The Faithful Embrace Of An Irish Pub

Docker’s Pub sits at the end of a long row of bleached concrete buildings facing out onto the Straight of Messina. The pub’s appearance is nondescript, so much so that you could walk right past without knowing it was there. The words DOCKERS IRISH PUB are in bold letters above the side door, which you only notice if you approach from the right direction. Should it catch your eye, however, it is like a beacon to the weary traveller and, being more than a little tired and thirsty after a day spent under the hot Sicilian sun, I happily heeded its call.

Don’t get me wrong. A big part of going anywhere for the first time is experiencing new things; and sampling the local food and drink ranks near the top of any adventure. But there are also times, I submit, when the draw of what is trusted and familiar is too good to resist. Besides, the Irish pub honours a certain unspoken commitment to a relaxed atmosphere and tasty edibles; not to mention quality bevvies straight from the Emerald Isle.

I should also state, before going any further, that I have a certain affection for all pubs, not just those of the Irish persuasion. But the Irish Pub is just too common a find nearly everywhere I travel. According to Google, there are over 6,500 worldwide (excluding Ireland), spread out over 160 countries.

But I digress.

Getting back to my story, it was late on a Sunday afternoon when I approached the little dockside pub. Cool air greeted me as I entered the softly lit space and headed straight over to a large, near empty bar. I was soon settled onto a comfortable stool, enjoying a well-poured Guinness and listening intently as a friendly, knowledgeable bartender shared fascinating things about the city’s rich history.

During breaks in our conversation, he had to work after all; I took the opportunity to look around. The city’s natural harbour, packed with cargo and cruise ships, was just outside the window. Old hand-drawn sketches hung on the orange-beige concrete walls. They were simple images of medieval sailing vessels that, no doubt, once graced the spot near to where I now sat. A loose assortment of banners, a mix of shamrocks and Italian flags, hung from the ceiling. And there were more recent photos of regular patrons, suggesting a happy tradition of fellowship which now existed.

Which raises another point about this pub and all its brethren. While it’s true that the decor of any Irish pub borrows off of its immediate surroundings, certain elements always seem to remain. The name, for example, is typically in bold script, set against a contrasting background of, say, black, green or deep red. There will invariably be an inviting wooden bar, floors and furnishings. It will be darkish, if just a little, so that brass taps catch the golden light of dim overhead lamps. Often, particularly in the older establishments, you can smell the unique scent of old wood lacquered in generations of spilled beer and cleanser.

Irish music is normally on the speaker, an added treat if, like me, you’re into that sort of thing. Putting all of this together, there is an overall quality I can only describe as being greater than the sum of its parts. Many come solely to converse in what is essentially a social hub; a place to engage with old friends and make new. Small wonder, I reflect as I write this, why so many scenes in literature and film take place in just such a setting.

Now, should you be so lucky as to find yourself in the right pub at the right time, you will be treated to a live music experience for which none can compare: The live session.

The pub session is world-renowned, and rightfully so. There is typically no stage, and the music is not performed by any named artists or anyone you might have heard of. Instead, it is regular patrons, not unlike yourself, who make the music — but God, how some can play. Flying through notes, flawlessly motoring in and out of jigs and reels at a speed that must be seen and heard to be believed. It’s hard to put into words, the feeling you get when it hits you. Some tunes might sound familiar, others perhaps not. But everything brims with a rhythmic joy, and it gets your toe tapping even if you’ve never heard it before.

These ‘sessions’ as they are often called, can go for hours. Players perform almost nonstop, pumping out one string of lively songs after the next. Within their circle you will find a combination of traditional instruments. There will probably be a fiddle or two, perhaps a banjo. It’s not uncommon to hear guitar, mandolin, button accordion, bodhran, concertina, flute and whistle … it just depends on the night. But regardless of the mix of instruments, there is a quality that lifts the spirit, and, like the venue itself, is greater than the sum of its parts. Feel free to sing along, dance, or even join in with an instrument if you brought one along.

The Gaelic language has a word for such fun and fellowship. The term is “Craic” (pronounced crack) and it translates as “a good time”. It is an apt description for this sort of event. I’ve had many such experiences over the years, and more great conversations than I can count. What’s more, the atmosphere is much the same anywhere you go, be it Durty Nelly’s in Halifax, O’Gilins in Lisbon, and Sholar’s in Valencia, Spain.

Which brings me to my last point, one that I offer as a final word of advice for any who might come across such a spot in their travels.

Should you ever choose to go in, be prepared for some great insights. And be ready to jot down what you learn because there will probably be too much to remember. These places have proven, time and time again, to be among the best tourist offices I’ve ever come across. Sit and listen to whatever pearls of wisdom are shared. Breathe in the scent of old wood that fills the air as you listen and learn to your heart’s content. Trust me, it happens, no matter where in the world you find yourself … even the northern coast of Sicily.