Thursday, March 15, 2007

Dinner at a Truly Authentic Irish Pub

The Philosopher takes a meal at Sweeney's; and then continues to muse about cars.

One of my deepest fears is that someday, Ireland will become like the rest of the world. I fear that someday, concrete, power lines, high-rises, and retention ponds will move in and corrupt the green island. There are so many parts of the country that literally look like they were torn from myths and legends. As you drive along a frighteningly lonely road somewhere in Connemara National Park, County Galway, you almost expect to see a troop of riders from Rohan coming over a hill, spears and shields glimmering in the sun. There is simply nothing out there to remind you of the year 2007.



My musings were abruptly terminated by a crackling of static coming over my two-way radio. One of my partners announced we would stop for lunch in a little hole-in-the-wall pub that had somehow appeared out of nowhere. We had made our way into a sort of steep hollow, where a bowl-lake was peacefully embedded in a massive string of steep mountains. The pub was nestled in a niche beside the lake, surrounded by a rare grove of trees. The road was so narrow through this hollow it seemed more like a driveway to the pub.

The teensy sign read, “Sweeney’s”. That’s pretty Irish. My convictions were further confirmed by the massive Guinness poster decorating the front door. “Guinness! The Staff of Life!” Another one read, “Guinness is Good for You! Gives You Strength!” Aye, says meself, a different kind of strength.

Three American journalists in their twenties walk in a virulently Irish pub. Sounds like the beginning of the worst joke ever spoken. But it was reality for a second, and boy was it strange. We walked in, and blinked in the darkness. It seemed like this pub had never met a light bulb in its life. The only light was the diffused gray glow coming from outdoors. Thus, it gave a poignant power-outage atmosphere to the place. But it didn’t really matter, because the beverages were nice and chilly.

The man behind the bar, who I assumed was Mr. Sweeney, looked like a cross between a 60-year old Simon Pegg and a Model A Ford. He was your stereotypical Irish chap, minus the tweed cap, which was nevertheless sitting atop the modern cash register. The register was probably the only thing that reminded me I was in a financially-dependent, modern, electronically connected world.

There were two other patrons in the pub, both at the bar, relishing some exceptionally foaming pints, and talking what I think was English. Their diction was masked by the thickest brogue I have ever heard. They would have unceremoniously given Prof. Henry Higgins one honking heart attack. These chaps were dropping H’s like peanuts on the floor of a roadhouse saloon.
Nevertheless, it was quite entertaining; a true opportunity to soak up local color.

We asked the bartender if he served anything good for lunch. He said something about “senwishes”, which we reckoned to mean “sandwiches”, and curtly asked us to take a seat. The two chaps drinking their pints turned 90 degrees for about 5 seconds to stare at us, then went back to their conversation. We didn’t feel completely welcome, but we didn’t feel the least bit shunned.

The lunch was fair fare: a very large sandwich with a strange mystery meat that was surprisingly delicious. To be honest, it didn’t really bother me that I had no idea where this meat came from, or the fact the sound of a barking dog had suddenly stopped after the bartender went to go prepare the victuals.

I love the country of Ireland. It’s everything a country should be: long, winding, empty roads, a grand total of about 3 major intersections, about 100 yards of big motorway, and roughly 2 traffic jams a day. Ireland is essentially the world’s best kept secret, and I desperately pray it stays that way.

I muttered this quick prayer as we exited the pub, after a very satisfying dinner. It had started to rain, and a massive fog bank had swiftly rolled in. It was an unearthly sensation: the swooshing sound of the rain was the only sound we could hear. No birds, no creaking trees, no other cars on the road, nothing. It was terribly cold, and the sunlight was transformed into an eerie, gray luminescence. For some reason, it was claustrophobic, chilling, and desolating. As I walked toward my Mini, I found myself walking faster, desperately wanting to settle myself into the familiar, warm, cozy interior of my car.

That is one of the things I love about cars. They are familiar friends in strange places. Especially when driving in uncharted territory, cars become almost like loyal companion, like a faithful golden retriever that won’t leave your side when you trek across strange, barren lands. They allow you to be comfortable and secure while exploring and observing the inhospitable outdoors. The fabulous Mini just magnifies this effect.



DISCLAIMER: THE NARRATIVE DESCRIBED IS COMPLETELY FICTIONAL. A PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR'S WILD IMAGINATION.

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