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Charlie carries Colleen’s bulky travel backpack as the three of us stroll along a street in the postcard perfect village of Rowan Bend where our group stayed last night. I’m mesmerized by the variety of colors splashed across buildings. We pass façades of canary, teal, and blood orange. No matter the color of each wall, the trim around every window and door is shiny white. Some places we pass wear their vibrant coats of color from street level to the roof. Others shift to brick or stone above gaily painted ground-level floors.
Colleen chirps as we pass a pub called McClendon’s. “That’s where Professor Olk took us last night.” She imitates Olk. “To soak in local flavor.” She nudges Charlie. “Everyone was crazy friendly, right?”
“Aye, that they were,” says Charlie, still working unsuccessfully on his Irish accent.
I skipped dinner to sleep and let Colleen cover local flavor for both of us. I’ve been sleeping a lot since I lost Máthair, and my life turned into a watermelon dropped from a rooftop.
“Gimme yours too,” says Charlie, motioning to my backpack.
I’m afraid the added weight will snap his spine. “I’m good, thanks.”
Colleen flits ahead of us to stop in front of a calendar-worthy storefront. “Here we are.”
Two mullioned picture windows rest on square panels of dark cherry wood. Above the door is a forest green rectangle stretching from one side of the windows to the other with raised gold letters spelling out A. Sidheóg. Bricks rise above the sign past a single second-story dormer window overlooking the street. Curtains of ivy spread from roof to ground.
Colleen opens the door for a ladened Charlie onto a wide room more tavern than pub. I nearly trip on the uneven flagstone floor near the threshold. The stone floor covers the space from window to window and back to the bar. Off to the left, a more modern wood floor extends beyond what must have been the original square footage of the pub into a room filled with rows of long tables.
We add our packs to the rising mountain of luggage in a corner. Charlie pokes a toe at a neon orange backpack near the edge of the pile. “We’ll look like a circus trekking to the campsite later.”
“I hope midgers don’t eat us alive,” says Colleen, wrinkling her nose.
“Máthair said summer is when midges bite,” I say, emphasizing the correct pronunciation of the winged nuisances. “Hopefully, they’re still doing whatever midges do in the spring.”
“Not keen on living rough this evening, ladies?” asks Charlie, draping an arm over each of our shoulders. He’s a sweet guy, but this professor being on huggy terms with a grad student I’ve just met crosses a line for me. Huggy terms with a fellow professor though…
The rafters of the pub are full to bursting with memorabilia. There are vintage radios, a wagon wheel, enameled road signs, a bicycle, and even a single Wellington boot. It’s a museum where the curator threw everything in the air and let items settle where they may. Behind the bar is an eclectic patchwork of mirrors hung together to make one giant looking glass. Above the line of non-matching stools, hang equally mismatched mini chandeliers that scatter yellow light across the top of the bar. Climbing the wall on either side of the mirrors are shelves sagging under rows of liquor bottles, interspersed with an old typewriter, black and white pictures of men in military uniforms, a violin, and sports trophies.
Colleen follows my gaze. “It’s not exactly hoarding?—”
“Ambiance,” says Charlie. “History.”
“Stories,” I say, glancing at an old menu handwritten on a rectangle of slate. We’re in the midst of a living scrapbook. Máthair once told me nothing is random in an Irish pub. Every old clock or war medal belongs there as a remembrance of patrons who contributed their own unique flavor to the place.
“You go to a pub for folks, Ella. Walkin’ in the door is becomin’ part of a family.”
Colleen experienced that last night. My twinge of regret for missing a chance to hang out with Jeremy subsides when a stronger jolt reminds me even though I can handle facing a full lecture hall, a roomful of strangers in a social situation drowns me in anxiety. Mingling on this personal level lacks the invisible barrier teaching to the masses affords. One of the many reasons my initial instinct was to avoid the trip.
Our group crowds together at tables overflowing with food. My trip mates cram down slices of bacon or rashers as Máthair called them, tomatoes, mushrooms, sausage, beans, black pudding, and eggs like it’s their last meal. The three of us tuck in at the end of a bench and fill our plates from heaping community platters. My goal is to connect with at least one new person every hour to build rapport with the group and hopefully earn some positive evals. Food is always a good conversation starter.
Charlie pops to his feet again before he’s settled when one of his friends hails him. “I’ll be right back, Flutterby.” He kisses Colleen’s hair.
I watch Charlie cross the room with his electron-level energy, and then raise an eyebrow. “Hair kissing already? Flutterby?”
Colleen’s eyes get dewy as they follow Charlie. “We stayed up way too late last night and got slap happy. When he tried to call me butterfly, it came out wrong.” Her face lights at the memory. “I haven’t clicked this hard with anyone in…well ever. Maybe you won’t be the only one finding a snuggle honey over here.”
“A little more subtle on the matchmaking please. I’m a dignified faculty group leader.”
“I can do subtle,” she says with a grin.
I shovel a forkful of sausage and potatoes into my mouth, gearing up to smile supportively at the line-by-line recitation of Colleen and Charlie’s evening when a figure in the doorway stops me mid-chew.
Morning sun backlights Sion Loho’s hair. It’s not all the nut brown I thought it to be yesterday at Blarney Castle. The color is merely a topcoat blanketing?—
I clasp the scarf around my neck. The one Máthair made me for Christmas. Its brandied melon color matches the undertones of Sion’s hair as if the yarn had been dyed to match. The autumn glory of his curls glistens and gleams like the reflection of an amber moon on the water. Lyrics from one of Máthair’s folk songs come to me.
“While nature with ringlets his mild brow adorning,
His hair Cupid’s bowstrings and roses his breath.”
