Portraits of Ireland: Conversations at the Pub

Photo credit: keeshu from morguefile.com

“She was a vision,” he said after he took a swig off the bottle of Bulmer’s Irish Cider. “I just couldn’t believe it. She was wal’n tru the smoke and I had to wipe my eyes. Well, da visor anyways because she just came out from nowhere.” Pat’s eyes were so wide his dirty blonde eyebrows merged into his hairline. His hand made wiper movements in front of his face. "She was in this silk, red nighty and I t'ought I had died. I t'ought it was the devil coming for me." His jaw dropped, eyebrows pushed forward and he shook his head, but continued, “We took her back to da main house. By dis time da back house was completely engulfed.”

“And her mom was waving us over,” Colin, the friend, turned to me with a can of Bud Light in his hand.

Pat’s hand ran down his face and lingered on his chin, mouth agape. His cheekbones rose and his gut fell when he started to bellow in laughter. “Dat’s right. Her mom was waving her arm, yelling at us saying, ‘boys come in and have some dinner. Don’t worry about the back house.’ And she wouldn’t let us go back until we ate.”

“And it was a proper meal. Full roast, veg and mash.” Colin said after he almost chocked on the American beer.

“I know,” Pat sat forward on the chair. His hands rotated wildly in the air with his words. “Eventually I had to tell her, ‘Ma'am. We're da Fire Brigade. We have to put out yer house!’”