My friend Max recently sent me an excerpt from his journal written when he and his wife Kate were sojourning in Ireland some years ago. Reading about Ireland as Max describes life there brought to mind the few things I remember about the four days I spent in Ireland with my parents and siblings 56 years ago.
Little did I suspect at the time that this would be my only visit to Ireland in my life, and also my only trip to Europe. It was the summer of 1966. I was sixteen and had one more year of high school to endure. My father was going to attend a psychiatric conference in Edinburgh, and spending a few days in Ireland was how our month in Europe began – my father, mother, older sister Kathy, younger brother Steve, et moi.
Near Death
Our trans-Atlantic flight landed at Shannon Airport where we piled into a much-too-small-for-five-people rental car, and with my father at the wheel we drove off in the general direction of Dublin. In a large town along the way, my father turned the wrong way onto a one-way road where two lanes of cars fast approached us. Blessedly, this moment of terror ended without injury or death when the approaching cars slowed to a stop and waited for us to get off the road.
Two Redheads
We came to a small village awash in sunlight with almost no one about. We had somehow gotten off the main road and were lost. This was not unusual. My father, who thought he knew everything, often got us lost. He parked the car and we went in search of a place to eat. We found a small café, sparsely furnished with white walls, a few tables, and a high counter. There were no menus and nothing to indicate what kind of food, if any, was sold there. We were the only customers.
Two affable redheaded men, obviously brothers, came out from the kitchen and we asked if they served lunch. They exchanged amused looks and said they could make us some sandwiches and tea. We sat down, and after a fairly long wait, they served us hard dry buns, a bit of ham, no condiments, and a pot of strong black tea, which was helpful in breaking down the rock-hard buns.
At meal’s end, the minimal bill paid, my father asked what the tipping rate in Ireland was, and one of the redheads replied with a twinkle in his eyes, “Well first you try to get out without paying, and if you can’t do that, leave whatever you like.”
The Beach Boys
Several times I searched around on the car radio and on the clock radio in our hotel room in Dublin and found The Beach Boys playing simultaneously on several stations. The Irish, it seems, loved The Beach Boys.
Dublin Hotel
Our dining table in the old hotel where we stayed in Dublin was ornate and heavy and stood in the center of the small dining room. Our waiter for two suppers was a middle-aged man with little hair, friendly yet serious, and a thorough professional. He prefaced each meal by chatting with us, asking a question or two and responding to our answers with, “Lovely,” and “Now isn’t that grand?” His face was etched with deep lines and he had sad eyes.
I noticed some people about my age at the bar drinking beer, so I asked my parents if I could have a beer. I was sixteen and had never had alcohol, though both my parents were heavy drinkers.
My father inquired of our waiter, “What is the drinking age in Ireland?”
Our waiter looked around the table at each of us, pointed to my brother Steve and asked, “How old is this one?”
“He’s eleven,” said my mother.
The waiter nodded sagely and said, “That’s the drinkin’ age.”
fin