McCarthy's Bar: A Journey of Discovery in Ireland (28 page)

It’s late when I get back to town and I’m worried I won’t find anywhere to eat. I park by the harbour front and go into the nearest pub.

It’s been newly renovated, and shows all the signs of being a deep-fried-in-the-basket job, but at least the kitchen’s still open. Expectations are low, so I’m delighted when a smiling girl brings me an excellent meal of crispy fresh squid. I know the fishing boats are only thirty yards away, but it’s reassuring that places like this are still using them rather than importing big boxes of frozen breadcrumbed goujons of processed Indonesian ratfish. The Nineteenth Rule of Travel, by the way, states:
When Perusing a Menu, Never Consider Anything Containing the Words Goujon, Platter, or Cheesy.

As I take my first forkful, I’m aware that the couple at the next table are staring at me. I’ve just begun to chew when he leans across and starts speaking furtively from the corner of his mouth, like a comedian’s manager.

‘Wassa squid like?’

‘It’s great, thanks.’

‘We ’ad the burger with cheesy chips.’

‘How was it?’

‘It was crap.’

‘Weren’t very nice,’ confirms his girlfriend, shaking her head. Darren and Mandy are about thirty, very English, very friendly, and very out of place. They’re dressed for an over-25s smart-but-casual night at a disco called Memories or Rumours. It’s their first time in Ireland.

‘Me?’Adn’t a clue what to expect. It was her idea. She wanted to see the bleedin’ dolphin.’

‘Yeah, I read about Dingle and the dolphin, and I thought, I’ll go there.’

‘I never even knew you needed foreign money. Bleedin’ palaver that is.’

‘So we’ve hired a car and he’s had me driving round for four days. Eight hundred miles we done. Dublin, Cork, Waterford, Galway, Killarney.’E just won’t stay in one place.’

‘What were them cliffs though?’

‘Cliffs of Moher?’

‘Yeah. They were good. Roads are so bleedin’ slow though. You been ’ere before? Where do you think we should go next?’

‘I wanna stay here a couple of days, see the dolphin, but’e just wants to drive somewhere else all the time.’

‘We can see the bleedin’ dolphin in the morning, then go.’

‘I’d rather get to know a place, but ’e won’t’ave it.’

‘You’ve got to see the sights,’aven’t you? I mean, you’ve paid for the car.’Ey, there’s no trouble round this bit, is there? No mad Paddies with bombs? That’s all up north, ain’t it?’

‘’Onest, he don’t know nothing about the place; ’e didn’t even know they ’ad their own money.’

‘I can’t see the point. I mean, it’s all British really, ain’t it?’

‘’Scuse me a minute.’

Mandy goes off to powder her nose, leaving me alone with Darren. I take a furtive look around, in case any mad Paddies with bombs have been listening and want to rearrange his grasp of history, but there are just tourists, and a musician in the corner setting up a guitar, keyboards and PA. Darren leans across conspiratorially.

‘Fackin’ funny old place, innit? We’re in this pub the other night, in Galway, right—you been there? Yeah, well, we’re right in that main street bit, the pedestrian doodah; any’ow, she goes up to the bar to get a round in. There’s this old bloke sat on a stool, Irish geezer like. Only grabs ’old of her tit. I never saw it, but she comes back over and says, “’Ere, Da, you’ll never guess what, dirty old sod grabbed hold of me boob.”

‘So I’m like, right, he needs a slap and she’s all, no, no, leave it there, we’re on ’oliday, but I’m thinking no way does he do that to me and get away with it. By now he’s gone to the toilet so I follow him in and say, “Oi, you, did you grab my girlfriend’s tit?”

‘And’e says, “I didn’t mean any’arm.”

“Didn’t mean no ’arm, you dirty ol’ bastard?” So I grabs him and bangs him up against the wall—not too ’ard ’cos he’s an old geezer, like—and I’m like, well, you go and apologise to the lady. Yes, sir, he says. Back out in the pub though, he’s only gone straight over to this big ’airy-arsed geezer…Oy, Mand, I’m just telling this bloke—what’s your name?’

