Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!
I've never been much of a nightclub/meatmarket kind of girl, and unless I feel like watching the mating patterns of Cro-Magnons as a passing form of evening entertainment, I'd generally opt for a cozy café any day. That said, however, stick me in a bumped and bruised old pub with a lovely companion, quotable book, dark beer, and a friendly barman, and I'll be as smiley as a fuzzy peach at the end of summer.
Through my wanderings both near and afar, there have been a few such havens that have completely captured my heart, and by no exaggeration do I place Dingle's Dick Mack's in amongst the highest échelon of personal favourites. Though somewhat of a tourist's find, it's still very much a multigenerational local hangout. Wandering in as a newbie, you'd be struck with a deceivingly disparate population: young Irish surfers with hair still slicked wet from the Atlantic, musty caravan dwellers from the beach with colourful bandanas and tattered corduroy pants, old farmers in weathered tweeds and caps, long-time resident business owners, expats from all over the world, and stressed-out university students with textbooks and notecards at home for the holidays.
And everyone's talking to each other.
(My theory about heavenly Dingle is that it's a sanctuary backpackers, scholars, musicians, and artists discover and never leave. Every person you meet there has an intriguing double life; you just need to scratch the conversational surface to reveal the townsfolks' secret talents.)
So. Dick Mack's. One feature that so distinguishes this pub from pretty much any other ~ in a rather ticklish way, actually ~ is that each end of the bar is flanked with a genuine confessional booth, complete with its own window for ordering and receiving your goodies... Oh! And I should mention that it also doubles as a functional leather-goods-and-shoe-repair shop. What sweeter words can a girl hear on a rainy day than, "Here, lassie, have yerself a wee pint while we re~sole your Doc boots!"?
The stories I remember from Dick Mack's are few, but those that remain never fail to bring a grin and chuckle to Lovely Boy and I. The first time we happened upon the pub, it was fairly empty as it was late afternoon, so we explored the many warrens of the place, checked out the very out-of-tune piano, and came back to sit in the main room to watch people coming in and chatting congenially with everyone else in the room. Another time we went, later in the night, and it was absolutely packed... but we managed to grab some front-row seats. It was a night when the locals had informally decided to sing or recite poetry, and the level of performance talent and sincerity was incredibly moving. A young hippie girl with a fabulous mane of honey-coloured curls sang an old ballad of lost love in the deepest, most mellifluous alto; no one breathed throughout her song. Next came a somewhat wild and exceedingly blotta old dear with a flamboyant scarf 'round her neck trying to climb onto a table to sing.
Remember the old woman in The Princess Bride who wailed, "Boooooooo... Booooooo..." at Princess Buttercup during a dream sequence? Well, picture her when you imagine someone whose screeching banshee rendition of an indecipherable tune was repeatedly bellowed down by annoyed staff with, "Ah, shut up! Just shut up, ye old hag. Get down, and this is the last time, we swear it!" Apparently, this had been going on for a better part of the evening, before we'd even arrived. After that eventful visit, we then followed it up with a dish of crispy curry fries from a corner chip joint while watching some RTÉ with the kids in the shoppe. (Curry fries! Why don't more places do it here? They're fookin' deeelish!!!)
My most recent memory of Dick Mack's was taking little Jeeps into a confessional booth while Boy and I ordered drinks through our window. After that was done, we turned to talk to each other and watched ~ in slow motion ~ Jeeps toddle over, trip, and land hard with his teeth on a bench. The top two started bleeding at the gums, and he was screaming in panic and agony. Several napkins and clumps of ice later, he was soothed and his teeth none the worse for wear. Nevertheless, I think that may have been our last time there...
milk-drunk little Jeeps. March 2003.
So, imagine my wide-eyed, breathless giddiness when I found this very recent home-made video by Lisa Hannigan, whom we saw play a stunning gig on Sunday night at the swanky Triple Door. Posted just five days ago and counting one of the most hits on YouTube this week (*Go, Team Hannigan!!!*), here she is with her boys, playing one of her charming songs in none other than one of Dick Mack's confessional booths... opposite of the one where Jeeps bunged his teeth so bloodily six years ago.
(Incidentally, Lisa and Company just gleefully performed this very song today on "The Tonight Show with Jay Leno"... Coolio!)
Lisa Hannigan ~ "I Don't Know," performed live in one of Dick Mack's coveted Confessional Booths
Lisa Hannigan ~ "Blurry," performed live in Dick Mack's Main Room (Where you see the xylophone player sitting is where Boy and I have sat countless times, once notably to watch Blotta Cronie and Beautiful Gypsy Girl sing.)
Lisa Hannigan ~ "Pistachio," performed live in one of Dick Mack's back rooms (Damn, is this the third time I've posted this song since September? The Lisa Love-fest continues. However, this is what music is all about.)
photo credit: The beloved Guinness Company
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