Near the Irish village
of Leenaun, in the Connemara region, our hungry stomachs stumbled upon the
Carraig Pub, with its puncy red and white sign. We stepped inside the small and
inviting pub, and were warmly greeted by a man, who I first thought was the owner.
Philip was his name. He wore a white beard and a weathered-look that gave the
appearance of an old salt. I figured he’d spent his entire 80 years living in
this village, next to the sea.
Like a layer of
freshly fallen snow, dandruff flakes covered the collar of his black suit
jacket, which I imagined was the only one he owned. Part of his striped dress
shirt was untucked. Behind him was the barman, a trunk of a man, who I gathered
to be in his late 60s. I pictured him knocking down people on the rugby pitch
in younger years.
In a way that is
comforting, the menu was unpretentious. The kind of meal your grandmother would
make. I ordered a tuna sandwich. My mother and sister, the vegetable soup. Someone,
who I guessed to be the barman’s wife took the order slip and walked back to
what looked like the family’s living area. An Irish or English soap opera—I
wasn’t sure—played distractingly on a TV in the corner.
After Philip took a
few sips of what I could only imagine was a noon-time nip of Irish whiskey, he
came back over, and we started up a conversation.
I was wrong about him
spending his entire life in the village. With little prospect for work, he, like
so many millions of other Irish before him, left Ireland on a ship and went to
New York in 1962. He worked hard for 40 years in America for a good pension, as
he put it, and then followed his heart back to Ireland. “You never know when it
will end,” he said, looking skyward. It was a bit of poetry. He wished for the
beginning and end of his life story to play out right here in this small
village, where pleasures are simple and friends gather round and swap old
tales.
If you ever find
yourself in Leenaun, stop in at the Carraig, and say, hello to Philip.
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