, boy?” I queried of him. “You scorn all care. Is it possible you understand best, sport today, ours is not tomorrow? Live whilst you may, eh boy? Aye, aye, you understand. We hasten to our decline. The ride on this meteor is brief. The measure of life is in the living.”
I sighed with a deep satisfaction. Never would I be a prince, but Prince of Meander suited my peregrinations. An aimless wanderer, forsooth, but a contended one.
