We had dinner at Keogh’s every night in Kinvara. Our desire was to experience daily life in the town, get to know some people, and practice the art of conversation with strangers. Since this pub had a restaurant connected to it, and the most amazing beer-battered onion rings we’d ever tasted, it was declared the winner. We became friends with Steve right away—the bartender—and enjoyed our daily discussions on topics such as why the Guinness in Ireland is better than anywhere else in the world, the truth behind many locals’ belief in fairies, our great world travels, and the like. One evening, he explained that a bit later an older crowd of locals would be gathering there to play some traditional Irish music if we’d like to have a listen. However, he did make sure to warn us that due to the average age of the musicians, it may not be our cup of tea.
Deciding to pass on the gathering of senior citizens in search of something a bit more spirited, we sauntered over to a pub down by the harbor. After about an hour of sipping a drink and listening to some poorly performed American covers, we’d had our fill and started for home, disappointed. Making our way up the street we heard a lot of yelling and lively music coming from one pub in particular—Keogh’s. Unable to resist the draw, we stepped inside and were immediately greeted by Steve! He never hangs out there off the clock but had also happened to stop by; seizing this serendipitous moment, we grabbed the only empty bar stools left in the place and peeled off our coats. The pub was packed wall to wall with people, the room warm and electric as the instruments sang through the night of years gone by. It felt like stepping into history, surely this gathering was the same as those held all over the country hundreds of years ago. The bodhrán (Irish drum) beat on with the accordion, fiddle, flute, and spoons joining in the song. Every now and then as a song ended, someone would rise to sing a traditional song a cappella.
My favorite moments were when a seasoned seanchaí—traditional storyteller—would stand and recite a long lyric poem about a pretty girl, the magnificence of his country, or the warmth and kindness of its people. We were amazed by these captivating poems and the sharp memory of the men in their nineties who could recite them without a moment’s hesitation.
The minute-hand ticked on by and we begged for it to give pause to these stories shrouded in beauty and antiquity, which we did not want to end. As the night wore on, the curtains were eventually drawn around the windows but that did not stop the music from playing, the Guinness from pouring,or the people on the streets from streaming in until the wee hours of the morning.
© 2026 Lauren di Matteo
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