June 4, 2022
On our first night in Sligo, Cathy and I walk into “Shoot the Crows.” It’s an old, old pub where the proprietor tells us that the bench on which we are sitting and the floor on which we are walking date back over 155 years.
The pub, now referred to by locals as “Shoots”, got its name when the original owner, an enterprising “publican”, fell upon a clever idea by which to attract customers. In 1867, crows were considered a pest and the government paid a bounty to shoot them. The trouble was the government only paid once a week, which was far too long for patrons to wait to buy a pint. So, the owner agreed to accept payment in crows in lieu of cash and would turn the dead birds in later.
It is always a bit intimidating to walk into a local pub. Cathy and I stick out like sore thumbs and when, as here, the pub is populated by only a handful of locals, the temptation is to agree “maybe somewhere else” and hightail it out the front door.
On this night, as we debate between flight and fight, the early returns favoring flight, the man behind the bar, asks “what will ya have.” Cathy mumbles, “hmmm, let me think.” The barkeep, not knowing that her “Big D” prevents her from having a pint, says over his shoulder, drying a glass with his towel, “Not a problem, but don’t hurt your head.” When I laugh as this, Cathy shoots me a look as if to say, “it’ll be more than your head hurtin, buddy.”
Our anxiety is not helped by the look of the proprietor. His name is Ronan Uisce Watters. He is a man with a big barrel chest, a short waist, bushy Bernard Shaw eyebrows—probably a former hurler or footballer–with gray, blonde hair pulled back tight and extending in a long pony tail, sometimes down his back, sometimes over his shoulder. Think Nicholas Cage in “Con Air” with an Irish brogue and you’ll get the idea.
He quicky reels in his joke, sensing it might night have had the desired relaxing effect, smiles and says to the three fellas sitting at the bar, “the tradition here is to buy a pint for everyone at the bar.” When I reach for my Visa, he says “I’m only kidding.” The other fellas protest, saying, “We’re not.”
Searching for what to say, I share that we are learning about whiskey. Cathy asks does he have any Midleton’s. Ronan confides that Midlton Rare is far too expensive to open for the likes of the fellas at the bar and the only bottles he keeps . . . and there are many he has bought over the years . . . are the bottles he has locked up at home, an investment for his daughter’s college education.
You see Middleton Very Rare is a thing of legend in Ireland. The distillery in the small town of Midleton, outside of Cork, was founded in 1984 by Barry Crockett, who was born in the distiller’s cottage at Jameson and grew up the son of a master distiller. Crockett set out to make the finest Irish Whiskey ever.
Since 1984 he bottles just 2500 bottles a year of Midleton Very Rare or “VR”. Today, if one looks and is prepared to part with a good bit of coin, one can find Midleton VR, Midleton Barry Crokett Legacy, or Midleton VR Ghaelach Grinsell Wood. The latter is even more rare because it was casked in wood harvested from nine 130-year-old Irish oak trees, now almost impossible to find. (At the duty-free shop at Dublin Airport, a bottle of VR goes for 250 euros or $268.)
I ask Ronan, “Okay, if not Midleton, what would you recommend?” This he takes as a challenge and gives us a once over like the carny at the county fair that used to guess your weight. After a bit, pointing to me, he says, “For you, 15-year-old Red Spot” and, studying Cathy, he says, “And for you, 16-year-old Black Bushmills.
Cathy and I find a “snug” in the front of the pub. Old pubs in Ireland have small screened off rooms attached to the bar. They are called “snugs.” Prior to the 1960s, pubs were the exclusive domain of men. Women were admitted only to the “snug.” Now they serve as cozy private stalls to chat with a friend or sweetheart.
We sip our whiskeys, exchange them, sip again, and agree Ronan called it right. I prefer the Red Spot to the Bushmills; Cathy prefers the Bushmills to the Red Spot. Ronan joins us in the snug, explaining the history of the pub and the traded commodity that fine whiskeys have become for investment purposes.
We pass an hour in the pub, shout to Ronan, “thanks for the education” to Ronan, and leave. We walk the quiet cobblestone streets of Sligo back to our hotel.
On our second night, we set off in search of music and hear, from outside the doors of McHugh’s, a solo guitar player wailing away. We step in. The young man, probably American, is excellent, pounding out solo riffs and belting lyrics to classics with a gravelly voice somewhere between Bruce Springsteen, Joe Cocker and Bruce Hornsby.
The place is humming. We climb the stair, intending to find a corner where we can hear each other above the music. We sit in a corner directly above the musician, making up back stories as we watch the stream of mostly young people wander in. Fashions for young Irish women now are not, in our opinions, flattering. Short, cropped tops with what seem like sweatpants pulled up so high in a stretched wedgy that little is left to the imagination.
The boys have haircuts, shaven close on the side, long on the top, with a whisp on the top extra-long to fall in their faces. It’s a look somewhere between Opie and the Hitler youth corp.
Watching the girls snatch glances of the boys while the boys, seemingly oblivious to the girls, shout and boast to one another, confirms that the universal rule that women mature faster than men is as true on the west coast of Ireland as it is on the west coast of California.
We each have two Bushmills. I’ve never been drunk in my life, but weaving my way back to the corner, a whiskey in each hand, my glide pattern to landing is not what one might call a straight line. Yawing a bit, my approach, while not sideways, is not entirely parallel to the runway. Cathy looks concerned.
I suppose all drunks feel this way, but I am particularly funny tonight. I’ve got Cathy laughing to the “I can’t breathe” threshold and am feeling pretty good about myself.
Thankfully, Cathy does not have to drive, and I do not have to navigate. We call it quits at two and point ourselves toward the River, her hand clutching my arm, my hands tucked into my pockets, and make our way back to the hotel.
Our trip is nearing the end. Tomorrow, it’s back to Dublin and then home.
"Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost" 