We live in a house on the main road between Sligo and Grange. Most of the time we pay little attention to what's happening on the road, apart from the occasional prang or a late night joyrider making an exhibition of himself.
It was only when the Village of Grange, two miles North of our house, announced they were doing their own St. Patrick's Day Parade many years ago that we realised the advantage of living in this particular spot.
This is how it worked: The Parade in Sligo Town started at Twelve, ended around one. The Parade in Grange began at two sharp. As a result most of the floats from Sligo who also appeared in the Grange Parade had approximately one hour to pack up, get out of the traffic, arrive in Grange and set up again. Back in the day the whole operation would drive like hell out the N15, often held up by John Farrell on his Horse and Trap who, being first to finish the Sligo Parade would break into a gallop out the N15 in order to arrive on time, followed by Shiny Classic Cars, the drivers' green afro wigs blowing in the breeze, articulated lorries with men dressed as overweight women grimly hanging on to the endboard because there wasn't time to dismantle , Shiny Tractors driving at full throttle, Papier Maché Giraffes , Glittery Shamrocks, adverts for MIKE'S HOOF CARE ripping off the sides and permits flying off windscreens.
Near our house was a straight bit of road and by extension one of the few opportunities for vehicles of all kinds to get up a head of steam and happily for us lazy gits this resulted in a brilliant, condensed version of the St. Patrick's Day Parade thundering past our kitchen window at sixty miles an hour.
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