by Chris Caps
A cold drizzle
soaks my jacket as I walk the slippery rocks of Derry’s wall. The light bounces off the black streets and
the lamps glow in the dampness of the night.
Amanda and I stop for a moment by the Tower Museum to enjoy the beauty
of the Guildhall at night. It is still
early evening allowing the stain-glass windows to tell the story of Derry from
an outside and reverse view.
After a brief
stop we find the dark steps of Magazine Gate. Having safely navigated the broken bottles adorning the ancient steps we continue walking along the lower wall. We stop to admire the bastion of artillery protruding from the upper wall protecting a city of a by gone yet present age, whose protectorate now occupy the opposing waterfront.
The chill begins
to reach our bones; looking for sanctuary we find it behind a dark door across the street. A murmur of indistinguishable conversation can be heard as we approach the door. A rush of bleach-laden air hits our faces as we initiate our approach. Soon, all conversation stops as six eyes pierce into ours as we intrude into a small bar on Folye Street. We are foreigners in a strange land that is no more than a few bar stools and a handful of tables. Behind the bar stands a man, in his mid-fifties with black hair and a thin salt and pepper moustache wearing a purple sweater with a few tattoos peaking out from the wrists.
The air is heavy, as two others sit at the far side of the
bar and watch our exchange.
“Hiya, what can I
getchya?” Asks the barman.
“Hiya, Guinness
and a Smithwicks please.” Is our order.
“Whereya from?”
The barman probes.
“Seattle, Washington
in the States” Offers Amanda.
“Ahhh, Sleepless in Seattle! We know it.” Is
the chorus of laugher erupts from the three men.
A man in a black
sweater, furthest away asks where we have been.
A chorus of disgust and discontent erupts as we mention places such as
Belfast. Their tone lightens and warms
as we describe our journey around County Donegal. We share pictures of our drive along the Wild Atlantic Way.
“What do you do
next?” The man in the black sweater asks.
“My university is
visiting Derry for the next two weeks.”
I reply.
“I am on holiday
and driving around. Do you have any
suggestions where I should go?” Amanda asks.
Halfway through
our first pint the barman disappears.
The other men at he end of the bar continue with their obligatory
bar-tongue of expletive filled conversation.
Our barman returns from outside with a giant aluminum foil ball in his
hands, the smell of Indian curry and spices begins to permeate through the
bleach-laden air. As he opens the
massive foil ball he ask if we would like one.
Not wanting to
turn down an invitation, “Sure, thanks.
What is it?”
“I have no
idea.” He replies with a wink and a wry
smile.
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