When Irish Eyes Are Smiling...........

I'm not sure there is any way I can keep this from developing into a long story, however much I try. So grab a beer and make yourself comfortable.

It must first be clearly understood, that I love Ireland and all things Irish. Though I have no distinct Irish heritage, American mutt that I am, I've held this fascination for as long as I can remember.......and that's a long fucking time.

As I read my morning paper, a small article with the bold tag line, Belfast, Northern Ireland, caught my eye.
The headline read: "Irish Catholics attack British security forces."

The article went on to describe "an otherwise peaceful day" of parades and celebrations.

These festivities commemorate the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne, which took place on July 12, 1690.

It was at this battle, that William of Orange, a dutchman and a protestant who had been asked by parliament to assume the Throne of England, defeated the forces of James II, a catholic, and the last of the line of legal claimants to the British Crown.

Led by members of the Orange Order, a militant, rabidly anti-catholic fraternity named in honor of William, huge parades snake through Catholic neighborhoods as a show of contempt for the defeated Catholic minority. This would be the equivalent of a nazi rally in Skokie............under army protection

The Orangemen wear bowler hats and orange sashes and beat on huge "Lambeg Drums". I have no factual basis on which to base this conjecture, but I suspect the Orange Order was the model and the Grand-daddy of the Ku Klux Klan...........at least in spirit.

That's sort of an opinionated nutshell summation, but it should suffice to set the backdrop for my story.

So..........

Two years ago, I took a trip to Ireland that I had dreamt about and planned for for over 20 years. My natural love for Ireland and for history in general, had prepared me pretty well for my trip, but, in the months prior to departure, I collected and immersed myself in the literature, language, music and history of Ireland...........ancient, modern and in between. I did this not to flaunt my knowledge before or to debate the issues with the Irish folk I would meet, but to be able to ask an intelligent question, to draw out the story teller.............to recognize the symbols and know when to keep my mouth shut.

My travels took me from Limerick to Dingle, to Cork and Dublin, and finally, to Belfast and Ulster. After a tour of the northern sea coast and the Bushmills Distillery, (which is another story) I came into Derry.

Derry is a tense town.........one of the few in Northern Ireland with a Catholic majority. Belfast gets all the press, but Derry is a hard and rebellious town. It is held under Protestant sway by a feat of gerry-mandering that would make american politcians look like pikers by comparison.

I rolled into town by bus. We passed a Protestant school as it was letting out for the afternoon. Soldiers in armored troop carriers mounted with 50 caliber machine guns stood guard around the school. There are no squad cars in Derry, as we know them. The police patrol in small armored cars and their headquarters is a dismal, medieval looking fortress, surrounded by a 20 ft. high stone wall topped with coiled razor wire.

I did my tour of the city, taking pictures and stopping in at the occasional Pub. I was looking for a suitable place to hold forth for the evening.

I wandered into Paedor O'Donnells.........a grungy sort of place situated just outside the city walls on Waterloo street, right on the edge of the Bogside.

Now, as I said, I'd studied my history. As I sipped my Guinness, I looked around to see what sort of place I had stumbled into. I noticed a flag of the Republic of Ireland, an American flag and other mementos and signs of a "rebel" enclave. However, over the bar, hung two giant Lambeg drums, draped with orange sashes, yellowed to a dingy patina by what could have been decades of smoke.

Needless to say, I was confused.

The clientelle was rough looking, (this was not a tourist bar, peeps)and the bartender was gruff and uncommunicative. I drank my beer and left, my head whirling..........whether from the conflicting symbols in the bar or the other half gallon of guinness and the two shots of whiskey I had consumed earlier, I'm not sure.

That night after supper, I went in search of music and company. I gravitated toward the Bogside, as my sympathies lay toward the Catholic side and I thought, as an American, that I would be more comfortable there.

As I passed by Paedor O'Donnell's, I caught the strains of music and recognized the lyrics of a rebel song.........still confused by the prominent display of the symbols of the Orange Order, I said: "What the fuck.", and marched right in.

I had a great time........swilling glass after glass after glass of foamy Guinness Stout and listening to rebel songs I'd heard no where else on the Island. (Only to be outdone in Donegal......but that is yet another story.)

