It rained all day but the streets were still full of with locals and tourists. The Red and black pub facades standing out among the store fronts on the narrow pedestrian street. Inside these classic bars are stone floors, well worn stools and tables, and whisky bottles lining the walls, some enshrined in glass cases. And then there is the Guinness glass with its iconic curved shape holding that black malty liquid topped in a light brown foam. In the street there is the sound of seagulls overhead and accents from all over the world. At night the music starts and the pubs are packed full. Rose-faced drinkers come in out of the rain, with matted hair and coats dripping, to settle in for a long night of revelry. The people are porous, and unguarded. Conversations strike up effortlessly. The Irish have this way of making a quick verbal jab at you, a stab with a tease, and then suddenly your caught up in a poetic, quick witted spar with a stranger who just became friend. Who are these chubby and colorful brothers from a distant land, who sing and dance with such ease, and with whom you can open your heart and then never see again. Tolken called them Hobbits.
June 26, 2017