I couldn’t believe it, but while the young bartender was out of sight in the back room retrieving something, the impish Irishman seated next to me slipped behind the bar, poured himself a pint, and slinked back across the slate floor onto his stool.
“Tell him nothing,” the little leprechaun-like fellow implored with his finger laid over his white-bearded lips. I am no snitch, and down deep I admired his mischievous maneuver.
The old man chatted me up as we drank Guinness at O’Flaherty’s Pub, just as patrons have done there in Dingle, County Kerry, Ireland, on Bridge Street since the 1860’s. I doubt anyone in the 15 decades downed a pint faster than he did. His Guinness evaporating down the hatch, even though he was entertaining me with conversation and local gossip. He was ready for another pint, and ordered one for me, as soon as the bartender returned from the back room. He winked at me, laid his index finger over his lips again to say “Shhh,” and slid some coins across the worn, wooden bar.
All of O’Flaherty’s was warmly weathered, with black and white historic photographs on the stone walls; green and white lights; banners strung under a sculpted, tin ceiling; a pot-bellied fireplace; an old piano; and some notices tacked up indicating the nights on which Irish music sessions are staged. The sign above the door – Flaithbheartaigh – is the pub’s name in Irish. The old man, wearing an unzipped coat over a purple sweater, asked me how long I was in town, and if I liked the place? He was curious about what other pubs I’d visited.
“I would never miss stopping here at O’Flaherty’s. It’s the first pub I ever visited in Dingle years ago. Oh, I’ve been over to Dick Mack’s, across from the church I was once married in. Dick’s seems to be getting gentrified and bit touristy, unlike Curran’s, which feels very authentic, across from Foxy John’s. I was at Paul Geaney’s, with all the rugby trophies, across from Mrs. Benner’s Bar and next to the Dingle Pub, which was very crowded with young people for the late music,” I answered candidly.
I noticed the old man standing to leave while listening, so I wrapped up my answer. “And I was going to try Hannie Agnes Pub, but a local told me it is dirty.”
That stopped him briefly. He lifted his eyebrows in dispute and diplomatically responded while patting my arm. “Why don’t you give Hannie Agnes a try and make your own opinion?” he urged with smile. “You like it here. You may also like it there.”
The charming whirlwind with the fast-talking brogue then grinned goodbye and slipped out the red door into the night, leaving me alone with the teenaged bartender.
“Who was that?” I asked…but the bartender said nothing while clearing and cleaning our empty pint glasses. When I asked again, he fought a small smile, which made me suspicious. It was quiet for a moment until he pointed up to a little display above the whiskey behind the corner of the bar and offered a deal: “If you buy a hat, I will tell you who he is.”
I looked at the flat, wool, souvenir caps, and their 30-Euro price, and then squinted my eyes at the bartender. This time it was me fighting a small smile. After I forked out the money, the bartender revealed my new, mirthful, mysterious drinking pal’s name: Fergus O’Flaherty – the guitar-playing, singing proprietor of the pub!
A few days earlier, in seaside Malahide outside Dublin, I sat at the bar next to 15 taps at a similarly historic pub called Gibney’s. I’d made the short drive from my luxury lodging at Portmarnock Resort & Jameson Golf Links looking for just what I’d found: a little, old-fashioned pub with stone walls, serving peanuts and pints, with horse racing on TV next to an adjacent betting shop.
“This is a ‘man’s bar,’” said Darren, the bartender, explaining that Gibney’s also operated the more expansive Irish restaurant next door.
Indeed, there was a gathering of eight, older, sweater-wearing, experienced men of consequence at the corner table in front of a pile of pint glasses – most empty. I asked one of the gents if he had a tip on the next horse race? “Yes, I do,” he answered: “’Don’t bet’ That’s my tip!”
“Tell the American nothing,” one of the other low-voiced men stated with a smile.
Darren then asked me, “Which one of those men do you think is the boss?”
When I pointed out the tall, commanding man at the head of the table, Darren started laughing. So did the man, who’d overheard the exchange. Again, one of them said, “Tell the American nothing!”
I only learned the pub’s owner, Barry Gibney, was an unassuming man seated at the corner of the table, when he went behind the bar and asked me if I was having fun. I asked, in return, about his group.
“The lads and I all meet three times a week after golf or to watch the rugby. I was born upstairs in the room above the TV. My nieces and nephews work here, too,” Barry said before revealing he represented the seventh generation of Gibney’s proprietors. “My nieces and nephews work here, too.”
Before disappearing via an “Irish goodbye,” Mr. Gibney gifted me a logoed Gibney’s shot glass and a colorful refrigerator magnet depicting the very old pub.
“Is he gone?” I asked Darren.
He nodded and revealed the gentle fellow and his brother run a fiefdom of pubs and restaurants in Dublin, New York and London, with another in neighboring County Meade.
“But this pub is their ‘bread and butter,’ Darren insisted.
Indeed, that little “man’s pub,” Gibney’s, is the historic, beating heart in the center of Malahide on New Street, which is lined with Gibney’s operations including a beer garden, coffee house, and wine shop.
Contact Michael Patrick Shiels at MShiels@aol.com His new book: Travel Tattler – Not So Torrid Tales, may be purchased via Amazon.com Hear his radio talk show on 730 AM 1240 in Lansing weekdays from 3 p.m. to 6 p.m.
This article originally appeared on Lansing State Journal: Shiels: The surprise proprietors of 2 of Ireland’s most historic pubs
Reporting by Michael Patrick Shiels, For the Lansing State Journal / Lansing State Journal
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