A big thanks to everyone who commented on the last post - hope you had a great Christmas and wishing you a very good 2025! Now to the story.........
Wednesday had been good. Very good in fact. I’d scratched a huge itch by walking up Ballydavid Head for a view that I’m still only half convinced was real, and then after being sent chasing down the slopes to my hire car by the squalls, I photographed Mount Brandon under a blanket of snow. Finally, I arrived at Clogher Head as the blue hour set in, the white mountains at the edge of the peninsula glowing gently on the horizon, while I took in a scene that left a thousand photographs waiting for the next time. At the point that I finally surrendered to the darkness I was wet, cold, tired and hungry. And I was very very happy indeed. You don’t get to come to a place like this every day. Well, not unless you’re lucky enough to live here anyway.
I’d already noticed the sign as I set off for Ballydavid Head at the end of the morning. Kruger’s Bar, the most westerly in Europe. Ok, so you have to pretend that the Canaries and Madeira aren’t part of Europe to allow the romance to take hold, and let’s be honest, those far flung Spanish islands feel more like Africa. And Madeira may be Portuguese, but it seems like another world entirely, so let’s allow the Kruger’s claim to stick. We won’t mention the Azores. And Ireland is unmistakably in Europe, clinging to the windswept edges of the Atlantic seaboard in this lonely outpost. It has a rival to the claim in County Mayo, but I’ve looked at the map. Besides which, Kruger’s deserves its place in the Irish story.
All of this advertising puff aside, as I sat on the rocks at Clogher Head, watching the last of the light, I decided I was going to have a pint on the way back. And as Kruger’s was less than a mile from the cottage I’d rented, it was the obvious choice. At the bottom of the hill I turned right and pulled up outside the pub. At half past five it looked pretty quiet. But there was a faint glow from within and so I opened the door. It’s always unnerving, walking as a stranger into a country pub. A man the size and shape of a small dumper truck on the stool nearest the door grunted in reply as I said hello. Two elders sat side by side on a bench opposite him, one of them wearing a bucket hat. They didn’t speak. None of them looked as if they’d ever managed or wanted to find the way out of here in years. And apart from a young lad playing pool by himself on the other side of the room, it was just us. Nobody was behind the bar. I took a stool and waited. Eventually it was the lad who began the time honoured ritual pouring of the pint before abandoning his position in favour of the pool table once more. The pint remained where it was, half filled beneath the pump, the job suspended in mid-flow. They don't rush the pouring of a pint here. This can be mildly alarming if you haven't experienced it before, but you just need to stay calm, wait for the bubbles to settle, and let the anticipation build. After a few minutes, a new barman arrived to complete the operation and take my money. A relay event it seemed. The price came as a pleasant surprise. I used to go faint at the price of a pint in Ireland, but somewhere in the intervening years since my last visit, inflation has obviously been running riot at home.
As I sat at the bar, studying the pumps, I listened to the conversation by the door. I was convinced the locals were speaking Gaelic. Only the regular deployment of what sounded suspiciously like F bombs made me wonder. Pub language. Maybe they have the same word for the F bomb in Gaelic. Apart from that I was lost in translation. I can usually understand people in Cork, but west Kerry is a different matter. Gradually my ears tuned in. They were indeed speaking in English. A discussion about the Rugby Internationals: a question from the barman to the young lad - was the pool table level enough? There were still plenty of quiet profanities issuing forth from the group by the door. By now I’d moved to a seat near the window from where I could observe my surroundings more fully. The place was beautifully furnished with all manner of eye catching curiosities. A metal road sign for Dingle and the Conor Pass. Another advertising Lyon’s cakes. A black and white framed photo of the local first fifteen from a long gone era. A publicity still from Ryan's Daughter, which was filmed nearby. John Mills and Sarah Miles. So many years since I last saw it. I'd have to add that one to the watchlist. Seductive Irish reels came from the stereo behind the bar; pipes and fiddle. And then my antennae picked up more gossip. “Five and a half million profit!” But from what? My ear tuned out again. “Director's benefits, one point two five million.” I might have to return for lunch tomorrow to try and find out more.
Much as I’d have liked a second pint, it was time to leave. I nodded at one of the crowd by the door as I went. I needn't have bothered. In five minutes I was back at the cottage, where I changed out of my wet clothes and put everything, well everything below sea level, onto the radiators and the heated towel rail. I’d been caught in a nasty hailstorm on Ballydavid Head earlier in the afternoon. But my coat had done its job, and though it was sodden on the outside, the four layers beneath it remained perfectly dry. Otherwise I might never have made it to Kruger’s.
When I returned to Cork, I mentioned the episode to my family, particularly the bit about thinking the regulars might be speaking Gaelic. But I was interrupted before I could finish. Uncle Peter knew exactly what I was going to say. He’s a Cork man born and bred, but it seems the West Kerry dialect is almost as impenetrable to him as it was for me. Kruger's, it seems, is in another world, and it’s one where I’ll be only too happy to stop for another slowly poured pint next time I’m passing by.
