The Real Ireland

I'm never ready to come home.

Even though this was Sarah's destination choice ... it just never occurred to me to go to Ireland ... it's not my temperate zone, it rains a lot and it's quite the haul to get there, there's a lot I love about Ireland.

I don't know if we'll ever be back but I'm grateful for the sheer joy of being here.

It wasn't perfect, largely because I've been sick on the last leg but that's no one's fault and in spite of hacking, coughing, and spitting up ... I've crossed the Valley of the Druids ... saw fairy stones ... held on for dear life on a cliff above the ocean at Mizzen Head ... the list goes on.

As the sickness began its initial invasion we wander into "The Markey Pub" where Tom, Tom and Patrick held court with hilarious Irish ballads.

The tiny place is packed as Sarah grabs the last two stools at the bar and we're immediately greeted by those standing around drinking while shouting and singing with the band.

Old Tom plays a mandolin and harmonica. Patrick, also called Mick, is the lead singer/accordion player and conducts the room as though the conductor of an orchestra. Young Tom plays guitar, looks like Rick Derringer immediately takes a break to refill his glass to meet Sarah.

American ladies dance with locals. Laughter is the common language. Guinness is the Communion Wine. Pretty Molly Malone is remembered in song.

"Come play with us," Tom exclaims dragging me to the corner and giving me his guitar.

After handshakes and welcomes Mick says, "Well go on then. Play us one."

As I begin strumming chords the crowd grows deafening quiet and sweat breaks on my brow, the accordion falls in with the guitar filling the Pub with sound.

Old Tom picks the high notes while young Tom bangs a drum.

I sing the first verse which ends with the words "God don't own a car" and Mick stops playing and puts his arm around me smiling.

A short song lasts fifteen minutes because of numerous solos, verses sang repeatedly as they pick up the words and incessant handclapping by the Pub.

When we finish the entire Markey Pub explodes in applause, new pints of Guinness are poured, the entire band hugs me and we talk while everyone gets ready for the next song.

I stand to leave but young Tom and Mick jerk me back down.

It's a holy and humble moment and Holy Water fills my eyes.

Afterwards men in the Pub embrace me as they shake Sarah's hand speaking in brogue so thick we struggle to understand.

Of everything we experienced in Ireland, being accepted as one their own was most precious.

Later when we left it was like leaving a family reunion where there's always one more handshake ... another hug ... petition to stay for one more.

We'd found the real Ireland.