• PORTUGAL THE BIG CHANGE IN MY LIFE!
I first arrived in Portugal in 1988, to a resort known as Praia da
Rocha in the Algarve, where I entertained in the one and only
original Irish Pub, THE MAN OF ARAN. I performed for 4 seasons until
1992, and here I am in 2006 after a break of 14 years back in the
MAN OF ARAN! There are many Irish Pubs in Praia da Rocha now, too
many as far as I'm concerned. I've performed in all of them, but I
must say THE MAN OF ARAN is my favourite, the acoustics are very
good and the atmosphere is absolutely magic. The place is
rocking every night, so for those of you who are considering a
holiday in the Algarve, Portugal, THE MAN OF ARAN in Praia da
Rocha is a must. All Gaelic football and hurling plus soccer games
are shown on the big screen. Children are most welcome but must be
supervised; so make THE MAN OF ARAN your home away from home while
on holiday in the Algarve. Incidentally the owner of the bar,
Murphy, is also a fine singer and guitar player. In June of this
year in the wee hours of the morning, five AM to be exact, we were
both winding down after a very hectic night, when Murphy told me an
amazing story that happened when he first arrived in the Algarve.
Murphy opened the bar in nineteen eighty five and believe it or not
he was undecided about a name for it. The day he opened for business THE PUB HAD NO NAME.
The first customer who walked in the door ordered a pint of Guinness. Murphy
who likes to converse with people asked him what part of Ireland he
was from, the man replied: I'm from an island of the west coast of
Ireland. Murphy who knows his geography well said: THE ARAN ISLANDS. Spot
on said the customer, I'm known in Galway as the MAN OF ARAN. But
when I was a young boy my parents called me Pa Joe, some people call
me Pa Joe and others call me the man of Aran, THE MAN OF ARAN is a
good name for a pub said Murphy, what do you think? You'll find none
better said Pa Joe. There and then Murphy said: I'll name this pub
in honour of you THE MAN OF ARAN. That would be an honour indeed
said his customer. The next night as Pa Joe approached the pub he
thought his eyes were deceiving him, over the main entrance was a big
neon sign which read THE MAN OF
ARAN, IRISH PUB. He was flabbergasted, went into the pub, went
straight to Murphy, and said I thought you were only joking. I NEVER
JOKE said Murphy.
Murphy noticed he walked with a limp, I see you’ve got a bad leg,
said Murphy, aye the man said, and my own fault,
my own fucking fault, you would not believe how it happened, tell me
said Murphy, well said the man, when I was a young lad of eighteen
years, I had two loves in life, sex and drink. I just could not get
enough of both. I would have sex with any woman, weather she was
good looking, bad looking, young or old. As long she had a vagina,
that was good enough for me. As for the drink, it was just the same,
I would drink anything, I mean any fucking thing, as long as it was
alcohol, I would keep drinking until I was pissed, one day after
getting of the ferry, in Galway, I was going to a horse fair, don’t
ask me why, because I had no intention of buying a fucking horse,
however I did end up with an old hag, it was she who came onto me,
however before I left the island, I drank a half bottle of poteen,
firewater. And I been half pissed took her to a barn, had sex with
her, and fell asleep. When I awoke and saw her lying next to me, I
looked at her and taught to myself, Christ almighty, she must be
eighty years old, if she's not fucking older, well I put my pants on
and ran to the nearest pub, and got pissed out of my mind, I
remember the barman saying to me you’ve had enough pa Joe, you’ve
had enough, Murphy.. I was about to make the biggest mistake of my
fucking life, instead of going back to the barn and sleeping it off,
I been the fucking
gobshite that
I was, staggered on board the ferry, anyway, halfway across I fell
over fucking board, the cold water sobered me up temporally, I felt a
sharp sting in my left leg, by Christ I knew it was a shark. The
bastard was tearing away at my leg, one man on board, picked up an
oar, and started hitting it, while another grapped me by the head
and shoulders and pulled me back on board, the ferry turned back to
Galway, I was taking to hospital, and later flown by helicopter to
Dublin. Where I remained for five months, recuperating, five
operations it took to save that fucking leg Murphy, and I've never
looked at another woman since then, and I never fucking will. They
are a curse Murphy nothing but a fucking curse. It’s the drink you
should have given up, not the women, You are some boyo said Murphy,
some fucking boyo indeed, how come you don’t use a walking stick,
funny you should say that, said pa Joe, the man of aran, as I said,
when the accident happened I was only eighteen years old, full of
strength and stamina, as for the pain, I just grinned and bared it,
now im sixty five, I think its time I bought a walking stick. Now as
it happened Murphy had one treasured possession, on display behind
the bar, a shillaley a hawthorn walking kane, or to be used as a
weapon if you were attacked, it was in the Murphy family for over
one hundred and fifty years, handed down from father to son, and
when Murphy left cork, to open the bar in the Algarve, his father
said, here son take this, and put it on display behind the bar, it
was the shilllaeley, now Murphy, who has a heart of gold, made a
decision there and then, which he would regret later in life, gave
pa Joe a present of the shillaeley, pa Joe was breathless,
especially when Murphy told him of the history of the shillaeley,
ill treasure it with all my heart, said pa Joe, it will never leave
my side, as a matter of fact it will be in my hand, when ill stand
in front of the pearly gates, weather ill be left in or not. They
both laughed at that, Murphy studied pa Joe, at sixty
five, he was
still a good looking man, a fine mop of hair, on his head, and not
one of them grey, his eyes were sky blue, and it looked like his
teeth were all his own. Its hard to understand why he never married,
he told Murphy, he was living with his sister, who was born two
years after his accident, so that would make her twenty years
younger than pa Joe, her name was Molly, she was forty five years
old, a fine strap of a woman, very good looking, she reminded Murphy
of the Irish film star, Maureen o Hara, and like her brother, pa Joe,
she never married either, what is it with these people taught
Murphy, pa Joe could have his pick of women, and his sister
Molly,
could have her choice of men, ah such are the ways of the world
taught Murphy, that was in nineteen eighty five, when Murphy and pa
Joe became great friends, and each year when the man of aran closed
for the winter, when Murphy returned to Ireland, he would head
straight for Galway and get the ferry to the aran islands, to visit
his friend, pa Joe, and likewise each summer, pa Joe the man of aran
and his sister Molly, returned to Praia da Rocha in the Algarve, to
visit Murphy, when pa Joe the man of aran first walked into Murphy's
pub in nineteen eighty five he was sixty five years old, he died in
June two thousand and five, two weeks after his last visit to the
man of aran, one day after his eighty fifth birthday, when Murphy
received a telegram from Molly, informing him of pa Joes sudden
death, even though it was peak season in the Algarve, he immediately
closed the bar, got a taxi to faro airport and went on standby,
after five hours waiting, he got a flight to London Heathrow, were
he was to get a connecting flight to Dublin, however he was stuck
in London Heathrow for two days, because air traffic control were on
strike, fuck it taught Murphy, its just not my day, when he finally
made it to the ferry boat, he was told there was no sailing to the
Aran islands, because the seas were to rough, fuck it said Murphy I
don’t fucking believe it, the month of June, and the seas were to
fucking rough, it could only happen in Ireland, by now Murphy was
both exhausted and exasperated, finally arriving on the island,
there was a man with a pony and trap, waiting for Murphy.
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