“Right ye are," answers the barman winking at me. “Have a seat and sure I’ll drop them down to ye.”
I walk after Ridlee, then pause and turn back to him. “Excuse me for asking, but you wouldn’t happen to know a Padraig Flanagan would ye?” He isn’t from Doolin, but I figure it can’t hurt to ask.
“I knew a Padraig Flanagan of Lisdoonvarna. Might that be him?”
“Could be. Do you know where he lives? Or even, if he lives?”
The barman looks at me trying to get the measure of me. I feel my heart-rate begin to quicken. Maybe he’s already dead and had no family…
He raises his hand to his chin and rubs thoughtfully. “I went to school with a Padraig Flanagan. Nice fella. Dead now, though. Some young lass broke his heart when he was only a young fella. Don’t think he ever got over it. I’m almost sure he never married.” He looks at me closely. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of more help.”
“Oh no, not at all. You’ve been very helpful.”
I can’t help grinning as I sidle over to Ridlee who is sitting at a low table by the fireplace. It’s September but there’s a turf fire going and we’re glad of the heat it gives off.
“Things are lookin’ up, Rid.” I tell her what I’ve just learned. “We might be on a flight back to Boston in a day or two if we play our cards right.” I’m finding it hard to contain my excitement.
“Cool,” she says in response, looking round the place.
It takes an age but our pints eventually arrive. The old man hovers at the table as I take a long swallow.
“Wow!” I exclaim. Even Ridlee seems to like hers.
He smiles. “You’re an American, so here’s one for ye…” He’s looking at Ridlee. “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?”
Ridlee raises both her eyebrows and looks to me for help. I take another mouthful of creamy Guinness as I shrug.
“Ummm, I don’t know. How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” she answers gamely.
The old man beams. “Practice!”
We all have a good chuckle and the barman shuffles off to read his paper. The pints of Guinness are going down very nicely. Even Ridlee is drinking hers at a reasonable pace.
We’re almost finished when Ridlee leans into me and whispers, “Great, now we’re stuck here all night. We can’t exactly leave; he doesn’t have any other customers.”
“Don’t be silly, Ridlee. We’re on a pub crawl. He understands that.” I look over at the barman who’s looking up at us again, and raise my glass in salute. He has exceptional hearing.
“A pub what?”Ridlee is yet again perplexed.
“Crawl.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like bar-hopping on your planet.”
“Figures.” She shakes her head slowly, chuckling to herself.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her expression and tone make my temper flare just a bit; I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because she’s sounding as though she feels superior.
“Well, you must admit; it’s kind of telling that in your culture people crawl from bar to bar, whereas in mine, we hop.”
“You had better not be spouting that drunken Irish stereotype bullshit, Ridlee. That’s too lazy, even for you.” I can feel my colour rising. Why do I give a shit? I couldn’t wait to leave Ireland and never look back.
“Okay, okay, I see I’ve hit a nerve. I didn’t mean to offend the Old Country. It was just an observation. Come on, drink up. Let’s crawl on over to the next pub.”
I do my best to shrug off the offended feelings as we drain our pints in one. Standing to leave and headed for the door, we yell “Thank you!” in chorus.
Linking her arm through mine once we’re outside, Ridlee leans in and tries to tickle me. I refuse to laugh, milking my hurt cultural pride for all it’s worth. Thing is, her remark did kind of annoy me. Sometimes I get tired of the Irish jokes that people expect me to enjoy so much. Ireland’s full of drunks and leprechauns and not much else, apparently. Of course the irony that I make my living out of those stereotypes is not lost on me and only makes me crankier.
Ridlee drops onto all fours.
“What the hell are you doing, Rid?”
“I’m crawling to the next bar.” She looks up at me with cute puppy dog eyes.
“Get up, ye eejit!” I giggle, reaching down to help her to her feet before she muddies her five hundred dollar jeans. I feel better now that she’s debased herself in order to make me laugh.
There are more people milling around as we come into the town. I stop a young fella of about fourteen or fifteen and ask him where McMahon’s Pub is. I’ve heard that they have great traditional Irish music there.
He points down the road. “Do ye see the post office there?”
“Yeah.” I nod in the direction of the post office.
“Well, ignore that. Don’t mind that. Just keep walkin’ till you come to a small thatch building. That’s McMahons. Are ye joining the session?” He looks round me for any sign of an instrument.
“Eh, probably not. Just gonna’ listen, I think,” I say, half apologetically.
“Grand, so. Well have a great night.” And with that he tips his hat and keeps going.
“Jesus, it’s like going back in time.” Ridlee stares after the guy.
“Come on.” I take her arm and jauntily head in the direction of McMahons.
Each time we pass someone, Ridlee tips an imaginary hat and says ‘top of the mornin’ to ye’, even though it’s clearly the evening. The Guinness has gone to her head.
McMahons is teeming with people, and the session is in full swing. Squeezing our way up to the bar, we order a couple of pints of Guinness and some peanuts. One side of the pub is reserved for musicians, while everyone else gathers around clapping and cheering. There’s a guy with a banjo, a woman playing the violin or fiddle — I never can tell the difference — another bloke on guitar, two people with tin-whistles, and even a young girl with a set of uillean pipes. We get lucky and squeeze into two seats just vacated, right beside the musicians.
“Ooh, look! Bagpipes!” cries Ridlee.
“Not bagpipes, uillean pipes!” I yell over the music.
“Oh.” She sips happily on her pint, tapping her foot to the music.
The group is really good; they play well together. It can be potluck at a session. Anyone can join in and often the musicians won’t have played together before. As we’re sitting there, a guy arrives with a traditional drum.
“What’s that?” yells Ridlee.
“It’s a Bodhrán,” I yell back.
“A bow-wow? Is it made of dog hide?” she asks, earnestly.
“Bow-Rawn. It’s an Irish word. You hold the drum upright on your lap and play it with a bone. It’s pretty sexy. Wait, you’ll see.” We watch the guy take out his bodhrán followed by the bone and position it on his lap while he waits for a break in the music.
I am sitting behind him and can only see the muscles in his shoulders and back as he leans over the instrument. He’s brawny, with a strong back, but I can’t see his face. Dark brown hair curls at the top of his shirt. I glug down some more of my Guinness trying to cool the heat that’s building. Whoa there, Erin. Remember you’ve sworn off Irish guys… I remind myself.
The next piece starts, and I can see that he has his ear cocked, waiting for the right time to begin. The fiddle, banjo, and guitar are in full swing when he begins to drum silently on the rim of the drum. The music gets faster and louder and in he comes with more volume. He uses his whole body, leaning in and out as he drums harder and then softer. At one point, I can almost see his face, but he has his eyes closed, lost in the music. His features are strong and angular, and I squirm a little in pleasure. He plays so well that the other musicians make room for a bodhrán solo. He is fantastic.
Mmm, maybe I need to rethink my rule about Irish guys. Maybe, just maybe, I could make an exception. Just this once. If things go the way I expect them to, Ridlee and I will be gone in a couple of days, anyway. What harm could there be in a little fun first?