Aaran Inn in Cork, Drunk folk and their encounter with an Irish Traveler

"The Inn may be haunted," we were told as we stepped through the stain-glassed doors. We were early, and our host apologized for his mental state, having slept little these past nights due to wearying studies and the like. The "party" had yet to begin and was comprised simply of a bottle of ale and the mutterings and banter of a few locals.

We, of course, raided the kitchen. As we stuffed our faces with the plundered stocked goods of toast and butter, we thought it best to practice our music for a spell, and, by the time we had fenagled our way through a number of tunes (and I had repaired one accordion strap with naught but a toothpick and a swath of fabric) a slough of guests had arrived.

The student dormitory had been abandoned by its regular inhabitants for fear of ghosts, so the like of every sundry party-go-er in Cork was apt to show their faces here. And we were the band!

Well, we didst play for them, dear Reader, and their drunken meanderings were a wall of chatter to play over, but we garnered a spare few who enjoyed our music. I believe they were cousins to the now famous Jules Verne of which, dear Reader, I presume you to be familiar. One purchased three of our gramophone recordings at a striking rate. Perhaps we are yet to starve!

Again we raided the kitchen. Our host entered and said: "Don't fret, dear Friends, but it may be necessary for you to give a hand in a moment. A most unsavory character has entered our dig of shin and we are strategizing a means by which to eject him. Please, stand in the vicinity and offer your assistance if need be." Well, now the night was becoming interesting.

The man's shape was somewhere between Iggy Pop and Mick Jagger, emaciated, a long thin and sun-dried crease of wicked smile. He wore riding boots and a black hat, a black jacket. His stare was a piercing thing and he demanded to know why he and his people couldn't come in and have a go at this party as well. He kissed one of his adversaries on the side of the head in the midst of a passionate hug as a diplomatic solution was reached: he would be allowed entry but his people perchance would not.

Again, we raided the kitchen. A young rapper joined us there and we held a session of banter as he searched for stray alcohol. We were content with toast and butter with but a dollop of jam.

We returned to the party but felt as outsiders engaging in bits of conversations, taking dips of wine, but simply waiting that we might have an opportunity to play again for a more docile audience...one we might tell a story or two. It seemed this would not be the evening, and so again we retired to the kitchen, but with our instruments, to play by ourselves and while away the morning. We were stuck, as it were, as the carriages had ceased functioning at the 23rd hour. This inn would be our prison.

As it would turn, we engaged a somewhat willing audience of drunkards and mildly entertained them as my voice turned to gravel in the pipemoke and humidity of the room. Apparently a number of others had set aside their morals for a fair late-night pillaging as well, and our steam-driven songs encaptured and encapsulated their deepest longings and desires. Still, at the end, as we played a final song "remember not more than we do..." our crowd departed rather suddenly and we were made ware of the reason (not for lack of quality) by anecdote:

"Oh, he always does this at soirees," she said in a moment of half-slovenly collapse. "A brick through a window, a good chase, a street brawl. It's downright normal!"

Normal indeed, dear Reader. The party had run from the house and we were left there with but the stragglers and our dearest host. The uninvited guest of the Irish Traveller had finally been expelled and in a moment of aggression had lofted a brick through a sheet of precious glass. A few chased him and beat him, and, upon their return, gave news that a group of Travellers (they referred to them with the abominable term Pikeys) would be returning to set the house ablaze and that we should make haste to leave.

We walked into the night, leaving but a single passed-out soul upon a couch, sacrfice, I would think, for the gang of Travellers that would be looking for revenge. Kayne and I stayed back from our three compatriats, nay, guides, nay... The word escapes me. Two of them were talking of their glorious little battle, the third cursing "the Pikeys" and we, nearly three cubits behind them ready at a moment's notice to deny association.

Our host asked if we should join them at another gathering of the drunk. We politely declined and he led us to his humble abode that he shared with some other students of his particular school. "You must remain absolutely quiet, and if you meet any of them in the morning when you leave, tell them we are the best of friends, indeed say we travelled the world together in a hot air balloon. Perhaps you should simply leave as early as you are able." He bolted out, as he said "My girlfriend is completely angry at me so I must go to her and amend, nay grovel, nay..." The word escaped him.

Performing for a mostly uninterested crowd of ruffians, vastly endangering a food supply with our ravenous appetites, narrowly escaping the severest of shankings (shank you very much), sleeping where we are surely not welcome...truly we are The Calliope of the Future.