They Named A Town Dingle

Ireland feels like the Pacific Northwest – it rains a lot, but rarely very heavily or for too long. Most days bring a cool, gentle misting that doesn’t do wonders for your mood but doesn’t really get you wet either. You get used to it. The sky was thick with foggy rain when I walked north out of Killarney’s city center to Hitchwiki’s recommended northbound hitch spot, a bus-stop pulloff in front of a small hotel. As I was waiting in the rain, two Irish hitchhikers in raincoats and neon-orange backpacks stopped to say hello, politely walking ahead so as not to crowd my spot and lower my chances at a lift. It was just a minute later that I got picked up by Larry, an older guy in a work van who was going a few minutes out of town. He dropped me off by a pub at the base of the road to Dingle, where I had a great sandwich and dried off.

Despite its ludicrous name, I’d been told to check out Dingle a few times. Clayton, the busking American hitchhiker I befriended in Reykjavik, had recommended the small coastal town when I asked him where I should go in Ireland; he and his friends hitchhiked all around it a few weeks before me.

Now I had a problem. The road to Dingle was neither big nor busy. From the intersection with the pub, it sloped narrowly uphill, and cars would gun their engines to get up to speed. There was room for a car to pull off, but no place for me to stand where I would be visible from afar, especially in the gloomy daylight. I waited there close to two hours, walking up and down the road and trying different spots, until the perfect driver picked me up.

Trevor is a middle-aged family man whose current job has him driving all across southwest Ireland replacing big signs in supermarket windows. He spends a lot of time on the road, bored, and he was going all the way to Dingle. Trevor is a big fan of the place, and as we drove he pointed out pubs owned by interesting people, the long, beautiful beach on Dingle Peninsula’s southern coast, and the vantages from which, had it been a clearer day, I would have seen Skellig Michael, the main Star Wars pilgrimage site. We also talked about global politics and my travels, usual topics. I asked him if the Troubles had affected this region much, being about as far away from Northern Ireland as possible. Turns out people in Cork and Kerry County were passionately and directly involved, even though they didn’t see violence. For decades it was through these regions that guns and bombs were produced and smuggled to spill blood in the north.

Arriving in mid-afternoon, I wandered awhile in Dingle, did some writing in the library, ate some good kebabs, had a nice busk, and eventually checked into a hostel, where I left my stuff before heading back out to find some live music. Dingle is something of a mecca for good, authentic Irish trad music, as they call it. Somehow, dozens of pubs are packed into this tiny town, all drawing thick crowds to quality musicians. You can’t walk ten feet in downtown Dingle without passing a sign saying “trad session every night at 9:30.” I’ve written before about pub sessions, these little communal folk music gatherings that are often open to any willing musician. In Edinburgh I wasn’t feeling up to playing along, but tonight I was ready. I took my banjo into O’Flaherty’s at 9:30 and ordered a pint. Despite the sign outside saying 9:30, the bartender told me the music would happen whenever the musicians got around to it. Irish timekeeping reminds me of how I’ve heard people describe African time. Drinking my pint, I made conversation with a guy named Hank from the States. Hank is a charismatic guy with a booming voice and wry demeanor. I didn’t get a lot of his story, but it seems like he’s travelling at the wish of his late wife, who died before they could take a trip like this together. He’d brought his bodhrán, an Irish drum that can be played in booming thumps or rattling, snare-like rolls, with fingers or a stick. The weight of his wife’s passing was palpable around him, permeating his warm, friendly nature, creating an oddly intimate, bittersweet effect that surely contributed to the weirdly dreamlike, emotionally tender mood I felt for the rest of the evening.

It should please you to no end to know that O’Flaherty’s is run by a guy named Fergus Ó Flaithbheartaigh. Fergus started unpacking instruments while Hank and I were talking – a guitar, a tenor banjo, an accordion, a bouzouki, a bodhrán, a tin whistle. The guy plays a lot of instruments. When he was finally good and ready, a concertina player and another bodhrán player pulled up chairs, and Fergus invited Hank and me to pull out our instruments. He had no prerequisites, no tests. Just invitation.

For the next couple of hours, Fergus blasted through song after song, sometimes taking requests from the growing audience. When he would lead a song with a stringed instrument, I would follow along with my five-string banjo, at best finding a comfortable nook in the music for my instrument, at worst plucking inoffensive notes in the proper key. When he would lead on accordion or bodhrán, the songs were harder for me to follow, spryly melodic and rushing with momentum, so I would lay my banjo down and watch, or take video with my phone. Sometimes he would nod expectantly at one of the other musicians, and they would take the lead on a song. Hank knew a lot of Irish tunes, and he bellowed some out a capella, shyly at first but soon adopting the gravitas of a natural performer. When Fergus nodded at me, I sheepishly insisted on passing my turn – I’m totally new to Irish music, and I couldn’t think of any songs in my repertoire that would have felt right. I get the sense Fergus wouldn’t have minded that at all, but I would have. Then Fergus would switch instruments and spring into another tune, his face contorting with focus as his booming voice sang of the Troubles or ancient battles, odes to Cork or Dublin or Derry, even little Dingle.

Eventually the musicians took a break and I slunk out of the pub, tired from the day of travel and feeling a bit introverted. Back in my hostel room, as I was getting ready to settle in for the night, chatting lightly with the French dude staying in the bed across from mine, a group of three Irish girls popped in with their bags, and minutes later, at their request, I was surprising the late-arriving fourth one with a banjo rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Energized by their energy, I went back out with them for a bit to catch some music, which is always more fun when you have buddies. Some of them were schoolteachers, so we had a lot of common ground to talk about. Another is a highly qualified brewer at Guinness, and they were joking throughout the night about her recent foray into stardom – she’s this person.

They stayed out late, but I didn’t. I wanted to get to Galway the next day to busk for the Friday and Saturday nightlife, so I had a long day of travel ahead of me. It didn’t make sense to stay longer (this time), but I’m glad I came to Dingle – it has a unique magic. Though its pubs seem to serve many more visitors than residents, the tourism there is tinged with a refreshing reverence that you don’t feel in the live music of Dublin. Dingle isn’t just a destination for Irish music, it’s a monument to it.