‘And you don’t think you are? Coming out to try something brand new in a different country sounds just as adventurous to me. Perhaps you’re more like your sister than you realise.’
‘No way,’ said Hannah automatically, but for the first time she began to wonder. She was the one who had chosen to do a brand-new subject at university, whereas Mina had focused her career on her interests. Doing Law had been a complete leap into the unknown and everyone at work was always slightly surprised to hear that she was a member of a canoe club.
After lunch, they wandered along the narrow streets filled with a mix of touristy and local wares. Hannah relaxed, feeling unusually content as they wandered past pretty painted buildings in an array of colours from rich, deep teal through to dusky red, brilliant blue, and bright yellow. There was wholesomeness about the place, as if the little town was happy to be what it was – both a tourist mecca and a place for locals. There were shops offering a huge selection of Irish wool jumpers mixed among a Spar, a local pharmacy, betting, leather, music and record shops, and sandwiched between each one, it seemed there was another yet another pub, even one that combined drinking with a hardware shop and bicycle hire.
‘Come on, I’ll take you to Dick Mack’s; they have a fine selection of whiskey. We’ll take a dram and continue your education in the hard stuff.’
England Hannah would have demurred or at least raised a protest. Drinking in the afternoon! But at that moment, she realised with a faint sense of triumph, she couldn’t think of anything nicer. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so much at ease with someone – well at ease in some ways. Her body was as taut as harp strings, playing a melody of excitement every time Conor brushed against her amongst the crowds.
Walking into Dick Mack’s was a little like stepping back in time and everything a proper Irish pub should be. This wasn’t some plasticky tourist copy – this was the real deal. Quaint, battered, and unorthodox. No one else in the pub seemed to bat an eyelid at the cobbler’s bench on the left-hand side of the room, where a tall man was making belts, busy punching holes in the leather, while opposite, a traditional bar ran the length of the wall filled top to bottom with dozens and dozens of different whiskeys. Around the walls were shelves, cubby holes, and glass-fronted cabinets filled with everything from books to boots, shoe lasts to paintings, and old boxes to wellingtons. A long bench with stools on either side took up most of the centre of the room, while up against the bar, rush-topped high stools were squeezed into the remaining space. On either end of the bar were tiny snugs, almost like confessional boxes with small windows opening onto the bar.
‘This is interesting,’ said Hannah, watching the man working on the leather belt.
‘It’s been a bar and cobblers since it opened in 1899 and it’s now run by Finn,’ he nodded towards a young man, serving behind the bar. ‘He’s the great-grandson of Tom MacDonnell. The place has been in the family for four generations.’
‘Does anyone ever leave Dingle?’ she asked, curious rather than critical. How wonderful to belong so steadfastly somewhere.
‘Some, but they often come back, and why wouldn’t you?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘It’s God’s own country.’
She laughed. ‘I hate to tell you but I’ve heard that said about Yorkshire, America, New Zealand, Australia, and Kerala in India.’
‘There’s still nowhere I’d rather live. Dingle is full of expats and blow-ins from Cork and Dublin, not to mention folks from as far away as Germany and the US. After all, it’s twinned with Santa Barbara in California.’ He sighed with satisfaction. ‘It’s good to be home.’
Hannah went quiet for a moment. Could she live in a place like this? She’d never lived anywhere but Manchester. Never even thought about it. Even when her boyfriend, Mike, had moved to London and asked her to go too, she’d never really considered it. Their relationship might have survived, but she’d been too scared to make the jump. To step out of the comfort zone that had cocooned her all her life. Had she shut down possibilities in life? Look at what had happened when she’d actually taken that step. She’d slept with Conor, kayaked with a dolphin and she was learning to cook. Just thinking about these things lit her up inside. This was living. For so long she’d been existing, which had been OK but it had been a black and white sort of life. Whereas now she was living in technicolour with sunshine pouring into corners that she’d left unexplored for most of her life.
‘What do you fancy?’ asked Conor.
‘What do you recommend?’ she asked boldly, deciding to live dangerously.
‘I think a shot of whiskey is called for, although they do have a microbrewery here and they make an excellent coffee stout.’
‘Hey, Conor.’ Finn leaned over and shook his hand. ‘Good to see you.’
‘And you. I hear the brewery’s taking off.’
‘Yes but we’re keeping it local. If people want to taste it they have to get themselves along to Dingle. What’ll you be having?’
Conor turned to her, quirking his eyebrow in question.
She scanned the shelves, with the plethora of bottles in every shape and size, and the beer handles on the bar. ‘I’ll have that one,’ she said pointing to the nearest handle.
‘Ah good choice. A half or a pint?’
‘A pint,’ she said firmly as Conor looked at her in surprise.
‘Good choice. What made you decide on that?’
‘They don’t have it anywhere else – it’s local. Your mother’s rubbing off on me.’ She pointed to the sign on the handle.Dick Mack’s coffee stout.
He rolled his eyes but then he said, ‘I’ll have the same.’
The barman poured the two drinks and they took them through to another small room with battered wooden benches and scarred tables that suggested a lifetime of being used by generations of drinkers. She wondered at all the people that had sat in this very spot over the years.
She loved that all these people knew Conor, not because he was famous but because he was part of the community. At home, the man in the flat upstairs was called Alastair. He’d once called to borrow some milk, although, never again when he’d discovered she was as hopeless as he was and didn’t have any. There was a couple across the hallway who worked even crazier hours than she did. She was pretty sure the woman was called Claire, but only because the man had called out her name impatiently in the echoey corridor a couple of times. Not a lot to show for living there for four years.
She took a sip of the thick, dark creamy beer, both hands holding the unfamiliar pint glass.
‘That’s very good.’
