I’m writing this article in a hotel room in Galway. It’s our first night in Ireland – and after a gruelling 12 hour travel day to get here, we’ve spent the evening frequenting Galway’s famous Quay Street, darting in and out of its many pubs. They’ve been brilliant – with brilliant stouts, trad music, gorgeous fireplaces and – most importantly – fantastic conversation with tourists and locals alike.
But, as I sit down to write this short article, I’m struck by an overarching sense of uncanny with my first night drinking in Irish pubs. These institutions are at once recognisable and unrecognisable to me – as much defined by their slight differences with the English pubs I’ve grown up loving, as their obvious similarities.
So where does this difference lie? How do we define it? What drives it?
To the untrained eye, it’s hard to spot the difference between a pub in England and a pub in Ireland. They both typically share the same olde worlde aesthetic style, both will have a great selection of beers, be frequented by a (hopefully friendly) landlord. Crucially – if they’re doing their job right – both will be fundamental institutions within their communities, serving as a second home to locals and regular punters.
This is one of the central points we try to get across on our tour – that pubs come to reflect the communities, and therefore the wider cultures in which they are situated. Though our primary concern is local cultures in Cambridge, I think it must be true that pubs can come to reflect a national culture or character too – or at least a specific community’s interpretation of that culture.
It is in this great shared fundamental – that pubs in both Ireland and England reflect their communities and cultures, that it is possible to start teasing out the distinction between the pubs we habitually frequent in England, and their Irish equivalents.
First is the small differences in aesthetic sensibility. I found Irish pubs to be much more eclectic in their design, daubed with art which ranged from the compelling to the downright wacky – Tigh Neachtain’s is a great example of this in Galway. I also found that the pubs we went in were defined by their “nookish” nature. In contrast to the often cavernous bell halls we drink in in Cambridge, pubs in Galway were all about secluded booths, tiny tables in alcoves and low ceilinged rooms. Second, there is the prevalence for live music – and the sociality which stems from that. Two of the four pubs we went into had live trad music (on a Thursday night?!), and we witnessed first hand the communal dancing, singing and camaraderie which stemmed from the presence of live Irish music – something which I feel is utterly unique to Irish culture.
The most crucial difference however – pertains to the idea of home. In every single pub we walked into – even the most obviously touristy pub Tigh Neachtain – was evidently home to a specific community of regulars, who seemed to define the characters of the pubs themselves. Crucially, I always felt – either through interactions with the regulars, or the friendly bar staff – that that home feeling was almost immediately extended to me. In short – I have never experienced a drinking or pub culture anywhere in the world which so readily assures, relaxes and renders visitors “at home” so quickly.
That’s not to say that I don’t feel at home in English pubs. Far from it. I can point to 6 or 7 pubs off the top of my head which I feel absolutely at home – where I know the staff, or have a deep personal connection to the local area. What I would say is that there are very, very few pubs in England where I would feel at home immediately, naturally and as a matter of immediate recourse. Establishing a pub as a “home turf” in England takes weeks, maybe months of graft – getting to know the bar staff, going back and back again until you’re an established regular. In Galway I got the same feeling I have when I walk into my local pub, almost immediately.
This brings me back to my original point about culture, and its impact on institutions like pubs. Taking a step back, it seems fairly obvious to me that the crucial secret ingredient which makes pubs in Galway so special is the presence of the people of Galway themselves, and by extension, the presence of Ireland’s unique culture of hospitality.
Irish folk have a reputation as some of the most friendly in the West – and this is rooted deeply in the country’s history. As outlined in a recent blog on travel site Vagabondish:
“It turns out that in ancient Ireland, hospitality was mandated by law. Welcoming a stranger was an enforced cultural norm with a detailed set of customary guidelines. To refuse hospitality was to risk being shunned and sanctioned. This might seem a tad draconian and archaic nowadays, but there were several practical reasons for this law.
Ancient Ireland had no towns or major roads and areas were isolated by mountains, vast boggy marshes and huge forests. Encouraging a culture of hospitality promoted travel, trade and the exchange of new ideas, crafts and traditional arts. This led to a very vibrant rural society in ancient Ireland and helped forge a unified cultural identity.
Strangers could arrive unannounced at the door of any Irish homestead and be expected to be provided with hot water, a warm meal of meat and veg, a clean bed of straw and entertained with music, poetry, songs and stories by the fireside. This custom is reflected in the Irish language in one of the most popular phrases, céad mÃle fáilte, which translated means ‘a hundred thousand welcomes.”
It would appear this spirit finds no higher place of expression than in the country’s pubs, and in fact, pub culture in Ireland seems to be entirely defined by Ireland’s deep historic culture of openness, communality and sanctification of shared social space.