Stouts, Draughts, Ales, & Lagers; Come get your Spirits- Down at The Crooked Tavern!

*** Stouts, Draughts, Ales, & Lagers;
Come get your Spirits-
Down at The Crooked Lantern***
-Donegal, Ireland
(#StorytellingSalem #999,978 out of 1mil:)

🎶So I been travelin’ ‘cross the globe—
Village to city,
Mountain to coast,
River to plain;
Sittin’ down in the oddest of place(s)—
wit’ a whiteboard in my haaaand~ I been askin’ ppllllll:

“What’s yor story?” 🎶

And when I was in Donegal, Ireland, where the wind don’t blow so much as growl, and the cliffs rise up like old gods shoulderin’ the sea, this old fella in a cap- crooked as his grin- plunked down beside me.
He squinted at me through one eye, spat to the side, & started to verbalize:

⸻

“Aye now, sit yerself still, & let me tell ye summat bout an ol’ McNiall.

Me name’s McNiall O’Canahan, and I grew up wranglin’ sheep on them hills yonder—aye, the ones wearin’ a hat o’ fog nine days outta ten. I weren’t much for schoolin’. I learned what mattered from me gran-da; like: how to patch a roof in wind sharp as whiskey, how to tell a changelin’ from a colicky child, an’ how t’haggle for ewes without losin’ face nor coin.

One summer when I was twenty an’ full o’ myself, I took a boat job headin’ east to Liverpool. Thought I’d be gone a week, maybe two.

Didn’t come back for thirty-seven years.

Worked in factories, laid brick in London, even stood on a crew that helped build the Channel Tunnel—aye, the bloody one under the sea. Had a pint in every county but never found a stout like the ones back home.

Had a woman once in Bristol, we eloped to Glasgow; but one day she got up & left me, for a man- in a kilt- who couldn’t handle his Hennessy…….

But I came back, didn’t I..? Came back t’Donegal wi’ a limp in me knee.., and more stories than a priest on confession day…….

Took over me cousin’s pub, The Crooked Lantern, an’ turned it into a place where old goats like meself swap tales while the young ones scroll their mobiles pretendin’ not t’listen.

Last night, some fool claimed he saw a selkie near Malin Head—said she winked at him an’ disappeared in a spray o’ pearls. I told him if she winked, it was probably wind in his eye an’ seaweed on the brain.
HAAAAAAhahahahahahaha
…But secretly, I do believe him.
AAAANYWAAAYY, I still sleep wi’ the windows open—fo’ I can’t bear the thought o’ missin’ the tide talkin’ in her sleep.
She likes to warn folk when the Bri’ish are coming
HAAAAAAAAAAAhahahahahahaha
An’ if ye ever find yerself near the cliffs at dusk,
listen close.
That hush ain’t just wind blowin’-
it’s memory fo’ming.”

⸻

Then he stood slow, stretched his knees, and ambled off whistlin’ some old tune that didn’t belong to any song I knew.

And there I sat, still holdin’ my whiteboard—
Ask’n ppllllll:
“What’s yor Story?”
waitin’ for the next ewe or goat to clip-clop my wayyy.

(#StorytellingSalemstory #999,978)