With some trepidation, I walked into O'Donoghues on Merrion Row in Dublin. I don't make a habit of going into pubs on my own, but it had come recommended.
With half a pint of Guinness, I found a table in the back of the pub and sat down to write. There were maybe seven others there - couples and groups with extra seating still available, most of them speaking a language other than English. At first there was nothing remarkable. It was a pleasant enough place to be, Irish music in the background, people talking and enjoying themselves. And it was fine to be there alone.
Two men who appeared to be in their 50s sat down next to a group in the opposite corner and started a lively conversation. I did not notice their instruments then.
The pub was filling up. A number of young men, dressed up in suits with what appeared to be red handkerchiefs with tassles in their breastpockets sat down at the table across from me. They were speaking a language I couldn't recognise. Perhaps some sort of religious group? One of them sat next to me. After a while, I asked him where he was from. He told me his name was Johann from Sweden, studying political science at university and was visiting for three days with his friends. I asked what the significance of the red material with the tassle was, as most of them all seemed to have one. He told me they were from Jamtland and it was their 'national outfit' as he called it. They consider themselves separate from the rest of Sweden and are culturally more similar to the Norwegians. These young men although from difficult faculties and backgrounds, ranging in age from 20 to 28 were good friends, their common bond being their Jamtish identity. Another one of these men decided to join us and we started a conversation on Swedish politics.
As we chatted, those two men in the corner started to sing, playing their guitars. By this time, the room was full. Suddenly the pub had transformed into a room full of happy and animated people, sharing stories. The two Irishmen entertained us with their music and with their generous and warm spirits. They were followed by two Irish women who sang a duet of sorts. Johann told me that his group was trying to see if one of them could borrow a guitar so that they could sing their Jamtish national anthem. When the women finished, the ten of them stood up, pulled out their red handkerchiefs, which in fact were caps that looked like elves's hats and sang a song first in Swedish and then in Jamtish. One of them, Peder, who turned out to be Johann's younger brother, played the guitar. The room cheered and applauded when they finished.
Another Irishman stood up and announced that he was going to sing an Irish tune as a token of thanks to the Jamts and launched into 'the Wild Colonial Boy'. By the end, the whole room had joined in.
During a pause between songs, Peder said something in Swedish and Johann translated for me.
He had asked why pubs couldn't be like this in Sweden. For that matter, why not in Sydney or anywhere else?
Sometime ago, it had ceased being a drinking house. It could have been the hearth of someone's home filled with warmth, joy and good cheer where we were all joined together in a shared experience.
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