The Real Ireland M. D. (Peggy) Roblyer   © Copyright 2024 by M. D. (Peggy) Roblyer

Photo by Kenneth Allen at Wikimedia Commons.

Joining my long-time friend Sherry, we flew into Shannon and rented a small Vauxhall to begin our driving trip. We spent our days together amiably enough, and only upon approaching Galway did we encounter any difference of opinion. Becky and I were dead set on taking the ferry from the port of Rossaveal, east of Galway City, to Inis Mór, the largest of the three Aran Islands. Sherry wanted to tour castles just north of Galway. We compromised on Sherry dropping us off at the ferry that afternoon and going on with the car, agreeing she would pick us up two days later.

The ferry crossing was to be three-quarters of an hour, but a few minutes on Galway Bay, the smiling Irish skies turned dark and angry, and the waves grew tall around us, waving their white tips toward us like Irish lace handkerchiefs bidding us farewell as our ferry tossed this way and that, slowing our progress. Becky grew seasick and repaired to one of the boat’s restrooms. I was also starting to turn a shamrock green, and to counter my queasiness, struck up a chat with an Irish woman who was named, of course, Eileen O’Brien. I asked if she knew of any local céilidhs, traditional social gatherings with dancing, singing, and storytelling.

“Sure, if you go to the pub on the Cottage Road, you might well happen on one tomorrow night,” she offered.

Everyone on the boat seemed relieved when after over an hour on the rollicking water, Inis Mór’s Port of Kilronan came into view. Becky emerged from the restroom still looking a bit wan, and we bade Eileen goodbye and wobbled ashore. We were hailed by a taciturn Barry Fitzgerald look-alike in an old Vauxhall sedan who had been assigned to meet us at the boat and take us to the B&B where we had arranged to stay. It was dark and raining hard by then, but Barry barreled along the narrow road out of town like Irish pixies were after him, and we arrived a few minutes later at a little yellow stone-and-stucco house with a low wall around it and window boxes abloom with flowers.

The B&B, we had learned from our travel book, was run by one Mrs. Flaherty, a middle-aged woman who met us at the door in housedress and apron.

“And how was the crossin’?” she inquired amiably, hands on hips. As Barry brought in our suitcases, we described our wild trip. She laughed heartily. “Ach, that’s nothin’! Last Tuesday it was so bad they all had their rosaries out.”

The next morning as our hostess ushered us to the front door after breakfast, I inquired, “How do we get to your local pub on Cottage Road?”

Her eyes narrowed. “And where did ye hear about that?” she growled as though I had inquired about the local Satanist center. When I told her about Eileen’s recommendation, she rolled her eyes and allowed that Sean O’Leary had a bit of a place that sold spirits and sometimes had a céilidh. And with that, she was back in the house and about her work.

We spent the rest of the day exploring the island, and by early evening it was still light out as we retraced our path on the Cottage Road to the pub. Its wooden front door was like that of any cottage we had seen on the island, and when we went in, it looked even less like a pub than it did from the outside. The room was small with a low ceiling, perhaps the size of a large living room, with undecorated walls and unpainted, wooden floor, half a dozen tables and chairs, and a small, free-standing counter placed inconspicuously in the back to one side. To the right of the entrance, a small area raised a few inches off the floor with a chair in the middle promised to be a stage for individual performances. The room looked more like an informal clubhouse or rural coffee shop than a Satanist center. We foreigners were the only souls there.

We sat down and awaited developments. A short time later, a man and woman entered, speaking animatedly in Irish. They looked over at us, surprise registering on their ruddy faces. Without a word to us, they went quickly to the back and began setting out glasses, wine, beer, and spirits. Locals began to arrive in pairs and small groups, all speaking Irish and quite merry, glancing over at us only long enough to convey their curiosity, then greeting the man and woman who had arrived first. The few tables were quickly occupied and the remaining group either stood around or leaned on the bar. The sound level rose to a low din in the live room, and soon we were surrounded by a strange crowd, looking familiar enough to be rural Americans, yet speaking words we didn’t understand, laughing at stories and jokes that had no meaning for us.

