A Blessing

A Blessing

Jenny Kirkpatrick

In search of some strong coffee that Thursday morning, I joined the throng of fanny-packed people who had just emerged from their tour bus. Like a swarm of bees, the group overtook the sidewalk sweeping up anything in its path. Including me. At least I had taken notice of the 15th century cathedral the day before, but for the bees, it was just an obstacle blocking their entrance to the shops.

Before I realized it, I was swept up in the competition, rummaging through the tacky shops, convinced I should bring back some last reminders of Ireland, too. After all, this was our last morning here, and I wasn't about to leave last minute shopping to chance at the airport.

I left the stores empty-handed. What I experienced the night before couldn't be printed on a magnet, stored in a four-leaf clover, or scrawled across the back of a T-shirt. I couldn't possibly take back anything physical - and I realized, I didn't need to.

Adare, Ireland is one block of cobblestones. Nestled on that block between the 15th century church and the town's only post office/laundromat/market stands Lena's. The appearance of the pub is invitingly modest with its white painted bricks, forest green trim, handcrafted sign, and window adorned with flower boxes.

In fact, the outside is probably more charming than the inside. Stained, maroon rugs covered chipped hard wood floors. Mismatched bar stools slumped at the bar; in the middle a special place reserved for Seamus - or so said the cheap brass plaque which adorned the back of the stool. No doubt Seamus had only slipped out for a trip to the loo.

Much to our dismay, Lena's offered no dinner service; our late lunch of potato jackets would have to serve as an appetizer for the blanket of smoke that would be our dinner. At first we scouted out a round table in the right corner of the pub. But when a family of five also made strides toward the prize, we relented. For us the strange image of an entire family squeezed around a wobbly table, one leg propped up with matchbooks, was entertainment enough. Straight ahead, longer, carved booths lined the back. Other than that, the only other seating options were benches pushed against the perimeter of the room.

According to our hotel concierge, Lena's is famous for its live music on Wednesday nights. In my head, this meant traditional Irish music and highstepping dancing - perfect for our last night in Ireland. And luckily there was some of that when a freckled, pudgy boy of fifteen dazzled the crowd with his folk dance while the band assembled.

Sadly, though, the first song of the band's set sounded strangely familiar. Imagine Elvis's "Hounddog" with an Irish accent. The next hour grew even more bizarre with such renditions of Copacabana followed by Blue Moon. American music! What a disappointment and certainly not what we had come to expect from rustic Ireland. We would later find out that the band had arrived early for a reception, so Ireland's version of the wedding singer hadn't traveled all that way to just make an appearance at Lena's. Now the family of five started to make more sense, as it seemed most of the bar was somehow related to each other- and related to the wedding singer.

After the first set, I noticed a marked change in the singer and in the crowd for that matter. Where before, patrons seemed satisfied enjoying the American cover songs from their seats, toes occasionally tapping. Now they started to congregate, forming a wide circle around the singer. He responded by being more interactive, even inviting some men to take over the microphone or fill in on an instrument. As for my husband Ollie and I, we felt even more foreign, electing to stand behind the ring of customers - eyeing a booth nearby should we have to camouflage into the wallpaper.

Our strained glances must have betrayed us, for when the wedding singer asked, "Are there any newlyweds among us?" they whisked away our pints of Guinness and pushed us into the center of the ring. The singer, ignoring our blushing, announced our names, nationalities, and marital status into the microphone. I honestly don't remember the song he sang. I was too busy clinging to Ollie's ironed sleeve, avoiding the strangers' stares. That is also why I didn't notice when the ring slowly collapsed around us.

Finally relieving us, couples of all ages -- who could actually dance -- swept in around us. Some made eye contact; a respectful nod served as their only greeting. Others, bolder, squeezed our elbows and smiled. One older gentleman even went so far as to plant a kiss on my left cheek.

And then, the song ended as gracefully as it had begun. Without the singer's direction, the ring was restored, with Ollie and I now a part of it. To my left, Ollie, relieved that the eyes were no longer on us. To my right, an elderly woman, smelling faintly of whiskey and oranges, took my hand into her wrinkled one. I grazed the dull yellow polyester of her dress as she swung my hand back and forth like we were two schoolgirls. I looked up at her face: red cheeks set against pale skin. Carefully rolled, graying hair scooping up her earlobes, a pearl dangling in each. She twisted her head so that her lips were barely touching my ear, and I had to strain politely against the booming sound of the band to hear her.

"We wishin' you a long and blessed marriage."

I hung onto every accented syllable.

All I could return in thanks was a smile as she squeezed my hand and faded away, perhaps in search of her own husband. I turned to catch my husband's profile. He had missed the exchange and I intended to keep it that way. This was to be my secret. This was to be my lasting souvenir of Ireland.