A Proper Pint
The Importance of Little and Few Things.
In certain parts of the world, “Is that a proper pint?” is no minor line of inquiry. The head or foam can’t be too much or too little, and a drinker’s choice of beer can complicate that. After tweeting a photo of my pint of Guinness, I found myself considering the first time I was asked that question.
It was 1988 and I was 17. I’d just graduated high school and found myself on a trip to Ireland. My first stop was Arklow, in Wicklow County. My grandfather Martin and grandmother Sarah (Sally) were born there. Martin died young, in 1960. Growing up I was in awe of this man who sailed the world as a merchant seaman before going to work building airplanes.
It’s hard to imagine now, but in 1988, with no cell phones and international calls expensive, you sort of found your way on a trip like this. An address to go to and a door to knock on in lieu of Google Maps. In Arklow, that’s what I had, just the address of my great uncle Peter, a retired sailor I’d never met but a man whose legend was large. Arriving in Arklow, I walked to the small house and knocked on the door. Peter answered he was expecting us, which was a relief. We spent a few days together, including a healthy Sunday at the pub. My recollection was that they could only be open for two hours on Sundays, “holy hours.” Peter, about 90 at the time, enjoyed Guinness. All told he had eight by my count, a gallon worth.
We had a glorious afternoon, I’m sure. He told me sea stories and shared tales of family I’d never known. One thing he said has always stuck with me. He was amused by my large backpack, he made fun of it, for its size and the amount I traveled with. At one point, he said, “You know, Martin, you can fit everything you need in one bag.” It’s a sailor’s mentality: you don’t need much, and you certainly can’t take it all with you.
Soon enough I was off for another part of Ireland and more family, I never saw Peter again. He died in 1993 at 94. An article written upon his death included this undramatic recounting of the unbelievable. “The third time his boat was torpedoed in 1944 Peter spent ten days at sea on his own in an open boat…”
“You can fit everything you need in one bag.”
After Arklow, I traveled to Dublin County, specifically a tiny farm town called Lusk. Getting off at the train station it shared with neighboring Rush, my instructions were simple. Walk to Lusk and ask someone for the McNally farmhouse. I did have a landmark, something my mother called the Round Tower. I hoped it was self explanatory.
Walking toward Lusk, the tower came into sight, a relief. It was impressive and, as it turns out, old. Built in the 10th or 11th century. It’s one of those marvels of Europe; they are all over. Something almost incomprehensibly old, but for locals, it’s a bit, “Oh yeah, that thing.”
Passing through the graveyard looking for someone I didn’t know, I was about to meet a town legend and doer of mischievous things. Clivey was on a stroll, and I smiled and asked him if he knew where the McNally farmhouse was. He confidently launched into directions that terrified me. I was to walk back to the main road, several miles, and then hitchhike north for about 45 minutes. I was just a little perturbed. I think I thanked him as he ambled off, but I can’t be sure.
Just moments later, as I contemplated my choices in life, a tractor came down the road and I waved to the driver. He stopped and asked how he could help, again I asked after the McNally house. He smiled and pointed over my right shoulder. “Right there,” he said. I was standing at the back gate, not 50 meters from the home.
Clivey!
After meeting family, we went to the pub. Called The Top Shop, it had been around for a long time. I walked in and to the bar and asked for a pint of Guinness. At 17, and American, it was a novelty. The pint arrived, and the man next to me leaned in and asked, “Is that a proper pint?” I wasn’t sure what he meant. Actually, at first, I wasn’t sure what he’d said, and his accent was thick. I smiled. I said I thought so; he looked at me quizzically. Perhaps doubting my judgment or inexperience.
The woman behind the bar smiled and motioned, her hand shooing him off. He didn’t go, but we all chuckled; he was enjoying a bit of banter at my expense. Challenging me.
Then the bartender said, “you look familiar. You wouldn’t be related to Martin Weadick.” I was caught off guard. Outside my grandmother, mother, and her brother, I had only met a handful of people who knew my grandfather, Martin. I said yes, and she smiled and briefly reminisced about him spending time there and enjoying a drink. “You look like him.” Words that filled my mind with wonder about a man I’d never met. Thinking back on this moment, I feel like it was a dream. Did it really happen? It did, a fraction of time, over a pint in a small town pub.
So what’s the point of all this, assuming anyone got this far. Get out, travel the world, listen to the stories, talk to strangers, get a little lost, pack light, and when asked if your pint is proper, don’t be afraid.
Really nicely said Martin. Thanks. I try to explain to my kids how we used to just head overseas with a phone number and address and not worry about it. I once spent two days looking around Calais for a friend I was meant to meet, we had failed to say exactly where. Turns out it was in a grocery store.
I definitely read everything till the end. Captivating. Thanks Martin. Good to hear from you: the tone of your writing makes the experience of reading you 100% personal. It is as if you were chatting next to me. A bientôt. Karin.