Read At the Edge of Ireland for Free Online

to unrepentant advocates of the physical force tradition. [At the table again: “We got the freedom we wanted, though!” shouted one of the group. “Only after massive slaughter and a bloody civil war that split the country down the middle for years,” said another. “As the great John Lennon said,” quipped a third man, “‘Time wounds all heels’—and the British heels certainly got their comeuppance!”] Immigration is changing the complexion of our country and with so many diverse cultures now, the ancient quarrel between nationalists and unionists seems increasingly irrelevant, if not absurd. However, the 1916 Proclamation of Independence remains an impressive document and the citizens of 2006 are the first in Irish history fortunate enough to be free to appreciate all that was liberating and outward-looking about the Easter Rising, while rejecting all that was destructive and narrow-minded.
    We hoped the editorial writer was correct. We had no desire to spend valuable pub time over the next year or so of our stay in the country listening to incessant replays of domestic Irish history, but only time would tell, and, indeed, the later release of Ken Loach’s film The Wind That Shakes the Barley was indeed one more dramatic and bloody replay of that terrible divisive era. Only time would tell if this would be a major theme of our journey here or whether we could focus happily on the many other intriguing and true aspects of Irish life as it’s lived today here in this utterly captivating little country.

2
“Blow-In” Initiation
    I DON’T THINK I’ LL EVER DO it again. At least if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be around later to tell the tale. I suppose I escaped this time only because, first, it was relatively early in the evening and the little time-worn pub in the heart of Wexford barely contained a quorum of imbibers, and second, because I managed to turn my inane question into a lousy wimpish joke that generated enough dismissive sneers and sniggers to dispel, or at least divert, the threat of malicious mayhem. Of course it also got me labeled as a loopy “blow-in” tourist—harmless and certainly not worth correcting in the traditional Irish manner. Which can be a rather messy business, what with all that threatening verbosity followed by the bludgeoning, spurts of blood, splintered cartilage, purpling bruises, and facial lumps the consistency of extremely hard-boiled eggs.
    And what, you may well ask, was this question that could have brought about such a potentially traumatic and painful termination to an otherwise very pleasant evening?
    All I did…honestly, this is the whole thing in all its naïve simplicity…I asked the barman—“Is it possible that you have a bottle of Sam Smith’s Ale…or better still, a Newcastle Brown?”
    Now, I asked this, not for any troublemaking reason or devious intent, but merely because I was, despite my growing enjoyment of the ubiquitous Guinness, longing for a good old pint of British ale, preferably one brewed in or near my home county of Yorkshire or certainly somewhere in the north of England.
    There was a sudden somber silence. You could have heard the legendary pin drop, although a sharpening of ax blades might have been more to the point.
    â€œWha’…wha’s that yer askin’ fer?” asked the barman, preceded by a sly malicious wink to the cluster of arm-flexing, Guinnesschugging giants by the counter.
    â€œEr…just, ah, a bottle of Sam Smith’s? Pale Ale will be fine—or a Newcastle Brown…Even a Worthington would be okay if…”
    More silence. Of the sinister, sniggery kind. And then: “So—that’s the way then, is it? Guinness is not good enough f’ya, then? Is that it? Or Smithwick’s or Harp. Or Murphy’s. Or Beamish. In fact, it seems t’me like nothin’ made in our beautiful country