An Hour In The Bar

An Hour In The Bar

Written by:  Amy Cakebread from The Admirals Pub, Drogheda 09/22/2014

Abigail is at her crochet class tonight at a shop called The Crafty Fox. 

Her class runs from 7:30 pm to 8:30 pm.  So, that leaves me in Drogheda (about 13 minutes from home) at loose ends on a Monday night.  Last week, I sat in the class with her and finished up my blog entry.  While I love how good she is at the textile crafts, watching people learn how to crochet is not as interesting as it sounds.  I feel uncomfortable, antsy, and itchy to leave when I'm around any of that art stuff I’ve never been able to understand.  So, tonight, I decided to park the car, let her go in by herself and find something to do with myself while I wait.  I got prime parking in front of the shop, so I parked the car and go looking for the nearest place that I can update the blog from.  Drogheda, like all the towns here, close up around 5:30 pm, so about the only place open are the pubs and bars.  I go to the nearest pub called The Admiral's Bar.  This is awesome on so many levels.

Let me set the stage for you so you can experience this with me.  I opened the door to the bar and was almost struck by a dart.  The dartboard is not even a foot away from the front door of this place.  Tiny flying missiles are not the most friendly way to welcome patrons, but I quickly walk through the dart game to the next room.  Before I can go a couple of steps, I hear one of the players exclaim drunkenly that he “doesn’t have anything against the blacks and won’t hold truck with anyone who does.”  Good to know I chose a pub that’s racially sensitive.

I hurry through the door to next room.  There’s only seven people in the room and a bunch of open tables.  I quickly choose one as I stick out like a sore thumb in this place.  I’m the only female and I’m much taller than everyone in here.  That alone will puts me on edge, but I’m also the youngest person in the bar by far.  And, lest you all forget, the case of my laptop is purple.  The total package screams that I’m obviously from out of town. I open my laptop case and begin to type as a way of avoiding the social awkwardness of a stranger walking in a neighborhood pub on a Monday night. 

The room’s yeasty smell is a testament to hundred’s of years of ale, beer, whiskey and smoking it's seen. You can no longer smoke inside the pubs and bars in Ireland, but you can’t take the smell out of the place because it has penetrated every surface of this place.  Also, any smokers just do their business directly in front of the door so the smell just wafts in despite the smoking ban.  The televisions are on a true crime show completely in Gaelic.  No one is really watching them. I bet if there were some sporting event on, this place would be packed, loud and everyone would be glued to the 4 TV's in the room.  The people here love their sports.

You can tell that everyone here knows one another. If they’re not exactly friends, they are very friendly.  They all know each others names and the publican knows what they’re drinking before they order.  There’s a familiarity to the scene that’s cozy.  The patrons call the bartender Little Bobby even though Bobby’s not little or young.

When I feel like the level of conversation has returned and I’ve faded into the background a little, I order a tea (yeah, I know all of you wanted me to order a beer, but I’m driving, so no beer for me). As I wait for my tea, I eavesdrop on two men’s conversation about what they would do if they had won the 86 million euro lottery that was won over the weekend.  I have heard this same conversation in the States many times.  But, these gentlemen have had a their evening beers and their accent has deepened so everything they say seems much more quaint here.  They are debating whether or not they would go to work if they won that much money.  I can really only understand 1 out of every 5 words they speak—and I’m good at hearing through the accents here.  The one word I can always hear is “fouckin”.  I don’t know how the Irish do it, but that word just doesn’t sound as harsh as it would if it were spoken in an American accent. It’s cute coming out of their mouths.  I’ve noticed that this word is way more common here than at home.  It is said right out there in the open, every street, every town we’ve been in.  It’s lighthearted and almost fun.  But, I’ve also noticed that it is common to hear this word from the working and lower classes, but never from the upper class.

I get drawn into the conversation when one of the men asks me if  would work if I had won.  I respond that of course I’d work.  But, that 86 million would be a job of its own requiring management and oversight.  For whatever reason, the bar patrons think that’s what I said was “wise”.  I’m proclaimed “brilliant” and then talk moves on to something else. Or, at least I think it moves on as they are talking so fast that I’m no longer able to understand much of what they say. 

But, a little while later, I’m put on the spot again when one of them asks how I came to be here of an evening.  I respond that I’m waiting for my daughter’s crocheting class to be over.  Of course, this is not really what they want to know—they want to know how an American such as me came to be in this part of the world.  After my brief explanation, they all exclaim how much they wished they’d done something as brave as that when they had the chance.

It’s time for me to go meet Abby now that her class is over.  That hour went by so fast sitting in the company of strangers who happen to be in The Admiral’s Bar on a Monday night.