"We can't drink this" - My first-ever pint of Guinness

On Sunday afternoon, following our first disorienting week in Co Roscommon, my Uncles Bennie, Vincent, and Mickey Kelly, asked my mother if they could take the ladeens on a “whirl about the bog.”

“Do with them what you like,” Mom replied with uncharacteristic abandon.

My brother Dermot and I piled into Uncle Mickey’s sheep-stinking black Morris Minor and journeyed through the black bog, passing young families working amidst the purple heather.

We soon arrived at the parish pub; a dark, dingy, foul-smelling little bar. A clutch of old men, an ancient fraternity, bellied up to the counter drinking large glasses of black grog, the stout called Guinness.

“What will you have now, lads?” asked the female proprietress, whose female friendliness took some of the edge off this unfamiliar male-bonding experience. The crowd parted as two stools were vacated for us at the center of the bar. I answered her kind offer: “Coca-Cola, please, with plenty of ice.”

“There’ll be no Coke for you this day, but the Guinness!” announced Uncle Bennie.

“For the love of God, can’t you leave them to their minerals?” the proprietress shot back, taking two dusty bottles of Coke off the shelf.

“Guinness for the sons of Lella Kelly!” the patrons erupted, raising their own dark brews.

Meanwhile, a scrum of pensioners had formed a close ring around us, patting our heads as if we were champion sheepdogs, as two glasses of warm black stout were ceremoniously placed before us.

“Slainte! Slainte!” the old geezers toasted, prodding us to take the first sips from our heavy chalices.

Dermot and I sat as motionless as stuffed pheasants.

"What’s on you?” asked Uncle Mickey, his lips cracking at the thought of murdering his own pint.

“We can’t drink this,” Dermot sniffed. “I’m only 16 and Kevin’s 18, and we took a Confirmation pledge back home where we promised Bishop Weldon we wouldn’t drink alcohol until our 21st birthday.”

The house wept in laughter.

“Drink up!” demanded Uncle Vincent, wiping away his tears. “I guarantee your bishop in America will never hear tell a word of this.”

No escape in sight, we pinched our noses and lifted the weighty goblets to our lips, as we took our first tentative sips. They went down about as smoothly as a concoction of sludge and turpentine. In surrender, we clunked our glasses back on the counter in despair.

“Is it afraid of the drink, are ye?” snorted one old chap, pulling at our ears as if ringing a church bell. “Pull it back, can’t ye? Peg it into ye, I say, or I’ll drown ye in it!”

With the constant barking of tormentors around us, Dermot and I eventually drained the Guinness and, after a long, suffering hour, triumphantly placed our empty glasses on the counter, no worse for wear but for a slight numbing of the brain box. Derm and I gazed proudly at one another, feeling we had earned our right to join this universal band of unruly Celts, indomitable even to the might of Rome.

Oh, yes, I imagined, looking admiringly at my flushed face in a gilded Guinness bar mirror—a portrait of a true Irishman, after all. Now there’ll be a formal speech by the parish dignitaries, I figured, followed by the presentation of a colored sash or bronze medallion to show all our friends back home.

But no hint of celebration was forthcoming. No applause. Just a quick removal of our empty glasses, a wet swipe of the counter, and the hard-knocked hello of two more pints.

“Show me a bird that can fly with just the one wing!” brayed a toothless old jackass.

After a few swallows of Pint Two, Dermot’s mouth hung agape like a door off its hinges. In turn, I went tweaking at my pants, my full bladder beginning to leak at the spout.

“Is it a clothes peg ya need,” asked a voice from the frenzied crowd, “or is it the jacks ye’re after?”

“Out that back door!” followed an echoing cry.

Dermot and I slid off our stools, careened through this gauntlet of grinning gargoyles, flung open the door, and found ourselves in the blinding light of a summery meadow, being eyed by a stomping herd of bullocks who bellowed wildly as we took our relief.

“And don’t forget to pull the chain!” hollered one old wag from the doorway, as the pub’s ensuing laughter scattered the herd like thunder across the field.

*Kevin O’Hara is the author of “Last of the Donkey Pilgrims: A Man’s Journey through Ireland." The above is an excerpt from his second book, "A Lucky Irish Lad." You can learn more about Kevin O'Hara on his website TheDonkeyman.com.