Many readers will dismiss this story as mere coincidence, but those of you with a touch of Irish may well believe it, as do I.

During the summer of 1962, I was a 20-year-old Able Seaman serving aboard the Royal Navy submarine HM/SM Taciturn in Plymouth, England. On weekend leave, I suffered a severe head injury as a passenger in a shipmate’s car. After 30 stitches and three weeks in hospital, I was sent home on sick leave.

My brother-in-law suggested I claim damages, and took me to a solicitor. I recounted what little I remembered about the accident. When my sick leave expired, I was posted to HMS Dolphin, at the submarine base in Portsmouth; I remained there until declared fit for sea duty, in May 1963.

I had long since forgotten the solicitor, and no longer had any hope of receiving compensation.

I was posted to a spare crew and given several forms to complete so the pay office would know my whereabouts. It was equally important that the post office had my new address if I hoped to receive mail. However, when I arrived at my new billet, it was late. I decided that the forms could wait until the morning. I turned in, and quickly fell asleep.

Suddenly, there was a blinding light shining at my face. Behind it, someone was shouting “You’ve got 10 minutes to get aboard the submarine Totem; she’s about to sail.”

I landed aboard just as they were about to remove the gangway; I was unshaven, unwashed and now underway. The sub was heading out to the Irish Sea; a visit to the city of Cork, Ireland, was planned for the weekend.

I had not yet been paid and was almost broke.

On Saturday morning, we were free to go ashore in Cork. Opposite the gangway was a pub. It didn’t open until noon, but my shipmates and I were quickly ushered inside. After a few pints — and with my funds reduced by half — I returned aboard the Totem.

During lunch, someone suggested we head out of town to Blarney Castle, to kiss the famous stone.

The bus fare depleted my dwindling funds by a further sixpence. At the castle, we climbed a circular stairway to the top of the tower, where an enterprising photographer  — for one shilling — promised to take our photograph kissing the stone.

I surely needed a record of my lips touching this famous stone, but after paying the photographer, I couldn’t afford return bus fare, and had to walk the five miles back to town. I returned aboard Totem, depressed, with my feet aching and my pockets empty.

When I entered the mess, I noticed the mail had arrived. I showed no interest, since I knew there would be none for me; my change of address was sitting in my locker back at the base.

I was stunned when a shipmate asked if I’d got my letter. It had to be a mistake.

On the table was a large, official-looking white envelope with my name clearly printed on it. I tore it open; it contained several typed pages — and a cheque. It was a settlement for my injuries, in the sum of 1,000 pounds. Never in my life had I held such a huge sum in my hands.

How was it possible?

A few hours earlier, I had kissed the Blarney Stone with only small change in my pocket. Now I was rich beyond my wildest dreams. Coincidence, or luck of the Irish?

Visit Frederick (Ben) Rodgers’ blog at irishroversbooks.com.