Cookie, Paddy and Paul

 

Cookie, Paddy and Paul and me, Ireland 2019


As we tottered out the front door of Hegarty’s Pub and Hotel well after midnight to slurp down some fresh Irish air, Sam was like an anchor on my shoulder. For the past eight hours, she had downed round after round, sacrificing her health for mine, surreptitiously swapping her empty glass for my full one so that I could keep singing country music classics to our new Irish relatives. We were both completely pickled and managed only one lap of the park before stumbling into our room above the pub.  Both of us fell asleep instantly, proud that we had lived up to the title of being from Butte, America, even though we weren’t. 

We had pulled into the village of Carrick, in County Donegal, Ireland, in the late afternoon. Like everywhere else we went in Ireland that week, it was a comfortably sixty five degrees and breezy. I have never encountered such consistently pleasant weather anywhere else in the world. Sam firmly decided that it was time to find dinner and a Guinness. 

We sat at the bar and ordered lamb chowder, or something similar. Everything in Ireland is potatoes, carrots, onions and meat in some form, usually soaked in broth or gravy. Foodies aren’t usually big fans, but I love simple hearty meals. As we ate, the evening crowd of locals trickled in. It was apparent that we were in the local’s pub. Premier League football was on one tv, Gaelic football was on another. We downed a couple Guinness and eyeballed the Jameson.

A couple gents eased onto stools beside us, clearly regulars. The bartender had drinks waiting. A few nodded hellos and then all eyes turned to the television. Pretty soon, the Jameson was starting to kick in and volume levels increased. By the start of the second half, Sam and I had become members of a watch party of sport we didn’t understand in the slightest. Soon, we were shaking hands with our neighbors, Cookie, Paddy and Paul. Cookie ordered a round for all the new friends. In his Irish lilt, Paddy asked us where we were from. Montana, we replied. “Ah yes! We know Montana!” They all cried and asked where. 

“Fifty miles west of Butte, in a little town…” That was as far as I got. When they heard Butte, the whole bar erupted. “Aye! These people are from Butte!” Paul cried out. I stuttered, trying to correct them, that we were from near Butte, not actually from Butte. The Irish folk wouldn’t have it. Story time began, as one by one they listed relatives who had left County Donegal for Butte over the years. A few came back, most didn’t. Not that it mattered, the Cookie, Paddy and Paul now considered us family. 

Pretty soon, Sam and I were telling our life stories to our new Irish uncles as round after round of Jameson landed in front of us. I mentioned that I played music and suddenly they were demanding a concert. I pulled out my travel guitar and slid my stool back a few feet from the bar. I launched into Big River by Johnny Cash and the whole pub cheered. When the song was over, another round appeared on the bar. We swapped a few more stories of Butte, then Cookie demanded some Merle Haggard. He stood up and told the whole bar to shut it. Quiet fell instantly. I launched into Big City and the whole crowd of strangers listened like they paid to hear Merle play. At the end of the song, applause erupted again. 

The rest of the night alternated between classic country songs and rounds of Jameson. Everytime Cookie or Paddy or Paul would request a song, the whole pub would respectfully pause their conversation and listen. Then after raucous applause that seemed out of proportion to the skill of a whiskey drunk guy on a low quality travel guitar, the pub patrons would resume their usual games and discussions. The barmaid declared that Sam and I could drink for free since we were from Butte. We didn’t argue. 

Time got hazy. Somewhere along the way, we discovered that all the Irish gents had been watering down their whiskey to keep a steady buzz without getting too hammered. We did not know that was acceptable until it was too late. Eventually, Cookie started involuntarily sliding off his stool and the party came to an end. As Sam and I slid off our barstools and helped each other toward the door, our audience cheered once more for the people from Butte. We gave up trying to correct them; too busy just trying to stay upright. I slowly waved goodbye to our new friends at about the same time Cookie’s face slumped onto the bar. Just another Wednesday night in Ireland.


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