Slainte

November 5, 2024. A restless night. A fractured sleep.

I toss and turn, my dreams interrupted by images of the USA election. The very idea of a second Donald Trump presidency too demoralizing to even contemplate. Yet, in my heart, I sense a Democratic Party stalled by flawed policies, any positive summer momentum slowly but steadily ebbing away.

Finally, I can wait no longer. The bedside clock reads 4am, but, as I log on my computer, I need to know.

The headlines confirm my worst fears. Trump a decisive winner, in a political comeback for the ages. Never mind his racist, misogynistic, narcissistic, hateful and authoritarian platforms. Nor adjudicated rape, his multiple felonies, his endless lies, his complete lack of civility. In the end, shockingly, for a majority of Americans, none of this appears to matter. It is unthinkable.

And so, Trump is back. And back for revenge and retribution, with a vengeance that threatens to sow chaos both at home and around the world. 

I badly need cheering up. Anything, any positive, any joyful memory. No matter how small or seemingly inconsequential.

Once again, sport provides a tonic. International rugby in the spotlight, a whole series of mouthwatering matchups set for the UK and Europe throughout November. 

The famous New Zealand All Blacks arrive in Dublin, in advance of a much- anticipated showdown vs the talented and feisty Irish. Yet, it is not all endless practice and preparation. Indeed, a delightful Facebook post shows All Black star Jordie Barrett taking a guest shift, pulling pints, at a city centre pub.

The photo brings back warm recollections of my first visit to the Emerald Isle. To a country first settled thousands of years ago, full of stone age ruins, crumbling castles, and medieval streets. Likewise, home of vibrant cities, towns and villages, breath taking landscapes, and the world’s warmest welcomes.

And of Guinness, synonymous with Ireland. Deeply woven into the very fabric of Irish society. The famous dry stout, first brewed in the mid 18th century, a national treasure full of history and heritage.

My trip takes me back in time. To March, 1990.

A coach with a high school rugby team, we visit St. James Gate in Dublin. Walk among the buildings and cobbled streets, follow the tram tracks. Arrive at the famous black gates, as the story comes to life.

Then, touring the brewery, we learn the history of the iconic beverage and of the trials and tribulations of the Guinness clan.

In time, the family expands its operation. The company passes on from generation to generation, becoming the largest brewery in the world. Soon, not only do visitors from around the globe travel to Ireland to taste the nectar, the product comes to feature all around the globe.

Several hours pass by. The tour winds to a close. Thomas, our guide, tall and slender with a well lived in face, directs us to a tasting area. He indicates the Guinness on tap, demonstrates the recommended, now famous two-minute pour, points out the draught’s thick, milky head.

I take a sip. The pint is rich and creamy, yet I find the flavour dissipates quickly.

Thomas, perhaps a bit biased, offers a wry smile. “Not to worry,” he tells me, his accent, befitting a man from Limerick, rough, nasal and sharp. “Wait until you head to my old stomping grounds. Try one there. Then you will know.”  

The next morning, by train, we travel west. Onwards, via the R506 road, to the village of Murroe. To Glenstal Abbey, a school, or more appropriately a magnificent castle, situated among 350 acres of gorgeous fields and woods. Sightseeing includes visits to Dysert O’Dea castle, several 6th century stone forts, the Murree Memorial cross, the Burren, the Ailwee Caves. To Black Head, Doolin, Lahinch and the spectacular Cliffs of Moher.

The following afternoon sees glorious sunshine, just a breath of wind. A highly entertaining match produces a narrow victory over Glenstal. Touring being thirsty work, the post game festivities then include dinner in Limerick City before a return to O’Neill’s, a tiny little pub complete with thatched roof and limited seating.

The brothers from the Abbey play host. One returns from the bar with a tray of pints. Guinness of course. I learn a great deal, about the water, barley, hops, and yeast required for a top-quality beer. About milling, mashing, separating and roasting. About the “perfect pour,’ about then allowing the beer to settle. All combining to produce the ideal flavour, colour, and aroma.

I think back to St James Gate, to Thomas and his wise words. Now I know. This draught goes down so smoothly, is almost a meal in itself. Hints of coffee and chocolate. Absolutely delicious. The bitter and unpleasant aftertaste of the Dublin pint a distant memory.

I enjoy another, then one more. Each one better in turn. The evening a happy gathering.

Still, too soon, I return to the present. My mind a jumble of thoughts and competing emotions.

Of a world class athlete, a famous All Black, enjoying an evening away from the ongoing pressures of professional sport. Smiling, laughing, serving just a few of the 10 million pints of Guinness enjoyed every day around the world.

And of a high school rugby coach trading on his own memories. Small and simple as they may be, savouring a Guinness or two with friends. The sweet taste at least a small salve applied against an utter loathing for the odious and reprehensible Donald Trump.

Slainte.