A Summer Day

He had traveled most of the day with three of the lads, and it was approaching night. The woman of their lodgings had suggested the Tavern by the sea for an evening meal. Perhaps there’d be some music for them there as well, it was a popular place. Too early to call it a night and too late to travel further a field, a Tavern with food and music was an alternative worth considering. And they were after some folk music, it being 1967 and this part of the country was known for good music. So the four of them took off on foot, leaving the keys in the Zodiac and headed to the bay.

She was pouring stout behind the bar, holding the pint glasses at an angle, letting the stout seep down the side, slowly to the bottom so as not to let in too much air or cause too high and white a head. She was known for her pour, a good and steady one that made for a silky smooth pint, and she had seven lined up already. Soon she would start to finish them, top them up and be ready for the orders that kept coming at them. The door opened, letting in a welcome breath of fresh sea air, and she watched as four lads entered. They were tall and well-dressed. It was obvious that they were not fresh off the farm or in from the sea, and they were young and lean. She brought her eyes back to the pint she had nearly filled and placed it in the row, then wiped her hand on her skirt and looked at them while they approached the bar.

“Good evening” said the tallest of them. “Good evening” she answered politely. “We were hoping to find some folk music here tonight, and a bite to eat.” She snuffed out a breath and returned her focus to the next pint, making sure as before, that the glass was at the right angle. He switched his gaze from her face to her deft hands and back to her face, wondering had he done something wrong, already? He considered that this was the Gaelic-speaking area of the country. Maybe he should try again, as Gaelige. So he attempted anew; An mbeidh ceol anseo anocht agus, nó bia éigin?

To this she raised her gaze to meet his and stopped her work with the stout. A smile crept out through her eyes and she glanced to her right. Then, putting down what she had in her hands, she answered, in English, “We don’t have folk music here. We have traditional music. And you can sit over there for food.” With that she returned to her work. He was taken aback at her tone because he thought he’d made quite the mannerly effort, but he beckoned for the lads to join him at the suggested table and obediently went to sit down.

Not long after, someone called, “Abair amhrán a chailín“, to the room and the place became suddenly quiet. The girl behind the bar placed her hands flatly in front of her, shook her hair and began to sing a song. A Gaelic song in the old tradition and a beautiful voice she had on her. It was such a transfixing sound and such a surprise coming from the cool-mannered girl who had brushed him off a moment ago. He sat, as did the others around him, and listened. You could hear a pin drop. The place was spellbound. When she’d finished her song and had bowed her head to the many calls of encouragement and praise that came from gaelic speaking locals, she confronted him with a long and steady stare, waiting until he turned his eyes away. He knew from that moment on he was a goner.