One for the Road: While I gently weep

I first laid eyes on her in a dusty, crowded room down a noisy side-street in the Imperial City of Hue, Vietnam. There were hundreds of others like her, but, with her olive skin, long neck, hour glass body, gentle voice and six silver ears, I knew she was the one.

Let us start with a confession: When I initially entered, I did not notice her at first.

Her humble beauty was half-hidden beneath a cheap plastic coat caked in a film of urban filth. Her smooth shoulder and angular head rested against the cold concrete wall.

Like I said, the place was packed with all sorts, many of whom were exhibitionists of the most gaudy and shameless sort. I am ashamed to say that the preternaturally waxed and polished bodies of some of these posers initially kept me from seeing the subtle, unaffected allure of the one with whom destiny had ordained I would depart.

(This is where I am forced to abandon the metaphor in order to avoid things getting uncomfortably creepy.)

“How much for this one?” I asked the no-nonsense proprietor of the guitar shop.

“Five million Vietnamese Dong,” she replied.

“What’s the best you can do?” I countered.

“The price is the price!” she shrieked. “Five million Vietnamese Dong!”

(FYI: Five million VND is about £140.)

Over the next ten minutes, about four or five iterations of this same sequence of events played out.

Eventually, exasperated, I asked her to take me to the bargain rail. Which is where I found my love leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

“Can I have a look at this one?” I asked.

Your woman nodded. I gave it a strum: CRAAAAANG! The cacophonous din told me it had not been tuned in a long time – if ever.

I got it tuned up and gave it another stroke: ANGELS REJOICING IN MELODIOUS SONG.

“Not bad,” I said, playing it cool. “How much?”

“One million Vietnamese Dong,” she barked.

Less than £30, I thought – and into her palm went the money and over my back went an unbranded guitar (with an inexplicable extra fret about two centimetres below the nut, but whatever) in a fake Yahama case.

It was the start of a six-week whirlwind romance.

After a few days, I had regrown my callouses.

In a hotel in Hanoi, I sang Christy Moore’s ‘Bright Blue Rose’, Warren Zevon’s ‘Keep Me In Your Heart’, Neil Young’s ‘The Needle And The Damage Done’ and The Arctic Monkeys’ ‘Mardy Bum’. All out of key, of course.

Flying from Vietnam to Cambodia, I managed to sneak the guitar past the airport authorities. After pulling off this daring six-string smuggling operation, there was no stopping us.

On a balcony in Siem Reap I drank cans of stout and mumbled ‘Streams of Whiskey’ and ‘A Rainy Night in Soho’.

In the same place, I spent four days trying to learn all ten verses of Bob Dylan’s epic ‘Desolation Row’. Given my determination to remain faithful to the nasally vocals on the original, this, naturally, was Niamh’s least favourite chapter of our travels.

At the foot of the bed in Battambang I tuned to DADGAD and played ‘Red Is The Rose’, ‘Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore’ and ‘No Gods And Precious Few Heroes’.

One night, half-drunk, I did a rendition of ‘Spancill Hill’ so lovely that I almost brought a tear to my own eye.

It was fantastic, almost healing; like being reunited with an old friend that you didn’t realise just how dearly you’d missed.

Then, the other day, getting ready to catch a flight from Bangkok to Jakarta, Indonesia, we had to go our separate ways.

With ten minutes until the taxi arrived, I took to the streets to try to hawk my companion.

Almost right away, I found a potential buyer.

“How much?” he asked.

“1,000 Thai Bahts,” I replied.

“500,” he said, giving the guitar a strum. “Taxi man. No money.”

“Okay. 900.”

“No brand,” he observed shrewdly, as his left hand shifted between cowboy chords.

“800.”

“Where you from?” he asked.

“Ireland,” I replied.

“Robbie Keane,” he said.

“700,” I replied, having to hand it to him.

“Roy Keane,” he capitalised.

“600, and don’t say Damien Duff,” I conceded, trying not to look desperate.

But, cold as ice, he just shook his head and kept strumming away.

At this point, Niamh let a roar out of her. “That’s our taxi there now!”

“Aright,” I turned to your man, “500 it is.”

He smiled broadly and told me to follow him to his car, where he pulled out a big fat envelope and counted out five crisp notes.

We shook hands and consecrated the deal. But as I turned to walk away, I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“Pick?” he said, miming a strumming motion with his right hand.

I shook my head.

Looking plaintively at me, then at the guitar, he held out his hand and said, “400?”

Well, I nearly took the guitar back off him and beat him around Bangkok with it.

Anyway, I’m now on the hunt for a replacement. If anyone knows where to buy a cheap second-hand guitar on any of Indonesia’s 17,000 islands, let me know.