We were so engrossed in the scene that we didn’t notice that a tall, bearded man with a gut so large his accordion did not cover it had entered the room and sat down on the chair in the raised area. He began to play a gay tune and sing, in Irish, of course, and a waitress approached and asked in English if we wanted something to drink. We ordered glasses of wine, and when the server brought them, some of the locals smiled at us approvingly, perhaps sensing that we were there for the same reason as they were: to have a good time. We sipped slowly, listening to the gay music and considering how we would describe all this to Sherry.

Suddenly the room grew quiet as a pretty, young red-haired woman on the opposite side of the room stood. A man also rose beside her and said something in Irish. He held up a large, footed, cut-crystal bowl, turning it toward each side of the room for all to see. Wild, appreciative applause ensued. The room grew quiet again as the girl began to sing a haunting melody à cappella in tremulous soprano. Even though it was in Irish, it had the feel of a sad love song. She finished and sat down to more wild applause. Buoyed by her drink, Becky leaned back in her chair to ask one of the locals behind us what had just happened. We learned the girl had won second place in a Galway singing competition, and a Galway Crystal bowl was her prize. We looked appropriately impressed.

As the sun set and the room grew cozy with low light, others in the room rose one by one where they were and sang, each performance met with much clapping and foot stomping. Our table neighbor explained they were singing various folk songs they all knew well. Singing seemed a very big deal on Inis Mór.

At the same time, something new had begun. A crystal bowl, though not the one the girl won, had been filled with a golden liquid and was being passed around the room to all there. Each person took a swig before passing it on. As we ordered another wine, our server explained that this tradition was called the passing of the cup and was a way to celebrate a momentous event like an Aran local placing in a Galway competition. However, the bar always used an alternate bowl in case there was a slip-up during the sipping. The accordion-player returned and this time, people began to dance. We had hoped for clogging, but this was just the usual swaying waltzes and something that looked like a polka.

“What will we do if they pass that bowl to us?” I whispered to Becky, “Think of all those hearty Irish germs!”

“Well,” Becky whispered, tossing back some of her wine, “I’m not offending these people by refusing it. If whatever they’re drinking comes our way, I’ll take a little sip.”

Both of us were relieved when the bowl bypassed us and was drained by the jovial locals. Becky and I toasted each other and our good luck and drank our wine. But then, here it came again! The bowl had been filled a second time and just when we thought it would go by us once more, someone pushed it toward me close to my face, and I took a small swig of it, followed by Becky.

Our neighbors said something in Irish and laughed. They probably knew we weren’t used to this custom nor the strong brew in their bowl.

“What the hell is it?” I croaked at Becky, my head beginning to buzz.

She smacked her lips, “It must be a mix of brandy and some kind of lemon drink,” she mused. “Not bad, really.”

One of the men at the next table nudged me with a sharp elbow and yelled over the din in the room, “When ya go back to Amuurica, ya can tell ‘em you’ve drunk from the cup!” He gave me a wink and an extremely memorable, nearly toothless grin. Helpless, I grinned back.

The dancing was enthusiastic then, and I realized the bowl was being passed yet once more. This time, there was no hesitation as they thrust it first at Becky, then at me. We both took a big slurp of the sweet, burning liquid and grinned at each other stupidly.

By the time the bowl was emptied the third time, the combination of accordion music, singing, and brandy drew everyone out on the dance floor. My toothless friend grabbed my arm, someone else took Becky’s, and we all lurched out on the floor and joined the throng in an Irish polka, a celebration of singing contests and the passing of the bowl. At the end of the song, Becky and I conferred and agreed it was time to head back to the B&B. “Bathroom firsht!” I said, and she agreed.

We were just finishing up in the WC when we heard the police outside. It was past the 10:30 PM drinking curfew, and they were there to close up the place. We emerged to find the room nearly emptied and bright lit from overhead house lights. We endeavored to look like sober American ladies as we lurched out the door past the officers and swayed down the road, where we fell into bed at Mrs. Flaherty’s.

When Sherry picked us up the next day, trumpeting the histories and interior delights of the castles she had visited, Becky and I exchanged significant looks. We knew we had tasted the real Ireland. We had drunk from the cup.