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The complete guide to the Dingle Peninsula, Ireland |
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"A good puzzle would be to cross |
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DINGLE PUB GUIDE"Our
quest began in Sessions
are so pervasive today that some mistake them for an ancient tradition,
but they really arose in the mid-20th century as Irish music evolved from
a solo form, and pub owners discovered the financial rewards of hosting
live musicians. After
dinner in Dingle town, we employed the easiest session-finding method:
listening. Music flowed up Two
retired couples sat by a window, men in ill-matched jackets, shirts and
ties, the women bare-legged, wearing simple dresses and sensible,
thick-heeled shoes. They smiled, cleared the empty glasses from the table,
and offered a seat. When the playing stopped, Prasad pressed through the
throng, found the bar, and returned with two pints of black-and-creamy
Guinness stout. Sessions
have a delicate chemistry, the best evolving when all energy focuses on
the music. As the lanky fiddle player tuned up, conversations ceased. His
gray-bearded, banjo-playing partner introduced the next tune, one of many
passed down in secret during the dark years when British rule deemed all
things Irish illegal. He honored its source in the traditional fashion,
mentioning the name of the person he got it from. He began playing, the
fiddler joined in, and they faced each other, more intent on art than
audience. The
crowd came to listen. Some stood. Others sat at varnished pine tabletops
set on empty whiskey barrels, sipping stout or golden lager. Many drummed
their fingers or tapped their feet on the stone floor. Between
each set, the musicians rested and downed drink. They played until "With
50 pubs for its 1,500 people, Dingle is a pub crawl waiting to happen. The
town is renowned among traditional musicians as a place to get work
([pounds]30 a day, tax-free, plus drink). There's music every night with
no cover charge. The scene is a decent mix of locals, Americans and
Germans. While two pubs, the Small Bridge Bar and O'Flaherty's, are the
most famous for their good beer and folk music, I wander the town and
follow my ear. The
smoky pub is warm and inviting. My table comes ready-made with a new set
of friends. According to tradition, I buy everybody a round and, later,
each person reciprocates in turn. The waitress brings us all the black
beauty with a blonde head: Guinness. My
new Irish friends thank me by saying, "Guh rev mah a gut." I
offer a toast in Irish - Slahn-chuh! - and we clink our glasses in
solidarity. Craic
(crack) is the art of conversation, the sport that accompanies drinking in
a pub. To get the conversation flowing, I ask if anyone can teach me a few
words of Gaelic. Eagerly they jump in, each sharing a few words of their
favorite language. Musicians
gather around After
some initial tweaking and tuning, the first song erupts with a frenzy. The
drummer, his cigarette sticking half-ash straight from the middle of his
mouth, dodges the fiddler's playful bow. The fiddler embellishes the
melody with lots of improvised ornamentation as the musicians explore each
other's style. Throughout
the set, the music churns at a fast pace. Sipping their pints, the
musicians maintain a faint but steady buzz as they stomp the last bit of
paint off the floor. Barmaids scurry artfully through the commotion,
gathering towers of empty cream-crusted glasses. Suddenly
the music stops. The guitarist gently puts down his instrument and begins
an a cappella lament. The entire pub listens quietly as his sad lyrics
fill the smoke-stained room. These
laments - ranging from struggles against English rule to love songs - are
always heartfelt. Enjoying the music, I study the absorbed faces in the
crowd. As abruptly as the lament started, it stops and the music picks up to a foot-stamping crescendo once again. With knees up and heads down, the music churns 'round and 'round."
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