Herald Opinion: Crack on my windscreen more than an annoyance
Hugh Lynn says a crack on his windscreen has become more than an annoyance. Pic: iStock
There’s a great crack across my windscreen now. It began as nothing more than a tiny chip, the size of a two-euro coin, barely noticeable near the top of the glass. I thought little of it at the time just one of those small scars cars pick up over the years.
I did shout at the 172 Kilkenny registered lorry that thundered past, suggesting the driver might have the “cop on” to cover his load. But then again, it might just as easily have been a stone already loose on the road, flicked up by the passing tip truck. Either way, my anger softened when I realised there was no dent in the bodywork, no scratch in the paint. It was just the windscreen.
But like so many things it grew. A faint line stretched, splintered, and deepened, until one day I realised the whole windscreen had been transformed by it.
Driving along the roads around the new N5, I know I’m not alone in this. Anyone who has travelled those routes has felt the same frustrations. Convoys of heavy lorries barrel past at speed, their loads shifting as they hit the tarmac. You end up behind lines of them, watching dust rise and stones spit from their trailers, each impact echoing against the glass. Every driver carries their own story of chips, dents, and cracks collected along the way.
It’s an odd thing how something so small can become something so visible. That chip was once insignificant, and now it demands my attention every time I take the wheel. It reminds me not only of the hazards of the road but also of the way life often works. Discomfort builds slowly, almost unnoticed, until it takes shape in front of us.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ignoring the crack. I’ve tried to get it fixed. I rang a major glass replacement company, but I have to wait ten days for the new windscreen, as the car is a newer model. I only bought it during the summer holidays, a demo from a garage, barely six months old. But its very newness now means a two-week delay for a replacement. My fear, of course, is that the windscreen will end up in my lap as I drive along the Mantua road from Ballinagare towards Elphin, bouncing through potholes, bumping over humps and hollows while construction continues.
Still, I remind myself that roads like this are built for progress, even if their making leaves scars along the way. They are the arteries of connection, the channels for growth. I think back to the old roads we once travelled, twisting, narrow routes that could turn a short journey into an ordeal. The potholes, the bends, the endless detours through villages and crossroads. I remember childhood trips that seemed to stretch forever, the car rattling, tempers fraying, four young boys in the back of a blue Hillman Hunter, every bump magnified by impatience. And yet, those roads too were once improvements on something older. Progress, it seems, is always built on a foundation of dust, inconvenience, and waiting.
The crack has also become a kind of mirror. It reflects how we react to setbacks. At first with anger, maybe a shout at the passing lorry. Then with resignation, as the line grows across the glass. And finally with perspective, when we realise that sometimes all we can do is keep going until the repair arrives. Life is rarely as smooth as we’d like. The road beneath us shifts, jolts, and throws back surprises. The question is whether we allow each small chip to fester into a fault line, or whether we learn to live with the imperfection until change comes.
That crack on my windscreen has become more than an annoyance. It’s a reminder of the slow pace of change and the patience it demands. It reminds me that what feels fragile in the moment can still hold strong long enough to carry us forward. Just as the chip became a crack, frustration can grow — but so too can resilience, if we let it.
And when the day finally comes, and the new glass is fitted, I’ll drive the same roads with a clear view ahead. The crack will be gone, but the lesson will remain: short-term discomfort often leads to long-term gains. The challenge is remembering while we’re still driving through the muck.
