This is the short story of how my new fiancée unwittingly forced me into the most embarrassing 10 minutes I’ve ever had in a pub.
I’ll spare readers the gritty details, but Lindsay and I got engaged during our trip to Ireland. The location? Inis Mór, the largest and most beautiful of the Aran Islands. The backdrop? The wonderful Frenchman’s Beach, with its crystalline waters, grey sand and glorious sunshine. All you need to know for this tale is that it was the happiest day of my life, and having basked in the moment over a lunchtime picnic, we decided it was time to paint the island red.
Inis Mór is home to only three pubs – so our options were limited. That didn’t stop us having an all-time night, however. Our first stop was “The Bar” – a pub that only gets away with being so unimaginatively named because of its gorgeous beach-kissing location. I couldn’t tell you how many pints I sunk whilst posted up there – I’d guess at least 5, on top of the half bottle of champagne we’d shared that same morning – but we staggered out four hours later having enjoyed quite the sensation. Nothing like making your own Black Velvet in your stomach to get the night rolling.
After leaving The Bar at what felt like 11pm – but in reality was probably around 5 – we headed to our second location – “Tigh Joe Mac”. This was perhaps my favourite pub we went to on the entire trip. Connected to the island’s local hostels, the pub is an unassuming room, with a gorgeous wooden bar split with a giant fireplace. It’s wooden panelling in red, green, and yellow, just enough to give a splash of colour, but not too garish. Its tables are little sewing tables, which feel somehow authentic and charming rather than pastiche. Most crucially, the pub seemed to be the chosen locale of a loyal crowd of local, islander drinkers. This is key to our story.
When we staggered into the pub, it was noticeably quiet, with no more than 5 or 6 locals dotted around the place across 3 or 4 tables. If there was an air of animosity or bemusement at our arrival, we were too high on the proposal and drunk on Guinness to notice. We spotted an attractive looking table in the corner and made a beeline for it. It was upon sinking into her seat that Linds had her revelation. Eyes wide, she reached out, grabbed my wrist, and said – “there’s only 7 people here…we can do the thing…”
The thing that she was referring to? Linds and I had long shared a fantasy of being able to walk into a pub and order a round in for everyone in the room. Given the joyousness of the occasion (and more to the point – the tiny number of people currently occupying the bar), I made the mistake of joking that “this would be the ideal place to get a round in for everyone”.
Linds’ eyes lit up. She scanned the room, turned to me, and with the callousness of a general sending a quivering private over the trenches in Crimea, she uttered: “so go do it…”.
Cue the most embarrassing 5 minutes I’ve ever spent in a pub. I sidled up to all three occupied tables in the pub – explained our situation; explained how we were celebrating, explained that in the spirit of celebration we’d love to buy them a drink. To a man, all seven people in that pub flat out refused. In retrospect, perhaps it was obvious that seven Irishmen (not just Irishmen, but Irishmen who lived on their island off the coast of Ireland), would take one look at me – a loud shirted Englishman – and be completely bemused at my offer.
I returned to our table a broken man. Yes, I’d just bought a round for the entire pub for the price of two drinks. But the true cost? Humiliation.