A nod towards Ennistimon

Two years ago today. Two years ago this very moment, in fact, I was sitting in the Cooley House pub in the town of Ennistimon in County Clare. A strange night to be sure, but it went down as probably the most memorable one of my trip.

I didn't do much formal journaling of that last trip, but I did make a point to preserve that particular night in word shortly afterwords:

Ennistimon, Co. Clare.

I was heading up to the town of Doolin, but passed through Ennistimon on my way that Saturday morning. Crossing over the bridge into town, there was a cool river with a small but scenic waterfall. One of the pubs, The Cooley House, had a hand-written sign in the window proclaiming "Saturday - Folk and Ballads", which caught my attention. It looked like a neat town, but it was early still and I definitely wanted to get into Doolin to scope things out there. After a brief lunch (and an encounter with a tour bus full of German students) in Doolin, I decided to head back to Ennistimon, since I had planned on staying in Doolin again the next night anyway.

I got back into town and realized there weren't as many B&B's as I thought I'd seen. One downtown was closed for renovations and another one just outside of town wasn't taking anyone in. There was a hotel downtown though. It was a bit pricy, but as it was about the only option, I checked in.

This should've been my first clue to realizing that unlike a lot of the towns along the central west coast of Ireland, Ennistimon is not particularly used to tourists, at least not at this time of the year.

I took some time and wandered up and down the main street (really about the only street) and took a walk along the waterfall and river which ran right behind the hotel. Later, I grabbed some postcards I'd bought and went to find a comfortable pub to sit in and fill out the postcards.

Cagney's Pub
This place definitely fit the "comfortable" requirement I was looking for. It wasn't fancy by any means. It was a small place on a side street just up the block from downtown. But there were a few people inside and a warm fire going across from the bar. I sat myself at the bar and ordered a Guinness and started writing out postcards, eavesdropping a bit just to take in the atmosphere.

It was clear that everyone else in this place knew each other. There was Norrine, the barkeeper. Her daughter Erika and either her husband or boyfriend. An old man named Michael who flirted with both Norrine and Erika, both of whom replied in kind. A small family came and went and another man who looked like he'd just dragged himself in from the fields (as likely he had) came in with his two young kids, a boy and a girl, who played and wrestled the whole time. I never felt particularly unwelcome here, but I felt a bit like I had invited myself into someone's living room and they were politely tolerating me.

Michael left and was replaced by Jerry, who took the seat next to me. Time, toil and drink all seemed to have taken their piece out of Jerry. He said hello to me and asked me where I was from. When I told him, he went on a small, mumbled rant about Bush and Iraq, but immediately recanted.

"I shouldn'ta brought it up. Yer here on yer holiday to enjoy yerself. Don't need to be thinkin 'bout that". He went on to ask me a bit more about myself, and to tell me of his time as a cook in the Irish Army when he was in Lebanon, and a bunch of other tales of woe and youth that were largely incomprehensible. I finished my pint and started to leave, but he insisted on buying another pint for me, so I stuck around. Jerry left shortly after that (before I had a chance to buy him a round in return, as is the custom) so I finished my drink and left.

The Golden Phoenix
I went in search of dinner. After checking a few more pubs, it became clear that none of the pubs in this town offered "pub grub". My only options for food were the expensive restaurant at the hotel, Franco's Fast Food, or a Chinese takeout place. I opted for Chinese.

The Carrig
I went back to the hotel to rest up for a bit, then headed out to hit the town for the night. The music at The Cooley House wasn't starting until 10:30, so I figured I'd try a few other pubs first. I heard music coming from The Carrig, a pub across from the hotel on the very edge of downtown.

I walked in, and immediately guessed I probably shouldn't have. The music which had sounded so loud on the street was blasting from a jukebox in the corner. About a dozen people were gathered around the bar, but otherwise, the place was empty. Strangely, there were no tables. One or two benches were along one wall and drink shelves lined the other walls. With no open seats at the bar, I ordered a pint then went and stood along the wall, trying my best to be invisible.

After a bit, another old man stumbled over and started talking to me. He was my new best friend, it seemed. Ugh. I never did comprehend his name, though I made out something about his brother, who was called 'Mouse'. He showed me some dirty jokes Mouse had text-messaged to him on his mobile phone. (One, about being busted on possession of 'can-o'-piss', I 'got' about 2 days later, to my delayed amusement.) It was all-around very awkward and bizarre. That was the quickest pint I drank the entire time I was in the country.

