return to newbridge college

An evening wind rustling ivy.
A clock tower.
Memories.
Me.
I had been thinking for a long time of seeking my former teacher's help in setting up an Irish language group in the area.
Finally I was getting round to it.
On the quadrangle I approached a wandering Padre at random.
"Excuse me," quoth I. "Does Father O'Reilly still work here? He used to teach me Irish."
The boyish faced Padre gave me a queer look.
"There hasn't been a Father O'Reilly here for thirty years."
It was a poignant moment.
All of a sudden I felt the passing of time.
For the first time in my life, I knew I was old.