I was on pilgrimage to Rome for the Jubilee Year in 2000 when I met Ian. You see, I was hard up at the time and I wanted to save money so I opted not to pay a single room supplement which meant sharing with a stranger.
At the airport I was eyeing up all the other men on their own and spotted this rangy looking chap in jeans leaning against the wall smoking a roll up ciggie. He’s bald, fiftyish, with a tough outdoor tan. Turns out he was the guy and he was an Irish bricklayer named Ian. I don’t mind, but he’s not too pleased. He says to me on the first night, “So you’re one of those clever ones who writes books are you? Well, why am I in a room with you? I’m just a bricklayer.” He’s smoking another rollie, sitting on the windowsill with the window open so he doesn’t foul the room. I can tell he’s also looking out the window for the nearest bar, so thinking fast I said, “Well, Jesus was a carpenter so I reckon you’re probably closer to him than I am.” He gives me a Clint Eastwood squint and smile so we’re friends.
The thing is, Ian didn’t know about doing the seven basilicas as part of a Roman pilgrimage. I did. So now he’s starting to be grateful that he’s lodging with a book-guy. So we go trotting off together to the Lateran, San Lorenzo, Santa Maria Maggiore etc. Finally we end up at Santa Croce in Gerusalemme and I tell him the story of the Empress Helena and he’s agog and amazed that anybody has so much knowledge and I tell him that if I built a brick wall it would fall down so we’re even.