Pat Foudy and Daughter

In County Clare in Ireland, our left front tire hit the pile of rocks that passed for an incredibly high curb on an incredibly narrow road. Pretty soon we were pulling over with a flat. What happened next was nothing short of otherworldly. 
A truck pulled up behind us. The man who got out told us he’d seen us driving on a flat and followed us.

Within minutes, with hardly any more words at all, he was taking off the old tire, putting on the spare, leading us into Ennis town, pulling over every now and then to make sure we hadn’t lost him. 

Pat Foudy and Daughter. That was his tire shop. “Ah, she makes me do all the work,” he said. 

He charged us modestly for the work, wished us well and sent us on our way. He waved away our babbling gratitude. “Happens all the time,” he said. “It’s our Irish roads.” We drove off, dazed, but warmed by Irish kindness. 

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