Chapter 7
Dehlia is still sleeping when I wake at 4:30am. Brooke is in the exact same position she
nodded off in—an indicator that sleep went well and that hours of it was still in front of
her. I pop a few $2 Euros into the electricity box, brush my teeth, and stare into our
bathroom mirror. I look like shit. The search for Mighty Craic in Dublin had gone fairly
well, but it’s clear I’m paying the price. We’re 3 days into our trip and I’ve drained 22
pints. I’m not so much of a beer-drinker as I am a beer-holder, so 22 beers has the same
affect on me as it would on, say, your average 11 year old. This is a sharp poke at the
tolerance of 11-year old drinkers everywhere, I assure you.
Along with an oversupply of beer and whisky, 3 days have passed since my last official
meal. I may not be the pickiest eater in the world, but I’m number two or three with a
bullet. I’ve eaten some candy, some stew, some gas station food and several Chicken
Goujons. I’m still not exactly sure what those were, but I’d be happy enough not running
into them again.
I bang around the kitchen for a while looking for a coffeepot then walk out onto the back
porch and into Dingle’s early morning drizzle. It feels good on my face and I stand there
for a minute watching the clouds break before heading back inside. Besides the tick of an
antique clock on the wall, the only recognizable sound is Ti-Ti Carol’s throaty snore from
three floors away. In pitch, it most closely resembles a humid swarm of angry wasps.
Carol has a room to herself with a double bed in it. Her room is all the way up on the
third floor and has the heaviest door in the house. She did not land this spot by
coincidence.
Sunrise is brightening the roofs on each of Dingle’s 61 pubs and despite the thin buzzing
in my ears, I begin to consider the possibility of the day’s first glass of Guinness. In an
act of discretion, I opt for the possibility of coffee and head out into the street.
The drizzle is gone and is replaced by a cooling breeze blowing harmless looking clouds.
There are muddy tire tracks, presumably from some large piece of farming equipment,
running down the middle of Main Street. It is just before 7am and a small army of school
kids, spit-polished and uniformed, is heading up the hill toward Dingle Academy. Nearly
all of them are busy digging into bags of cheesy puffs and potato chips and pass by barely
noticing me. A Guinness truck is pulled in front of the Small Bridge Pub and a middle-
aged man is rolling full kegs down a metal plank and onto a 2-wheeler. Looking down a
narrow, cobbled street, I see fishing boats returning to their slips. I’ve seen a good deal
of Dingle’s early morning rituals and, unfortunately, they don’t appear to include coffee.
I make a left onto Green Street and stumble upon Dick Mack’s; a turn of the century
leather-shop with two Guinness taps. Should one need a stout at the same time one needs
ones chaps repaired, this would be the spot.
Mack’s logged its seminal moment, along with rest of Dingle Town, during the filming of
Ryan’s Daughter—a 1970’s lovey-drama starring Robert Mitchum and Sarah Miles.
Mitchum played the part of Charles Shaugnessy-a tweedy schoolmaster trying to reign in
his wife; the wanderlusting Rosy Ryan played by Miles. When the Village idiot (played
by Oscar winner John Mills) innocently uncovers evidence of indiscretion between Rosy
and a British officer in charge of the occupying British army, Shaugnessy, mopes around
the scenic Dingle oceanfront looking depressed. There’s also the matter of Rosy’s father
turning coats on a local group of IRA insurgents waiting on a delivery of German
arms—not a particularly bright thing to do in this neck of1916 Ireland.
A week before heading to Ireland, and on the suggestion of my in-law’s, I rented the
movie. It was so long it came on two separate videotapes—355 minutes in all. It was
long and dewy, but the scenery was beautiful. I fell asleep after Mitchum tore off his
shirt and ran crying along a windswept stretch of beach. I think that was around minute
114. I never made it to tape 2.
While the movie brought in nearly twice its cost and garnered Academy award
nominations for both Mills and Miles, it set to motion a bursting ripple of tourism in
Dingle. The stars in front of Mack’s—the Groman’s Chinese Theatre type—sport the
names of those celebrities that were taken in by the pub’s leathery charm. Tom Cruise
and Nicole Kidman share a star. Paul Simon has one. Former Bond-guy, (and Brit)
Timothy Dalton owns the spot directly in front of the door. “Just to make sure we tapped
our shoes on ‘im”, says James.
James is the guy in charge here at a few minutes before 9:30am. He looks like he’s been
here since before Ryan’s Daughter—or any other member of Ryan’s family for that
matter—landed in town.. Certainly longer than Robert Mitchum-who’s own star is
discolored and, appropriately, looks sort of sad. I ask James if he has any suggestions on
where to grab a cup of coffee and he shrugs me off. “Aye, I’m not so sure..” He says.
Given his snarl, it appears James could apparently do with a cup himself. He continues to
sweep, readying the pub for a potential onslaught of 10am boozers.
One of Mack’s walls is plastered with black and white pictures from the 1970’s—mostly
of Robert Mitchum in various states of dress. One has him slouched against the bar,
wearing a black suit and black tie, drinking something out of a tin cup. Another has him
in a pair of khakis and white t-shirt, patting the head of some kid out in front of the
church across the street. First place goes to one where he’s relieving himself against a
wooden fence, shirtless, with both arms held above his head in a “look-no-hands”
fashion. I swear to God it looks like he’s crying.
Another wall has dozens of pairs of old, shelved shoes and boots—some with yellow
tags, others in red. “What are the tags for?” I say, hoping to spark a conversation that
would lead to glasses of morning beer, an improbable friendship with the craggy publican
and, God help me, a cup of coffee. “Yellow means they’re finished, red means they
‘aren’t yet.” Says Jimmy. I want to ask what finished means, but I have a feeling he may
strike me if I open my mouth again so I just stand there with my hands in my pockets.
I’m feeling uncomfortable in a way only an American in an Irish leather-shop with 2 beer
taps can feel, when the frost begins to melt, “He’s still got a pair of boots here you know.
That Mitch fella.” Owes us 12 pounds—said he was going to send it to us. Here it is the
autumn again and sure’n we haven’t seen a single pound.” I’m not exactly sure whom
he’s talking to at this point, but he’s relaxed his grip on the broom handle to the point
where the blood appears to be flowing back into his knuckles.
I consider, only briefly, picking up the dead actor’s tab but I have only two Euro’s and
something that looks like an American dime in my pocket and the absence of caffeine is
starting to pound away at my head. On my way out, an over 35-ish couple dressed in
starched (and pleated) shorts along with nearly matching blue windbreakers walk into the
shop. They’re referring to their Lonely Planet’s Ireland Travel Guide. “This is the
place.” Says Mr. “It’s just as small as the guide says.” Mrs. is snapping pictures of
James, of Mr. standing next to James, and of the tagged leather boots. James has stopped
sweeping and appears ready to wrap these two in his warmth. It’s now just a few minutes
before 10am “Everything is just so, I dunno, authentic. Do you think those boots are,
um, real? Can you smell the leather?” Mrs. Windbreaker asks me. I want to tell her to
go out back and smell the fence but she’s already turned her attention to the wall of
pictures and I head out into the street, stepping over Mitchum’s star on my way back to
the apartment.