Des's departure had left me feeling a little exposed. To emphasise this, the old man and his twitch were looking at me intently.
He pointed a finger at my empty whiskey glass, "Would yer like another?"
I managed to summon up a manly "Ja. That would be great."
He got up, taking the stool with him. I went back to staring at the glowing fire, pondering the sentimental value of coal versus a milking stool. It wasn't too bad there. I was starting to dry out nicely, the Guinness was good and the whiskey perfect. Sadly, I didn't get too much time alone as the two Irishmen came over and introduced themselves as Simon and Tim, and whilst placing a full bottle of Bushmills on the table, informing me that it was with the compliments of the owner. Simon poured us each a dram and I made a quiet toast to our dearly departed friend, Des. Each of them had a little chuckle and Tim said it was only to be expected that he'd be kicked out. As he explained: "Old George there doesn't care much for American tourists. They talk a lot and make far too much noise, which only attracts more of them, you see."
The Irishmen then went on to openly admitting how impressed they were with the amount of drink that little ol' Des could put away. That was of course until I motioned to my left, at which their eyes then ballooned at the sight of the 8 full pints of Guinness in hiding. Des was praised yet again, albeit quietly.
My own curiosity got the better of me again that day, and I asked the two boys if they had any idea as to why I was not sent packing with Des.
I didn't appreciate the stupid look that Tim was giving me when he stated the fact that I did not look American. To further emphisise this, he said that the owner had handed him the bottle of Bushmills with the compliments "Fer that fella there, The Patron Saint Of Sherpas." Tim pointed to the photos tacked to the wall behind the bar. "He's been all over the world ya know. He's a dab hand at laying landmines apparently, and dunking dassies. Whatever that is."
I was shocked that he had heard my earlier conversation with the departed; a little unnerved by the landmines, and positively perplexed by what must be some kinky fetish involving dassies. The only response that I could muster was a feeble, "So he's been around a bit?"
He pointed a finger at my empty whiskey glass, "Would yer like another?"
I managed to summon up a manly "Ja. That would be great."
He got up, taking the stool with him. I went back to staring at the glowing fire, pondering the sentimental value of coal versus a milking stool. It wasn't too bad there. I was starting to dry out nicely, the Guinness was good and the whiskey perfect. Sadly, I didn't get too much time alone as the two Irishmen came over and introduced themselves as Simon and Tim, and whilst placing a full bottle of Bushmills on the table, informing me that it was with the compliments of the owner. Simon poured us each a dram and I made a quiet toast to our dearly departed friend, Des. Each of them had a little chuckle and Tim said it was only to be expected that he'd be kicked out. As he explained: "Old George there doesn't care much for American tourists. They talk a lot and make far too much noise, which only attracts more of them, you see."
The Irishmen then went on to openly admitting how impressed they were with the amount of drink that little ol' Des could put away. That was of course until I motioned to my left, at which their eyes then ballooned at the sight of the 8 full pints of Guinness in hiding. Des was praised yet again, albeit quietly.
My own curiosity got the better of me again that day, and I asked the two boys if they had any idea as to why I was not sent packing with Des.
I didn't appreciate the stupid look that Tim was giving me when he stated the fact that I did not look American. To further emphisise this, he said that the owner had handed him the bottle of Bushmills with the compliments "Fer that fella there, The Patron Saint Of Sherpas." Tim pointed to the photos tacked to the wall behind the bar. "He's been all over the world ya know. He's a dab hand at laying landmines apparently, and dunking dassies. Whatever that is."
I was shocked that he had heard my earlier conversation with the departed; a little unnerved by the landmines, and positively perplexed by what must be some kinky fetish involving dassies. The only response that I could muster was a feeble, "So he's been around a bit?"
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