The Cooley House
Getting out of there, I headed straight down the street to The Cooley House. I figured I had plenty of time until the music started, but might as well get a good spot. I walked in and the place is completely empty, save for Joan, the barkeeper.

Joan was awesome. She was one of the most friendly and hospitable folks I met in a country loaded with the friendly and hospitable types. Since I was the only one there, we talked for quite a while about my trip, why (of all places, in her opinion) I stopped in Ennistimon, and a bit about the town itself. She asked if I'd been in any of the other pubs in town and when I started telling her about my last stop, her eyes got wide.

"Ye went into 'The Hatchet'? On yer own? Yer a brave man!" She referred to the place as the 'Open-Air Asylum' and said it was good that the folks in there at least had some place to go so they wouldn't be bothering the other, more decent folks in town.

"Did ye meet Jamesy?" she asked, about my time at the Carrig.

"Does Jamesy have a brother named 'Mouse'?", I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Ay." she chuckled. "Do ye still got yer wallet? That's about all I have to say about Jamesy."

I checked quickly and was relieved to find that I did still have my wallet. Probably a good thing I'd gotten into the habit of keeping it in a front pocket while traveling.

The place eventually began to fill up, but we kept talking and joking throughout the night. Joan introduced me to a few other folks and did all she could to really make me feel at home. It was great. As the music started, yet another old man, Jimmy, took up a seat next to me and struck up a conversation with me. Joan came over and commented, "Tonight's yer lucky night, Tristan. First stop 'The Hatchet', second stop, meetin' Jimmy.". She rolled her eyes towards Jimmy and laughed, making gabbing gestures with her hands.

Jimmy was a bit more composed than either Jerry or Jamesy, but had a sadness about him, too. As the music played, he told me of the roots of some of the songs, born of the civil rights movements in the 60s, and the Troubles. Jimmy was from Derry, one of the hotspots of violence in the North, and from his accounts, he'd seen much of it first hand. A bit later, a younger man, probably in his early 40's came in and walked over to Jimmy.

"Did ye see Gerry's speech today, Jimmy? It was brilliant!", he said, referring to Sinn Fein leader Gerry Adams. "The war's not over. We're gonna run this feckin' country again". There was a not-so-subtle chill to his tone.

These guys were, at the least, strong Sinn Fein supporters, if not full-out IRA.

Jimmy tried to introduce me to the other man, who's name I believe was Gavin, but Gavin did not seem too interested. Not surprising in hindsight. A bit later in the evening, though, I recognized a tune the band was doing as "Roddy McCorley", even though they were singing different lyrics. When I told Jimmy I knew this and started singing along the chorus that I knew, Jimmy's eyes just lit up. He tugged at Gavin's sleeve and gestured towards me. "He knows 'Roddy McCorley'!".

It seemed Gavin opened up towards me a bit after that, and throughout the evening, we chatting pleasantly about my trip, and he wished me well and bade me to be careful on the roads. All in all, they were both great guys, to me at least. The details of their history or political involvement outside of that night and that pub, I can only guess at. But at that time and that spot, they were friends.

As the evening wound down, the music started to turn into a bit of an Irish version of karaoke, with several folks going up to join the group on stage. At midnight, I wished Joan a happy Mother's Day (March 6 is their Mother's Day), and also mentioned to her that it was now my birthday as well. It didn't lead to the free drink I hoped it might, but it did somehow find me on stage with my harmonica, joining the group for a round of "Star of the County Down". After 6 hours of drinking, I can't say I played particularly well, but to actually play in a pub in Ireland, on my birthday, was just about the biggest thrill I could imagine at that point.

As they say over there, "the craic was mighty" that night. 'Craic' is an Irish word used to describe the spirit of the surroundings when the music, the talk, the drink and the fun are all flowing in great ways. I have never before been in a place so isolated and completely disconnected from the life and world that I know, and yet so rarely have I felt so completely welcome and at home. It was an awesome, if not adventurous, evening, and I can not possibly imagine a better way or place to have kicked off my thirtieth year on this planet.