Camp

Our flight from Charlotte to Dublin was uneventful, got in early around 9:30 am, and thanks to Marty’s supply of Ambien, we both got some sleep on the way.  

We picked up our car, dialed in the GPS, and got into Camp in the middle of the afternoon.  Our first night and last night on the Dingle Peninsula is in Camp, at Finglas House, a great B&B with a terrific owner.  Marty’s room looked out over Tralee Bay, with North Kerry off in the distance. My room did not. But the TV room we shared did.

We had a couple of choices for dinner in Camp that evening.  Ashe’s. Or not.  Turns out Ashe’s was an awesome choice. From the outside, Ashe’s looked like a sleepy little pub, with one or two cars parked out front. But the minute we walked in the door, we were in the middle of a small room with 40 happy souls singing Happy Birthday to one (or more) of the folks present. The music was being led by a couple with a box (accordion) and a hand drum, and it looked like the whole village was there. After the last “… happy birthday to you”, the  couple continued with traditional Irish music, led by the husband’s great tenor voice. And the dancing broke out.

Before we could work our way up to the bar, Marty and I were stopped by two ladies  who asked us to dance. Marty politely declined. He said later that he was a couple of Guiness’ shy of dancing. I tried to decline, but didn’t want to run afoul of what I thought might be local custom, so we whisked out onto the dance floor.

I need to clarify a few things at this point. My dance partner was not the young Irish lass you might be picturing. She was, as were most of the folks in the party, of an earlier generation. Substantially earlier. Than me. So we didn’t “whisk” out onto the dance floor so much as shuffled. And the “dance floor” was about a foot away from where Marty and I were working our way to the bar.

So, I jigged this way a couple of times, and jigged that way a couple of times. Now certain that I had been socially correct, I smiled, nodded my head, and went to meet Marty, now armed with a couple of Guiness.  But as I was leaving, my dance partner said her first words to me over the music. In perfect English, she said, oxymoronically: “I only speak French.”

Turns out this was not a group from the village, but a bus load of French Canadians touring Ireland, and they were here for an hour just to hear an hour of traditional Irish music before going back to Tralee for dinner. And it was great music. And it was serendipity to have walked in.  

But I think this group from Canada were probably confused about where Marty and me were from as well. As my dance partner was leaving, she waved and said “Merci Beaucoup.” In French, I think that means “be seeing ya, you tall,  handsome, Irish lad.”