Overheard in Donegal

The night was already dark, even in Donegal, far to the west and north of Greenwich, where official time is set, and the days are shorter.

The fiddlers were just getting warmed up in the pub kitchen, while in the bar, the patrons moved in and out as orders were placed.

Many simply placed their orders, then carried the drinks away, some heading back to the kitchen and the session.

Others moved outside where the night air was less oppresive than the furnace of body heat inside, the smokers could light up, and words could flow.

‘So tell me then, I can tell by your accent you’re not from around here. American, is it?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘So your ancestors emigrated from Donegal then?’

‘No. My people don’t come from around here.’

‘Oh, what country were they from then?

‘Well actually, they weren’t from Ireland at all.’

‘Ah, I see. So what part of Europe do your people come from?

‘Well, they don’t come from Europe at all. I’m a native American.’

‘Really? You must be here like myself then, enjoying the Irish culture. when are you going back?’

‘I’m not. I live here now. I married a Donegal woman.’

Published by Gerard Cunningham

Gerard Cunningham occupies his time working as a journalist, writer, sub-editor, blogger and tweeter, yet still finds himself underemployed. Go figure.