I found myself in the company of a half-dozen young lads in their bare 20's, alternating between singing the lyrics to the songs being played and vying with each other for the honor of regaling me with the rich histories of their lineage and bragging about their blood ties with the O'Neills and the O'Daughertys.........bold resisters of British incursions from the earliest times. When that night of beer and song and whiskey and laughter and stories was over, these lads insisted on surrounding me like a body-guard and escorting me back to my bed and breakfast over a mile and a half away.

I left Derry next morning. I traveled to Donegal and Sligo and Galway (each of which, of course has its own story). At last, my time in Ireland drawing to a close, I made my way back to Adare, a tiny post-card village about 12 miles west of Limerick. I wandered into Bill Chawkes Bar exactly 4 weeks after I had first set sore foot in that establishment.............almost to the hour. (You guessed it, Adare is yet another story.)

Thursday night is Karaoke night at Phil Collins Bar (down the street from Bill Chawkes). Phil Collins is a charming, genial easy-to-talk-to gentleman. I arrived a bit early, and as I was only one of three patrons in the place, we had time to engage in a bit of conversation.

He remembered me from my first visit, (as did almost everyone in town...........Christ, it was like coming home) and he listened to my account of my travels. He interjected a comment or a question here and there (like any good listener would). When I came to Derry, he informed me that his brother-in-law owned a couple of Pubs there. I asked him if he was familiar with Paedor O'Donnells. He said that he was indeed.

I saw this as an opportunity to clear up my mystery.

I proceeded to broach the subject (as tactfully as I could).......I felt at ease with Phil, but I had learned that the politics and loyalties of Ireland can be a touchy and passionate subject with some people and varies widely from town to town and county to county.

I eased into my story and told him my experience with the place. I was obviously in a hard-core rebel bar, but the prominent fixture in the place were those big fucking drums.

Now, Irish humor is not the over the top, obvious, slapstick, three stooges, in your face, Robin Williams humor that we are used to. It's older........ centuries older...... more mature you might say.

It is dry, but not like dust...........more like talcum powder....silky.

It embraces a slightly bent and very subtle irony that engages your wit and makes you think. Humor that leads you to a laughter that is like the orgasms that a long term couple have learned to have together.........slow and growing, deep and lasting....and ultimately completely satisfying.

When Phil had heard my story and I had disclosed the nature of my confusion, he shook his head and chuckled. He smiled and I swear his eyes actually twinkled............in that moment I could have believed in Leprechauns.

He said, in a soft brogue: "Oh that........yeah, well, that's a pretty big joke to those lads."

He didn't go on to tell me the story. He left it to me to imagine. In that instant, I could see in my minds eye a distant 12th of July in Derry's Bogside. The proud protestants are parading by, secure in their arrogant ascendancy, beating their drums. A small group of young Catholic lads, not unlike the boys I'd partied with, exchange glances. They nod at one another. The light of high mischief sets fire to their eyes. Without a word, they move as one man into the parade. They set upon two fat, smug bastard Orangemen, strip them of their sashes and relieve them of their precious, hateful, fuck you drums.

As they retreat into the bar with their prize, a throng of burly,work hardened, pissed off, half-drunk men with nothing left to lose closes ranks behind them and dares the whole damn parade to come take the drums back.

What a night that must have been in Paedor O'Donnells. Drinking and laughing and singing, taking turns marching around with the captured drums, draped in the sashes, their bellies distended in mockery of their oppressors......enjoying to the fullest a small but satisfying victory.

The night over, the trophies are proudly mounted over the bar.

Now, old men wander in, greet each other, sit at the bar and call a pint. They take a deep draught, and in silence they look up at the drums, and look at each other............and smiling, they wink.

I don't know if that is the true story, but it works for me

So if you're ever in Derry, find your way to Waterloo street. Head into Paedor O'Donnells and name your poison. As you sip your drink, look around. Don't be shy or confused.........take it from me. Turn to one of the regulars and ask him:

"Hey, what's with the fucking drums?"

You'll be glad you did.

Thus endeth the entry.............