local colour

October 15th, 2007

Guard House “Are you girls from here, then?”

“No,” we laughed. “Texas.”

“You’re easily mistaken for local girls,” the man told us, before offering us a round of drinks.

Pleased and flattered, we politely declined and went back to listening to the band that had assembled in front of the pub window. Angie does fit in here, with her ginger-colored hair and warm freckles.

“Sure, I look like I belong here,” she said, under her breath. “Until I open my mouth and Texas comes out.”

By 9PM, our bellies were full of warm food (shepherd’s pie) and good drink (rich, red wine) and the pub was full of local patrons and a folk band – a guitar player, a fiddler, a bagpiper, a bodhran player, and an elderly storyteller. The old man sang a Capella, traditional songs about wars and famines and death – as all good storytellers do. But the guitar player, whose vocals were thick and mellow – not unlike John Denver in tone – sang of pretty girls with hair swinging about theirs shoulders and sunlight in their eyes. The feeling that invaded the room was, for lack of a better word, generous. It felt like a gift.

I kept my head long enough to save a bit of the gift for you. Have a listen.

Update: the player isn’t working. Sorry! I’ll try again later.

For more adventures (and photos!) check out On the Road.

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