A few years
back in the depths of the northern winter we rented a bungalow for six weeks in
the smallish country town of Kenmare in Co Kerry, wanting to live like locals
as best you can when you’re not born and raised in Ireland. In winter down
there on the coast the Gulf Stream makes the weather a touch milder, and oddly
enough it’s drier than you’d expect, cold yes, damn cold, some light snow at
times, but plenty of fine days. Just a matter of picking the right clothes for the
day.
But the big
bonus is, there’s no tourists, and the natives have time to stop and chat. And
when you’re there for that long you get into daily routines that help you
develop some passing friendships, in the morning coffee caff, and the supermarket
checkout, where the initial “Good morning” quickly turns to “Where are you
from?” and soon you’re on to the daily discourse on weather, politics,
landscape, movies, grandkids, the world economy, weddings and funerals, and the
price of eggs.
The Irish are
the friendliest people on earth, and in no time at all you become far more than
just a visitor. Especially in these smaller country towns where everybody knows
everybody. And Herself’s West Cork great-grandparents helps no end, each with
names that resound with rebel glory and the hard times of the Catholic Irish.
It’s like having the password.
As part of my
own immersion into things Irish - hey, my online DNA thingo says I’m 3%! - not
that it’s capable of seeing my 50% Irish spirit! - I decided to have a pint
some afternoons, in one of the town’s small bars, y’know, breeze in like a
regular about 3pm with newspaper under arm, and make out I’m reading it while I
absorb the atmosphere. With a pint.
Small Irish
country pubs aren’t like the English equivalent, but do have a bit in common
with those in Aus – always have a few locals at the bar, Sky TV always on
sport, drinks in hand, plenty of chat. But in Cork and Kerry it’s a leg in if
you drink Murphys. Guinness is okay, but down there going for a pint of Murphys
helps make you look more of a local. If you’ve ever been to the top end of
Tasmania and NOT asked for a Boags you’d know what I mean.
Tasmania is
small, not a lot more surface area than your average party sized pizza,
population only about half-a-mill, but they still see themselves as North
Tasmanians or South Tasmanians – well, they did in the mid ‘80s when we took
the kids for a fortnight’s fly/drive holiday around the Apple Isle. During
which we stopped off in Launceston (and I’m sorry England but here it’s
‘Lawn-cess-tun’), up in the top right corner. Girls and youngest lad went
shopping, eldest son and I went for a pint.
Small pub,
three locals propping up the bar, two big locals with no necks playing pool,
and the guy behind the bar. We front and order Cascades, a fine Hobart-brewed
ale we had the day before. In Hobart. Way down south. About fifty kilometers.
Instant
silence.
Pool playing
suspended.
‘Cascade’
hanging in the air.
One of the
no-necks smiles – you know, that smile that says - ‘We’re giving you some
leeway here fellas but I’m not really smiling’.
“We drink BOAGS
up ‘ere...”, he says.
“Ah, yeah,
great – we’ll have two pints of Boags then...”, and they went back to being two
big blokes with no necks playing pool.
Anyway, in
Kenmare it’s called Murphys. And the pub is ‘The Roughty Bar’.
It sounds
ominous but The Roughty Bar is simply named after the local river, and it’s
typically one shop-front wide with one plain door and heavy drapes on the
windows, so from the outside you can’t see inside. Which means the first time
you have to go in cold. With no idea what’s on the other side of the door in
the way of denizens, décor, protocols, or culture.
But it turns
out to be warm and fuggy and the fittings are sort of nineteen-fifties and in
various shades of dark. Like a wonderful time warp where nothing changes
because it shouldn’t. Except for the TV on the wall pumping out Sky Sports and
it’s always horse racing.
This day
there’s two fellas hanging onto the horse that’s running fifth, there’s about
four other locals tall-stool-sitting or standing at the bar talking, two more
off to the side on the brocade upholstered seats behind small round tables, and
the barman. Pints of the black stuff in every hand.
I step in,
momentarily blind from the sudden change in light, and all talks stops as they
check me out. The barman nods with the suggestion of a smile, everyone goes
back to horses/chat/drinks, and I front the bar. I order a pint of Murphys,
leave a fiver on the sop-cloth, take a quiet corner seat under the front
window, sort out the paper, wait respectfully for the glass-filling ritual.
See, I know how it works.
Best part of an
hour in, I’m on my second pint and feeling no pain. Best I can make out
no-one’s backed a winner but they’re still making jokes and stirring each other
up. One of the bloke’s wives comes in and I half expect her to drag her fella
out but they make a space for her and soon she too has a pint.
A big bucolic
type at the bar bumps his glass down, says something to his mates, laughs,
turns to go. When I say big I mean big. I’ve seen smaller apartment blocks.
Hands like mallee roots.
He stops and
towers over me, clearly had more than a few, but he sounds cheery and matey,
launches into conversation in a rich rural Kerry brogue, has a quick laugh in
between comments, I laugh when he laughs, wag my head knowingly, make ‘Geez,
you’re right there mate’ sort of noises, and with a ‘See y’ lairter now’ smile
and nod I give him a ‘Yeah, see y’later mate’ and he’s out the door.
I look across
to the barman, who’s wiping a glass, and I realise he’s been quietly watching,
with a small grin on his face that says – ‘You didn’t understand a single thing
he said, eh?’ Nup, not a bloody word! But a couple of afternoons lated when I
drop in, the barman nods and the locals make a space and it’s like I’ve been
coming there for years. Geez I love this country!
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>