Welcome to Murphy's Law...
Cead Mile Failte- A Hundred Thousand Welcomes… Our vacation was supposed to start in Dublin, followed by London, with a day trip to Paris sandwiched in somewhere. Somehow there was a mistake made, and instead of Dublin, we were booked into a town I’d never heard of, a place more than an hour west of Dublin. We didn’t discover this until about two weeks before our scheduled departure. Instead of whining or ‘whingeing’ about it, I made the necessary adjustments by arranging a rental car and researching the Athlone area. I shrugged it off, figuring I’d make the most of it. Hindsight being 20/20, I praise the travel gods for directing us to Athlone, because it was the best mistake ever made.
On the way to Athlone, we stopped at a town called Tulach Mhor, better known as Tullamore, where they’ve been making my favorite Irish whiskey since 1829. We were welcomed by a lady named Vivian, and after imbibing quite a bit, we resumed our journey to Athlone. Once we checked in and had our much-needed fish and chips, my buddy Shawn and I stepped outside to get some air. He had on flip-flops, which further proves that our plan was to only be gone for a few minutes. Ha.
We decided to walk around the corner from our hotel, just to see what was around there. We walked past one pub, saw a few others, and then I spotted one named ‘Murphy’s Law.’ A grin spread across my face as the definition of ‘Murphy’s Law' ran through my brain; “anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.” On a whim, I decided we should check the place out, have a beer and a shot, before returning to the hotel. As I pushed open the door, my only concern was that Shawn had on flip-flops.
The band was finished for the evening, putting away their instruments. I nodded at one of them, and he just smiled at me.
“You’re late,” he said. “But I’ll forgive ya' because you didn’t know.”
We walked to the bar and made ourselves comfortable. The bartender wiped the counter in front of us and asked what we were drinking. I knew I wanted a Jameson’s, but I was undecided about the beer because there were many choices. I did what I’d normally do in such a situation; I asked the bartender which was his favorite. Note for future reference; the bartender knows best.
“Birra Moretti,” he said with no hesitation. “Try it first, before you order it.”
He poured us a couple of sample shooters, and we swigged them, swishing the beer around our mouths before swallowing. He was right. It was cold and delicious, and I ordered two. I asked the bartender his name.
“Neal,” he replied, while expertly slanting our glasses so there wouldn’t be too much foam. Right then I knew we’d found an expert, and I began to feel more comfortable in my surroundings.
Four gentlemen came in at that moment, and sat/stood at the bar just to the right of us. We nodded in greeting, and the conversation began to trickle a bit, like water from a faucet, and before long, the faucet was going full-tilt, as laughter and camaraderie found us at a joint in a small town named Athlone.
“Try a Baby Guiness,” one of the fellows said, who would later introduce himself as ‘Alex.’ “You’ll love them.”
We watched as Neal expertly poured coffee-flavored liqueur into a shooter, then slowly poured a swirl of Bailey’s Irish Cream on top. To the naked eye, it looked exactly like a Guinness, hence the name. The fellas at the bar joined us in shots, and after a toast of “Slainte," six shots were downed, but Shawn and I were the only ones to turn our glasses over, a custom which we thought was worldwide. They looked at us in curiosity, forcing me to explain the custom of turning the glasses upside down so that the bartender would not refill the glass. Everyone laughed and shook their heads.
“Try the Irish Poitin,” Alex said with a sly grin on his face. I thought he’d said something else with a cruder meaning, causing laughter to once again reign supreme as I repeated what I thought I'd heard.
“No, it’s a traditional Irish whiskey," he replied, "made in people's homes for centuries. It’s quite powerful, but again, it’s traditional.”
Neal once again poured six shots, and I slammed back the clear, fiery drink. My chest warmed and my eyes watered a tiny bit. Alex grinned at our responses, before spinning a tale steeped in Irish lore.
“Because it was mostly made at home, everyone drank it,” he began. “The problem was that some people would drink so much of it they would stop breathing and moving. Folks would get dressed in their finery and wait with the person for two days to see if they were really dead, or if the poitin had taken over. We waited to see if they would wake up, hence the term having a ‘wake' before a funeral.”
I could only shake my head, because it sounded true. I realized then that we’d been gone longer than five minutes. We had to go, so we shook hands with the lads gathered at the bar and we left, but not before promising to return.
We got cursed out upon our return, but after giving our explanation, we found ourselves walking back to Murphy’s, this time with our ladies in tow. They tasted Baby Guinesses, and understood the allure the place had for us. We tried two other bars while we were in Athlone, Sean's (the oldest pub in Ireland), and the Piano Bar, which was more like a nightclub. Yet we returned to Murphy’s every night we were there, especially after we discovered they were also a first-rate restaurant.
I enjoyed steak-on-a-stone, served to me by our delightful server Sharon. Her lilting accent mesmerized us, as she made us laugh at her stories of her time in Anerica, while being perfect at her job. Everyone’s food was excellent, dispelling the notion that the food in Ireland would be bland and boring. I’d say the food was indicative of the people we encountered, spicy and full of seasoning.
Athlone might not be on the average traveler’s radar, and neither is Murphy’s Law. However, the way that we were treated makes it someplace to return to, a place to recommend to our friends. The conversation is already being had about when we might return to Athlone and Murphy’s, not because it’s the greatest place in the world, but because we were made to feel at home, put at our ease by something most folks forget or ignore; they made us feel welcome. If a chance comes your way to visit, go for it, and see and feel the true definition of Cead Mile Failte, which in Irish means “a hundred thousand welcomes.” Indeed…
Marlon S. Hayes is a writer, blogger, essayist, poet, novelist, and author who hopes he stored enough of Ireland in his soul to help him deal with America. Slainte'…
