While I've been known to hike glaciers during my travels, I’ve always preferred to spend the better part of my time in atmospheric pubs sipping the local brew. Being from New York, a city notorious for churning out questionable male characters, I’m also always interested in taking dips in other dating pools. With both of these pursuits in mind, I traded Scotch for Irish Whiskey and tested the waters in Northern Ireland on my summer vacation.
Joining me on this mission was my friend Sandrine, with whom I have a long history of meeting intriguing men in drinking establishments in foreign cities. In the past year, Sandrine and I had enjoyed the company of an Argentine expatriate and an Icelandic fisherman in Reykjavik, and a Norwegian former model and a charming boat-building Englishman in Tromso, with my love interests following the nautical theme.
Starting out in Northern Ireland with a quick visit to Derry, Sandrine and I drove along the coast, stopping to marvel at the rugged beauty of the Giant’s Causeway before reaching our next destination: the village of Bushmills and its famous distillery. While the Old Bushmills Distillery has officially been in operation since 1608, making it the oldest licensed whiskey distillery in Ireland, the history of distilling whiskey in Bushmills dates back to 1490, and there are even historical references to “Water of Life” being produced in the area as far back as the 13th century. Because I’ve always had a taste for history, I finished our afternoon at the distillery’s bar with several drams of Bushmills’ various blends and single malts before strolling delightfully buzzed back to our home for the night, the Bushmills Inn.
With nightlife options in town rather limited, Sandrine and I hit the bar at the Inn. In the oldest part of the Inn, originally built as a coach house and stable in the early 1600’s, the Gas Bar, with its low ceilings, many fireplaces and cozy nooks, was packed with Inn guests and locals alike. As we listened to a growing band of local musicians playing traditional tunes, Sandrine and I sipped Black Bush on ice and lamented the lack of fit chaps.
Of course, technically, there were plenty of men in the room. One such man, let’s call him Woody Harrelson for his striking resemblance to the actor, staggered over to our table toward the end of the night. Hailing from Derry, Woody was 45, divorced, the father of three and the grandfather of one, all of whom lived with him. Between the live music in close quarters, the Guinness-induced slurring on top of a thick accent, and the fact that I had to keep leaning away from the personal space invasion, I couldn’t tell you much more about Woody than that.
As Woody was quite inebriated and didn’t live in town, I asked him how he was getting home. He replied, “You see that fat fucker over there?” I turned to look, and I did. The Fat Fucker saw this eye contact as an opportunity to join his friend at our table, where he quickly set about inquiring after Sandrine’s relationship status. When a very honest Sandrine said that she was indeed single, the Fat Fucker, age 50, jobless and quite disheveled, said, “Well, I’m a bachelor you know?” Needless to say, Sandrine managed to resist his charms.
When we got back to our room, Sandrine and I couldn’t help but ask the question we often ask ourselves after a night out: why? In an area famous for its distillery and golf courses, I’d expected to find at least a few suitable men present for a weekend of whiskey drinking and golfing. I consoled myself with Sandrine’s observation that “at least Woody was cute.”
Our time in Bushmills hadn’t disappointed in terms of whiskey, though it did leave much to be desired with regards to men. Leaving the countryside behind, Sandrine and I made our way to Belfast sure that we’d fare better in the big city.
What happened in Belfast? Find out in a fortnight in Part Two of Scotch Girl Abroad: Northern Ireland.
No comments:
Post a Comment