The Real Ireland




M. D. (Peggy) Roblyer

 
© Copyright 2024 by M. D. (Peggy) Roblyer



 Photo by Kenneth Allen at Wikimedia Commons.
Photo by Kenneth Allen at Wikimedia Commons.

When my sister, Becky, and I planned our visit to Ireland in 1986, we always had our hearts set on going to the Aran Islands. The travel books said Aran was the “real Ireland,” a land of such evocative beauty that authors and poets gravitated there to live and work. It was also a place of paradoxes with both some of Europe’s earliest-explored and least-populated sites. Though we were disappointed to learn that The Quiet Man was not filmed on Aran, but rather on the mainland near Galway, we remained determined.

We joined my high school friend Sherry and flew into Shannon to begin our driving trip, heading first cross-country to Dublin, where I had a conference to attend—ostensibly the purpose of my trip. After my obligatory stop there, we agreed we would see as much of the country as our remaining time allowed. We ventured down the east coast, stopping first at Waterford to view the famed glass products, and then at assorted small inland towns of southern Ireland. We had no set itinerary. We just pulled over to sights and stayed at villages that seemed to afford the greatest Irish ambiance and the most economical bed and breakfasts.

We spent our days together amiably enough, though Becky and Sherry never had much use for each other, a feeling that would blossom into full-blown hostility later in life. But on this trip, we all chattered happily and managed to avoid topics that would set off one or the other. We had one brief but thrilling brush with catastrophe on our way out to some cliffs at Dingle, a site that Sherry had heard of on one of Ireland’s west-coast peninsulas. When we took a rest stop about halfway out on the peninsula, a friendly local café owner warned us that if we weren’t spending the night out there, we should hustle back before 4:00 PM to avoid the daily fog that made the road impassable at low-lying points and had trapped more than one unlucky tourist, some of whom had to be rescued by horse-drawn cart. We realized we had to abandon our Dingle objective and drove like mad to avoid a foggy fate, the mists closing in behind us as we drove like determined doom.

After that, we were running low on time and accelerated our wandering path, swinging north toward Shannon. Only when we got to Galway did we encounter any real problem, a difference of opinion on itinerary. 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 instead to tour several castles just north of Galway. We compromised on Sherry dropping us off at the ferry that afternoon and going on with the car; she was to pick us up two days later.

As we boarded the boat, Becky informed me she was especially keen to see Dun Aengus, a crumbling ruin touted as Europe’s earliest structure. Dating from the Bronze and Iron Ages, its first construction is thought to go back to 1100 BC. I, on the other hand, was hoping we might happen on a céilidh (kay-lee), a traditional social gathering with dancing, singing, and storytelling.

The crossing was to be only about 45 minutes, but after only a few minutes out 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, and our ferry boat tossed this way and that. 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, I struck up a chat with an Irish woman who was, like me, an educator in her late thirties, and who was named, of course, Eileen O’Brien. She lived and worked on Inis Mór, and I asked if she knew of any local céilidhs.

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

When I asked if she dated anyone on the island, she gave a short laugh. “I feel sorry for the deprived young men of Inis Mór, but not sorry enough to go out with any of ‘um.” We spent the rest of the stormy crossing comparing notes on teaching.

Everyone on the boat seemed relieved when Inis Mór’s Port of Kilronan came into view. Becky had 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 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. 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 furniture was well-worn, the sheets thin, and the beds lumpy, but we weren’t awake long enough to complain. We refused sandwiches Mrs. Flaherty offered us and turned in early.

We awoke the next morning to a minor crisis. The pump that supplied fresh water for the entire island had stopped, as it apparently did on occasion, and the engineer to repair it had to travel from Galway. In the meantime, we were asked not to flush toilets or take showers or baths.

After we ate the meagre breakfast Mrs. Flaherty set out for us, we decided the best course of action was to head out on our day’s adventures and hope for a shower later. As Mrs. Flaherty ushered us to the front door, I asked her how to get to the 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, she rolled her eyes and allowed that Sean O’Leary had a bit of a place that sold spirits, and it sometimes had a céilidh. And with that, she was back in the house and about her work.

The B&B and nearly everything else on Inis Mór that we wanted to see could be reached on the Cottage Road. After a five-minute walk in the cool of the morning with only grass, fields, and an occasional concrete-block structure to see on either side of the road, we passed a small white house set back off the way, a little parking lot in front and a small Jameson’s whiskey sign the only indications it was the pub Eileen had mentioned. A few minutes more and we arrived at Eileen’s school for a tour and an exchange of names and addresses. I still keep in touch with her, even more easily after she moved to Boston a few years after we met.

From Eileen’s school, it was across the island to the ruins of Dun Aengus. Anyone standing in the fort at the top of the hill might gaze down on cliffs and the Atlantic Ocean below them. The stronghold had been further fortified by three lines of stone walls at intervals up the steep incline before meeting at last the chevaux-de-frise, a dense band of jagged, upright stones, surrounding the fort from cliff to cliff.

Becky hiked the hill alone all the way to the fort, though her fear of heights prevented her from standing close enough to the edge to look down at the waves roaring and beating against the cliffs. I stayed behind sitting on the crumbling outer wall, listening to the sea speaking in the distance and communing with the stones, trying to picture the first barbaric peoples who stalked this island a thousand or more years before Christ walked in Galilee. These early explorers built this fortress to protect against the fierce Irish elements and equally fierce attackers. I thought of our trip across Galway Bay that presented nothing more worrisome than weather – and centuries of technology developed to help us endure even that – and wondered what made the first Inis Mór pioneers brave what they did to venture over from the mainland. Was it a version of the same curiosity that drew us there? The breezes were cool at Dun Aengus, but the day grew sunny and hot as we explored the rest of the island until we ran out of energy and made our way back to Mrs. Flaherty’s for a nap, though no shower; the pump was still out of action.

In early evening it was still light out and quite warm as we again made our way down 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 a clubhouse or coffee shop than a Satanist center. We foreigners were the only souls there.

We sat down and waited to see how the scene would play out. 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 taking it all in that we didn’t notice 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. As Becky and I were trying to absorb this latest development, a waitress approached our table 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 Irish music and considering how we would describe all this to Sherry.

Suddenly the room grew quiet as a 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. Then 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, we sensed it was a sad love song. She finished and sat down to more wild applause. Buoyed by her drink, Becky leaned back in her chair to inquire of 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 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 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 floor to dance. 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 pub 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 once again at Mrs. Flaherty’s.

It didn’t even disturb our euphoric mood when we missed our morning ferry the next day by visiting too long at Kilronan gift shops, requiring us to stay yet another night at Mrs. Flaherty’s. When we didn’t show up on the ferry as expected, Sherry decided we had missed it and went on to see yet another couple of castles, meeting us at the dock the following morning.

As Sherry described 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.

M. D. (Peggy) Roblyer is a retired Professor of Educational Technology and textbook author who helped usher in the world of educational technology in the 1970s, becoming prominent for shaping this new discipline in the online era. In a career that spanned nearly 40 years, she authored a dozen textbooks, including Integrating Educational Technology into Teaching, which became the best-selling text in the field when published in 1996 and remains so today in its ninth edition. In addition to writing nonfiction essays like “The Real Ireland,” she is currently seeking publication of her coming-of-age manuscript Strong Glass: A Memoir of Escaping the Dark Mirror of Family History.


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