Ireland: Of Pints and Afterthoughts

It was New Year’s Eve, my junior year of college. I was sitting in a pub, listening to an Irish rock band, in Limerick, Ireland. And I did not have a beer in my hand.

I know, I know — you’re probably wondering what kind of lame college student I was, not to be completely wasted in Ireland on New Year’s Eve. Well, I’ve never been much of a drinker, and Ireland failed to convert me into one.

Drinking in Ireland is a national pastime — sort of how football is here in the U.S., or how rugby is in New Zealand. Traveling through the land of Guinness and Jameson, it was impossible not to be aware of this. On our first morning in Dublin, for example, two of the friends I was traveling with ordered frothy pints of Guinness to complement their Irish breakfasts. I just stuck to juice.

I’m a non-drinker for one simple reason: I really hate the taste of alcohol. Simple as that. Even just a hint of that aftertaste, and I’ll admit that I turn up my nose and abandon the drink. Which is why I see no point in wasting my money — especially in Ireland, where a pint of the dark stuff could easily set you back eruo5 or more.

But even as a non-drinker, it’s impossible to ignore the Irish drinking culture — a tradition most Irishmen (and women) are proud to uphold. And a tradition that American college students are eager to partake in.

Almost every strong memory I have of Ireland involves alcohol in some way. There was the tour of the Guinness Brewery in Dublin — a seven-story ode to one of Ireland’s most famous commodities that’s even modeled to resemble a pint glass — that ended in the Gravity Bar with a free pint of Guinness (I gave mine away). There was the lively pub scene in Dublin’s Temple Bar district, where we spent the first few nights exploring what the cobbled streets had to offer. The two guys I was traveling with got so drunk on shots of whiskey one night that one of them held a very philosophical conversation about God with a bartender, and the other proceeded to grope middle-aged women in our tour group. They both had a hellish, hungover bus ride to Cavan the next day, and recoiled from Jameson for the rest of the trip.

We were touring the country with the Irish rock band The Prodigals, and the lead singer, Gregory Grene, grew up in the small town of Cavan in the northern part of Ireland. We visited his childhood home, the outside overgrown with ivy and the inside covered in a thick layer of dust. We all piled into the kitchen while shots of an illegal Irish liquor were passed around and a neighbor played a tune on a tin whistle. Gregory and his mother sang an Irish duet together near the front door, and everyone toasted them with another round of moonshine. Even the hungover boys joined in, because it wasn’t so much about the alcohol then as it was the sense of togetherness.

But, in Ireland, I think the alcohol helps breed the togetherness. We were lucky enough to travel by ferry to the Aran Island of Inis Mor as a side trip from Galway near the end of our tour. After visiting the ruins of Dun Aengus on the cliffs and purchasing hats and scarves hand-made out of Aran wool, we made our way slowly on foot back through the village toward the ferry dock. The skies opened up along our way, and we took refuge in a local pub. Even though we were clearly out of place with our North Face jackets and American accents, the locals — with their thick, Gaelic-laced voices — welcomed us in warmly from the driving rain, suggesting spirits that would warm us up. We were honorary locals in no time.

Our Ireland adventure came to a close in Dolan’s Pub in Limerick on New Year’s Eve, listening to The Prodigals perform their last set of the tour. Compared to some of the other nights we’d had out in Ireland, New Year’s Eve was positively subdued. After having enjoyed a three-course Irish dinner and being completely drunk-out from the previous week of debauchery all over Ireland, it seemed everyone was content to just enjoy each others’ company, the good music, and just a few pints of Guinness. It was the perfect, relaxing farewell to Ireland and the rest of our tourmates.

I even got adventurous that night, trying some Bulmers hard cider in hopes that the “cider” part would cancel out the “hard.” It didn’t, but I didn’t really mind spending the money. After all, who spends New Years Eve in Ireland without drinking?

I may have left Ireland without purchasing a pint of Guinness or stumbling around the cobbled streets of Dublin doing a drunken Irish jig. But I’m honestly okay with that. What I left with was much better: all those moments in Ireland that I’ll remember forever.

It’s only now that I look back and realize that more of those memorable moments center around alcohol than I originally thought. But, I guess that’s just to be expected in Ireland. Cheers.