‘Paddy.’

‘Just telling Paddy about that fella touching your breast.’

‘Awful it was.’

‘Get the drinks in, would ya, Mand. And a pint for Paddy. So this big bloke comes over, only turns out to be the old git’s son.

‘He’s like, “Did you assault my father?”

‘And I’m saying, “Look, mate, no offence, but he’s a dirty old sod, he’s groped my girlfriend, someone needs to sort ’im out.”

‘And he’s like, “No one touches my father, understand? I don’t care what he’s done. Now, get out, now, on to the street, or you’re a dead man.”

‘Well, I wasn’t looking for a ruck; you know, second day of the holiday, wouldn’t be very nice for Mand, so we just drank up and facked off.’ He downs his pint.

‘Other than that, though, Galway seemed a really friendly place.’

Mandy’s back with the drinks—a pint of lager for Darren, white wine and soda for her, a pint of stout for me. The musician finishes tuning up, sets the drum machine a-clicking, and launches into ‘The Streets of London’. A Swedish couple start taping him. I want to be somewhere else, but there’s no escape now. I’m Darren’s mate. I think he trusts me. At any rate, he senses I know more about the country than he does, and, fair play to him, he’s eager to learn.

‘So what are they all fightin’ about in Belfast, anyway? They’re all fackin’ mad if you ask me.’

I’m faced with the alarming prospect of discussing the Troubles, in a public place, in Ireland, with a loud ignorant Cockney. Mind you, no one has hit him with a chair yet, so I can only presume his voice has been drowned out by the eternal verities of Ralph McTell’s lyrics. So far, so good. I decide to try and divert Darren’s attention by telling him a true story.

Last time I was in England I had to stay a night at a hotel in Kensington, and get up very early to go to work. The alarm went at quarter to seven, and by ten past I was leaving my seventh-floor room, grumpy, sleepy and not yet blessed with the power of speech. I had the lift to myself. It stopped at the fourth floor. The doors opened, and in got the Reverend Ian Paisley, on his own, no security, carrying two suitcases. Nothing in life had prepared me for such a surreal moment, and I found it difficult to cope. Should I smile, speak, or assault him? In fact, I just stood there with my jaw hanging open like a loon, toothpaste caked in the corner of my mouth. To be fair to Paisley, he did nod and give a tight smile in acknowledgement. I couldn’t bring myself to say ‘Good morning’, though, in case he disagreed and shouted ‘No!’ in such a confined space.

So I tell this to Darren, but he and Mand don’t seem that amused. Darren looks thoughtful for a moment, then asks, ‘Paisley? ’E’s that fat kant with the funny teeth, in’t he? Is he IRA then? Or is he with them other nutters?’

The musician is singing ‘Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town’. Darren and Mand are joining in the chorus, and it’s my round. It’s shaping up to be a long night.

A little while later something unexpected happens.

The landlord closes the pub at closing time and makes all the customers go home.

This is the sort of disastrous innovation that comes when tourism reaches critical mass. I’m sure that in back-street pubs the locals will continue drinking as usual until natural wastage takes its toll; but the big, brash, newly painted places—all advertising themselves as ‘traditional’, and so proving they’re not—disgorge their mildly intoxicated multinational clientele on to the pavements bang on the dot.

Mand has agreed to drive Dar back to the hotel because she’s only had six spritzers. I shake his hand and give her a hug, taking care not to grab her breast. Then they get into their car—one of those ugly grey squashed-looking Mercedes mini people-carriers—and drive off.

It’s late morning by the time I’ve had breakfast, packed my bag, paid De Valera and loaded the Tank. I head up the street to buy a newspaper and a fresh bottle of low-fat water for the journey. Outside the post office, John Mills greets me for the first time. That makes it three times he’s done that.

