McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of Discovery in Ireland by Pete McCarthy

Author:Pete McCarthy [McCarthy, Pete]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: Celtic, Ireland, Humor, Travel
ISBN: 0312311338
Publisher: Thomas Dunne Books
Published: 2000-07-26T12:00:00+00:00

The bicycle shop that is a pub also sells vegetable seeds and items of hardware. I go inside for an inner tube and some cabbage seeds, but I don’t really need them, so I have a pint instead.

I take a seat at the tiny bar, on a stool next to two conspicuously-veined old Kerrymen.

‘How are ye enjoying yer holiday?’ one of them asks me.

‘It’s grand, thanks. I’d say the town’s changed since I was last here though.’

‘Sure, it has.’ He takes a sip of his whiskey. ‘I blame that feckin’ dolphin.’

A hundred yards away is Dick Mack’s, Dingle’s most famous shop/pub—half cobbler’s, half bar. The right-hand wall is lined with alcohol, the left-hand one with repaired shoes awaiting collection. At night, the shoe worker’s wooden counter doubles as extra drinking space. The taste of stout filtered through the smell of leather is a wonderful thing; but I get the feeling that tonight I’m at least five or six pints, or a bottle of wine, behind everyone else in here. There’s a manic energy to the two or three conversations into which I’m hoisted, then discarded. Suddenly a young woman bursts through a door from an adjoining room. From inside, I can hear the sound of the kind of uninhibited drunken revelry I’ve always imagined went on at public executions. She lurches up to me, tries to focus, and says, ‘Jeezus Christ, first-class honours, would ya believe that? I got first-class feckin’ honours.’

Naturally I congratulate her, because it’s always heartwarming to see young people taking their education seriously. It seems polite to ask her what her career plans are.

‘So, what are you planning to do now?’

‘Have ten more triple vodkas,’ she says, lurching violently against a shelf and dislodging a pair of Hush Puppies.

On the street outside, gold stars with names on them are set in the pavement, honouring famous drinkers who have visited the pub. Robert Mitchum, Julia Roberts, Hothouse Flowers and Charles Haughey are all there. Pol Pot, Ian Paisley and Lee Harvey Oswald are expected any day now.

All that Celtic food has made me sleepy, and an early night beckons. I’m almost back at De Valera’s when I see a sign: MacCARTAI’s BAR. I drop all plans for bed, apply the rule, and enter.

It’s clear that nothing’s been changed for years. The ceiling is that nicotine colour that used to be cream. The floor is bare. There are old photos on the wall, not for that fashionable, old-world effect, but because no one’s ever taken them down. On the downside, there are no other customers, and the TV and stereo are on simultaneously. No matter. This pub has my name on it, and I will stay for a drink and wait for something to happen.

The woman behind the bar doesn’t give me a glance, let alone a word, as she serves me. She seems grumpy, but I expect she’s just shy. She’s sure to loosen up when she finds out we may be related. It’s difficult to strike

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