THE LAST WORD
By Pat Coughlan
So, there I was, perched on my usual stool in Ted’s Pub, the eternal beacon of warmth on a damp Irish evening. The place was buzzing, as always. The regulars, me included, were scattered about, each with a pint in hand and a tale on the tongue. Ted’s was the heart of our little community, where laughter resounded, and stories flowed as freely as the Guinness. Conversations ranged from the absurd to the profound but, no matter the topic, there was always room for another pint and a bit of craic.
Mick, well, he’s a character. We’ve been mates for donkey’s years, ever since our school days. Always a quick wit and a tale to tell, Mick’s the kind of bloke who never fails to brighten up a room. With his thick accent and hearty laugh, he’s a magnet for stories, and Ted’s pub is his stage. Every pint shared with him comes with a good dose of humour – and mischief, too. He’s got this knack for making the ordinary seem extraordinary, and that’s what makes our chats so special.
Every autumn, like clockwork, the swallows bid adieu to our emerald isle, headed towards sunnier climes. This migration’s not just a natural wonder; it’s almost a rite of passage for Mick and the lads at Ted’s Pub. I’ve often found myself looking up, pint in hand, marvelling at their graceful dance as they gather for their long journey. It’s a bittersweet moment for us – a sign that summer’s truly over, and a reminder of nature’s own timetable. To the local community, it’s like saying farewell to old friends, knowing they’ll return with the warmer winds.
Mick is a theories man with a wild imagination. Sitting there with a grin and his pint, he’d spout off the most far-fetched theories about the swallows. One minute, he reckoned they were off to secret bird discos in Spain, the next they were undercover spies, gathering intel on warm weather for the rest of us. His best one? They were auditioning for roles in a big bird movie! We’d laugh till our sides ached. The man’s fancy knew no bounds, and Ted’s Pub was all the richer for it.
As we sat nursing our pints, the pub’s familiar hum and the taste of the Guinness felt like an anchor amidst life’s inevitable transformations. There was something both comforting and melancholic about it, like flipping through an old photo album. Time marches on, and with it, our feathered friends make their journey.
Our chat about the swallows didn’t just stay between Mick and me; soon enough, it had the whole pub buzzing. Dermot, from the corner house, reckoned the swallows are way ahead of us when it comes to knowing when to make a move. Sarah, the barmaid, chipped in with a tale of seeing thousands of them taking flight all at once near her family’s farm. Even old Johnny, always with his pint of stout, mumbled something about swallows bringing luck if they nest near your house. Seems everyone had a story or a thought to share.
Here we were, glasses raised high, the glow of the pub’s light warming our faces. “To the swallows!” Mick declared, and the whole pub echoed the sentiment. We clinked our pints, savouring not just the beer but the camaraderie. Those birds, they have a knack for bringing folk together. As they soared south, it felt like they took a piece of everyone’s hearts, uniting us in shared admiration. The night ended with laughter, stories, and the sweet promise of their return. Cheers to the swallows and the magic they bring to Ted’s.
And then I shook myself from my afternoon nap. I smiled at the dream. Don’t go laughing now. Theres a Ted’s and a Mick and a me and customers in a pub in every town in Ireland.