‘Welcome to Dingle, sir. How are ye today? Are ye enjoying your holiday?’

‘I am thank you, yes.’

‘Could you spare the price of a cup of coffee on such a cold morning?’

It’s so mild I’m wearing a T-shirt, but that’s not the point. Coffee? What happened to a few pence for a cup of tea, then? Tea not good enough any more, I suppose? That’s progress for you. One person buys a cafetière or espresso machine, and within weeks an entire way of life has disappeared.

‘Would that be instant or espresso?’

‘What?’

‘The coffee. Would you be wanting instant or espresso?’

He’s smiling now, perhaps enjoying the fact that I’m playing along. He has a half-smoked fag behind one ear. I also notice he smells faintly of last night’s drink, but then he’s probably noticed that about me, so I suppose neither of us is better than we ought to be.

‘Espresso would be grand, sir.’

I give him ₤1.20, enough for a single espresso but not a double, because I wouldn’t want him getting too speedy. If he asks for the price of a double decaff latte and an almond croissant next time I’m here, I’ll know Dingle has finally passed the point of no return, and all it took was one feckin’ dolphin.

There’s an article in the paper querying the value of the exam results that students have been celebrating all over the country this week with ten triple vodkas. ‘The experts tell us the two growth industries in Ireland are Information Technology and Tourism, but how many tourist information kiosks can they hope to build without flooding the market?’ I start up the Tank, and heads turn as the shock waves from the thunderous exhaust echo through the narrow streets.

My last sight in my rear-view mirror as I leave town is of John Mills sloping into Joe Long’s bar to kick-start the day. Isn’t there a scene in
Ryan’s Daughter
where he cons the price of a pint off the Englishman? Nice to see that thirty years down the line he hasn’t lost the plot. Hayley must be proud of him.

Looking at the map, I realise that if I go up through Tralee and Listowel to Tarbert I can cross the River Shannon by car ferry, and so avoid Limerick completely. A couple of hours later I’m sitting on deck in the sunshine, marvelling at the Shannon’s broad expanse, and at the forthright Dutch lesbian couple locked in an embrace against the lifeboat next to me. The ferry lands in Killimer in County Clare and I head out across deserted country lanes in the general direction of Ennis, where I can pick Up the road to Galway. I should make it by early evening.

Unless I get lost, which I do almost immediately. Irish road signs are idiosyncratic in the extreme. Major routes have great big signs, with place names and distances, frequently accurate, in the popular style favoured by many other countries. The hinterland, though, is a masterpiece of disinformation. A sign is used to lure you towards a place that you’ll never see mentioned again, unless it’s marked in two separate directions at once on a post that’s fallen down at a five-way crossroads. Within half an hour I’m so hopelessly lost I’m afraid I’ll round the next corner and bump into the Michael Collins Geordie again.

So when the tyre bursts, I haven’t a clue where I am. I pull over and gaze gloomily at the flat rear nearside and the gleaming nail that’s embedded in it. What the hell are people doing messing about with nails out here anyway? We’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing to nail.

I haven’t changed a wheel for about fifteen years, but there’s no one else to do it, so I haven’t much choice. It takes less than half an hour to decipher how the scissor-jack works, and soon the immense weight of the Tank’s rear end is rising slowly into the air. I’m so engrossed in the simple manly pleasure of it all that at first I don’t notice the cows that have come across to see what’s going on. One of them sniffs, and I turn and catch sight of them leering over the wall just a foot or two away from me. I lurch back in terror and nearly knock the Tank off the jack. Christ, cows are horrible up close, aren’t they? With those misty, mad, glued-up eyes, and their vile dribbly lips drooling mucus the consistency of batter. And it’s very unsettling having them watching you work. My concentration’s all shot. A postman got killed by cows in England this year, and a woman out walking her dog. Apparently there are ten or twelve cow-related deaths every year. What if they vault over the wall and crush me? It would only take one of the bastards to flatten me like a veal escalope.