Doodeli-Doolin

The home of Irish folk music, that’s Doolin. When we were here six years ago, this was still a sleepy little village. Today it can accommodate many more who wants to see and hear what Doolin has to offer.

Because he’s got no faloorum, faliddle Aye oorum
He’s got no faloorum, faliddle Aye ay
He’s got no faloorum, he’s lost his ding-doorum
So maids when you’re young never Wed an Old Man

The song is stuck in my brain, and Joe does his best to keep it there. He sings often while strolling down the road. Doolin. It feels like every other house here is now a B & B. You find hotels and hostels here and those who want to live more freely have camping facilities too.

The sun is shining and it is still windy, but we have dressed well. Walking along Fisher Street to the small group of houses surrounding Gus O’Connor’s Pub, we discover a sign advertising “Last music cafe before America”. Jeanette’s Mom is running in and out of the souvenir shops here to take a look at the sweaters from the Aran Islands. We catch a glimpse of them out in the ocean.

We continue, past the golf course, say hello to a bull and his harem, before we end up at the ferry shore. Not to go out to the Arans, but to catch a view of the lovely Cliffs of Moher that we will visit tomorrow. The wind blows up foam from the sea, and the waves are roaring towards land. Powerful. Wonderful! I face the sun with a smile and breathe in the salty sea air. We see the cliffs in a dreamy haze, hoping the weather will be as good tomorrow as well.

We are tired when we stroll back to our rooms at Aille River Hostel. Decide to take an afternoon nap. The wind makes you drowsy. A few hours later someone knocks on our door. Mom and PK are outside. – PK wants to go for a beer! she laughs, so we get dressed.
Feeling a little hungry, we turn left and start the evening at McNamara’s. The lunch we had earlier is still working, so we go for the club sandwich instead of a full dinner. And we are glad we do as the portions here are huge!

The music has started when we pay and leave. A small group of people with violin, Bodhran and a whistle sit on one of the couches by the entrance and play. We cross the street and continue to McGann’s Pub. Once inside we find the place very busy. A jam-packed venue. We listen a bit before we decide to return to Gus O’Connor’s Pub again.
Along the way, we stick our noses inside one of the very new places. It is more polished and modern here, the music softer, but still Irish. However, it is missing the whole sort of charm and soul we are looking for, so we continue on as planned.

Also in O’Connor, we are met at the door by the sounds of lively chat and music. We find some seats right next to the musicians. A boy who can hardly be more than 11 years old, plays the Bodhran – the Irish drum. A lady from the audience has been waiting a while to sing a song. When she is finished one of the older musicians replies with another song. The lyrics are really funny.
We drink our Guinness. We clap eagerly, and find ourselves in a conversation with the strangers across the table. We study the pictures on the walls while humming to the songs we do know.
When strolling back to our beds, the moon is shining and the wind is calm. Our bellies are full, we are tired but satisfied. As we fall asleep it starts to rain. Again!

 

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