Mac Carthy always arrived precisely at the beginning of his lessons, glancing at his left hand, where he had written in black marker the names of the towers and classrooms where he was scheduled to teach that day. It should be mentioned that Mac Carthy loved one woman—quietly and faithfully. Yet, he avoided showing her the magical birthmark on his cheek, invariably covering it with a bandage and explaining it away as cuts, abscesses, or insect bites. This was because it was crucial for him that this woman loved him just as he was, without the birthmark.

However, whenever he accidentally went out into town without “putting on his disguise,” as he called it, the first girl he encountered would throw herself into his arms, sparking a whirlwind romance that lasted up to three days. These passionate affairs would rush through his life like a storm, leaving him utterly broken and destitute, like wreckage after a shipwreck. Mac Carthy never connected these episodes to betrayals of his beloved but regarded them merely as misfortunes. As for the woman he truly loved, she showed no inclination toward him. Eventually, Mac Carthy left her and his hometown of Dublin, deciding to give her the chance to determine what was better: having Mac Carthy nearby or having him as far away as possible.

Teaching Welsh students had its amusing peculiarities. For the first time during his lectures, instead of rows of red-haired Irish heads, he saw rows of surprisingly dark-haired ones—not dark in knowledge but in hair color. Berwyn, son of Eilonwy, disheartened him, but he was in no hurry to draw conclusions. After all, there were always students with little aptitude for the subject.