There would have been more…

Only an aisle seat remained. This was Dublin central bussing, busy at Thursday lunchtime.

The gent in the window seat watched me approach. His gaze was steady, from clear blue eyes surrounded by the wear and tear of eighty-odd years. He shuffled slightly to make space. A navy jacket topped grey checked trousers that his legs didn’t fill. Holding his brown/grey hair in place, a grey/brown beret. He was of fine build, medium height, and looked refined, in a softly aging kind of way. In his lap, two somewhat elegant wrinkled hands rested on a pale blue well-worn fairly flat backpack. I assumed he was heading out shopping.

‘May I sit here?’

‘Of course.’ He spoke in a deep lilting Dublin accent.

As I settled, I asked ‘Have you had a good morning?

‘Oh, yes.’

‘How did you spend it?’ (I can’t help it, being curious. Less-kind folk would suggest nosy, but I prefer curious, being a writer you see).

He replied ‘I walked up a hill.’

‘Do you do that often?’

‘Every third day. It keeps me fit.’

‘So what do you do on the other two days?’

‘I walk up other hills, into the forests.’

‘They’re beautiful around here.’

‘Yes.’

‘So do you sit at all, to admire the view?’

‘I sketch something I see.’

‘What like?’

‘Trees, landscape, maybe a view.’

‘Oh, how lovely.’

‘Then I go home, make the sketch bigger, and paint it…. oh, dear, this is my stop!’

… and with that, he was gone.

Aagh!

So many questions! What does he paint in, oil or water? How long has he been doing this? How did he learn? What happens to the paintings? If only we’d had a few more minutes…