Decent Irish music is played in dubious 'pubs down back alleys...nothing happens until twelve at night and then the musicians come through the back door...half-cut already...carrying battered fiddle cases and stained bodhrans they lurch towards the bar and demand a glass of the black stuff with a chaser...
You sit and wait...feet already tapping in anticipation...
Dressed in dirty blue jeans with unfashionably long hair and straggly beards, the man with the penny whistle begins...there is a hush as he plays plaintive airs and the chap with the bodhran joins in...eyes closed, his fingers move nimbly across the goatskin...drawing out the sad tales of evictions and songs of rebellion...there is a stirring in your soul when the vocalist sings of the old IRA and ambushes...feet begin to tap on the wooden floor and the chorus is sung and then the fiddle player...hastily downing his glass, joins in...such stories they tell as the night wears on of forced emigration and heroes and villains...highway men and soldiers...ancient songs written down by the travelling story tellers, passed down from family to family...remembered now in this little 'pub way up in the mountains...the landlord will bring out plates of thick cut bread and cheese...jars of pickles and slices of home cured ham...he'll draw the curtains against the night and not answer the door should a Guard call by on his way off shift...
Irish theme 'pubs have singers who croon Danny Boy while wearing a jacket covered in sequins...out of tune, they sound like a poor version of an inner city karaoke bar...you can eat a plateful of bacon and cabbage followed by Black Forest Gateau and drink your glass of Guinness and pretend you are in the real Ireland.
Real Ireland is the quiet lanes shrouded in swathes of Queen Anne's Lace...elderly donkeys standing by a gate, waiting patiently for someone to go by with ginger biscuits in their pocket...their big ears twitching and soft mouths dribbling.
It is watching while one man walks slowly back and forth on a small field of hay...tossing it into the air with a pitch fork...stopping a while to gaze at the distant mountains...the heavy scent of gorse...and a ginger cat sitting on a wall in the late afternoon sun...
Small children who wave as you pass by...grinning from ear to ear...holding a wriggling puppy under their arm, they'd sell to you in a flash.
Real Ireland is silent rivers filled with fish for the taking...frantic little Moorhens and stately Swans gliding by...a plop in the water reveals the head of an Otter...cattle stop and stare...
Derelict cottages...broken windows and tumble down barns...fat Blackberries and rusted ploughs...Swallows that swoop over head and the distant plaintive cry of the Curlew...
Real Ireland is hedge banks smothered in tiny Sweet Violets...the hum of bees...families out turning the turf...it's that sweet evocative smell coming from the hearths on an Autumn afternoon...smoke curling up into a darkening sky...the lights in front rooms going on...family gathering for the supper.
The real Ireland isn't about shopping for 'genuine Aran sweaters made in China' or queuing for the Blarney stone...it isn't about hoping your holiday cottage has an internet connection or grumbling because the shops don't open until ten...muttering because the musicians haven't arrived by eleven...it's about taking photographs of the Honeysuckle wound around a Hawthorn hedge...marvelling at the wanton display of early Orchids...talking to that old Priest with his Collie dog...seeing if you are going to be the lucky one who catches a glimpse of the elusive Otter...
It's about lighting a turf fire and getting up early to watch the old Badger stomping carefully down the road...
My husband has always wanted to see the real Ireland,the back streets,the pubs hidden in alley ways ,when we went to Barcelona we wandered into little pubs with sawdust on the floor where eldery gents sat playing cards, they smiled at us,then carried on,we learnt later that it could be dangerous to wander into the back streets, oh my!! Thankfully we were ok. But that's my hubby he has to mix with the locals ,must be the Scottish/Irish in his blood.
I am sitting at my Grandmother's knee again listening to her tales of home when I read your stories. Thank you!
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Thank you Xris...I expect your Granny missed her home
Vashti you transport us to a whole new world. Write a book !!! Xxx
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Anyone else exhorting me to write a book will get a sharp smack...lol
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Oooooo Vashti. Think I might be in for a wallop !!!!! Xx
I have had but a small glimpse of the 'real' Ireland. off the ferry at Wexford and away we went. First night we tried to set up camp, had some sausages on barbed wire cooked over an open fire, which drew the landowner, who pointed us in the direction of the local butchers, who owned a field in the village. He opened the door to our knock with a cleaver covered in blood in hand, very nightmare on elm street! but he was more than happy to let us use his field. Local Club next stop for a pint, ended up locked in and happily singing along with the locals, until they started singing rebel songs and trying to judge our reaction. Needless to say, we had none. Local bobby arrived and the guy sat next to me dived under our table. Local poacher apparently LOL. Next day got a little lost, signs in Southern Ireland are notoriously bad, came across a railway siding with a manned signal box, down he came very slowly and looked at our map. 'Yes, I do believe there is a big road around here somewhere' he offered, then disappeared back to his 'nest'. There was a 'big road' 2 miles away, which he would see all day long, the N11! Coming across a pretty village with an ice cream shop on the banks of a river, we asked the owner if there was anywhere neerby we could get a Guinness, 'Aye, follow me" inside, and past the candy and ice cream, proudly sat 2 Guinness engines, and the best Guinness we had so far. Outside in the sun a ferry arrived and out got 6 or 7 locals all carrying musical instruments, to our joy and delight they proceeded to play for us, what a wonderful day! There were some scary moments but that is not for this story. Love the Irish xx
Yes, we have some lovely memories. Thank you for your post xx
Oh Vashti, so pleased to see your post - and once again you take me to another place 😊. I've never been to Ireland although it appears my paternal grandmother was born there. I never actually met her (family disputes apparently😢) but the tales told of her are VERY interesting 😀😀. Please keep your stories coming. xx
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There...now you have me really intrigued about your Grandmother!
As the song says "I close my eyes, and I drift away....." That's exactly what your stories do for me Vashti. How lovely it all sounds - long greasy hair and all! XX
Oh Vashti! You have me looking forward to my holiday in May more than ever! The big fella and I have a week planned traveling around places we haven't been before, I can't wait! Thank you for not going I see you've just written another post great😀😀😀 huffxxx😁😁😁😁😁
Wonderful. I love the old Irish songs. I felt as if I was there, a sense of de ja vu. When I was a kid I read The Grey Goose of Kilnevin. I wonder if it was a real place.
Thank you Vashti x
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For anyone who isn't Irish, Bord Failte means the Irish Tourism Board. 
From Cottages To The Big House
