Not The Blarney Stone

The black paint and gold flake trim give the old Irish tavern house an air of sophistication, as if one would find the patrons sipping scotch and discussing leather bound books. The heavy wood door creaks to life as I push it open and warm air rushes out to greet and welcome me in.

The traditional music that flutters through the establishment is rivaled by lively conversation and female a cappella group renditions of 80’s pop songs. The worn antique bar has been polished to a high shine and beckons me to a seat. The barkeeper’s eyes flash my direction as he shuffles to action.

Settling in, I ask, “Can you explain the game of Rugby, I am not entirely familiar with the rules and it appears to be on every television in Ireland?”

An enigmatic smile crosses his weathered face as he pours a pint and begins to explain his beloved game. He stares longingly at the brass trophies and aged photos behind the bar, recounting that as a player he was on his way up, until an injury ended his trajectory.

The choir sang themselves into the street later on and the barman bid his customers farewell one by one. Conversation shifts topics and questions start coming my way. Talk of the Blarney Stone is met with dismissal and a counter offer of advice. “If it’s fine day, then make your way to the Dingle Peninsula, if it’s not a fine day head to Bunratty Castle. Don’t bother with the Blarney Stone.”

Time snuck by to well past midnight when it was time for me to leave, being Adare’s public house closing time is 11:00 pm. I thanked the keeper and leaving the glowing warmth of the old Tavern house, stepped into the chillingly damp Irish night.

I strolled the deserted cobblestone streets of Adare. Streetlights caused the wet stones to glisten and sent the beams up into the newly arriving mist, giving the small town an unearthly glow. It’s easy to see why so many stories of magic have been birthed here.

The smell of burning wood and peat sod filled the air. As the fragrant smoke rose from the aged chimneys of thatched roof cottages on this winters night. The sight brought to mind the image of an old bearded man and his well used pipe.

Following the barman’s wisdom I explored the majestic Dingle Peninsula on a “fine day”. I experienced days long past at Bunratty Castle. The Blarney Stone never re-entered my mind. The adventures ebbed away at time until my visit with this enchanting place had come to an end.

Unfortunately, I never was able to make it back to that particular pub and I’m still not certain I understand Rugby, but that quiet evening in December was Ireland