"AH, HERE comes the corpse..." A man walks into the bar – this is not a joke – and he's dressed in a white shirt, black jacket, jeans and a black tie. He's pale and chilled, and walks straight to the glowing turf fire.
I'm in the Corner House in Ardara, Donegal and there is no doubt something is about to happen.
Mary McHugh makes sure the locals have their drinks topped up. A fiddler comes in and joins the corpse at the fire. The man sitting beside me sighs deeply. "I'm experiencing – what do you call that thing? – jet lag," he explains.
I ask him if he has travelled far. "I've just come from Fintown," he says. That's all of about 12 miles away as the crow flies...
There's a lot of humour around in this pub, famous for its music and craic. It's cosy and warm on a dull day, and the pictures around the walls boast of the famous people who have taken their ease in the Corner House. But there's also a wee hidden gem here, and it's about to be exposed.
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I wrote about this Donegal town some years ago. Then, the bank was closing, shutters were being pulled down, it was bleak and people were concerned. But they have taken life by the scruff of the neck and although there are still closures and difficulties, it's a town of interest and growing prosperity.
A POSITIVE OUTLOOK
Lockdown gave time for renovating, the houses were freshly whitewashed, the bakery continues to make Gallagher's bread and a new distillery established. Today, tourists arrive in Ardara by the coach-load from cruise ships docked in Killybegs. Most are Americans but you will hear all languages and accents here – French, Spanish, English and Croatian – who are being housed in the nearby hotel in the main street.
Earlier, in Charlie's Cafe, my daughter and I had talked with men of the land, catching up on local news, prices and what to have to eat. I look no further than the homemade lasagne.
Passengers from the cruise ships are 'tourists' and the rest of us are 'visitors' but we are all made very welcome.
That includes back in the Corner House, where a shout goes out: "They're coming."
The corpse leaves the fire and scuttles down the back of the bar. A table stands to one side with a packet of flour, bread soda, salt and buttermilk, a silver bowl and a cup on display. Musicians Paddy, Joe and Declan take up their position in one corner and there's an air of expectation.
"They're here." Owner Stephen McCahill flings open the doors and men and women of all shapes and sizes pile in. They have one thing in common – all are sailing round Britain and Ireland and they are all excited Americans.
It's fascinating. Mary welcomes them and directs them to seats at the musical end of the bar. Randal tells me he came from Des Moines and seems pleased that I know it's near the Bridges of Madison County, the film set in Iowa. We exchange views on Clint Eastwood and Meryl Streep and agree it was one of the best films ever made.
Betty takes her seat and yells out: "This is a real Irish pub, the best thing about Ireland." Another voice shouts: "Where's the Guinness?" Cameras are recording the visit to show once they go back home and this night in a Mother Ireland is but a memory.
Mary, who worked for many years in the Nesbitt Arms Hotel in Ardara, comes forward to the table and begins to make the mix for soda bread. She tells us the history – no scales, so a cup was used for measuring, a pinch of salt was a good half-handful – she works away mixing and binding, telling us about the corn that grew high and was harvested in September, milled to flour with the tall stalks used to thatch the cottage. She scores the mixture with the sign of the cross for good health – and puts a nick on each corner to let the fairies out.
THE TOWN CRIER
Suddenly, a local comes racing into the bar: "Bad news, bad news, Micky's dead. He was taking the donkey over the river and they were swept away – they're both dead, drowned."
There's confusion. Mary takes away her bread to the oven, the musicians seem shocked and, as we are now in a wake house, we're invited to pay our respects to the corpse.
We file into the back room. The coffin is on a table, poor Micky is lying inside, a peaceful look on his face, hands folded across his chest. His brother, Paddy Joe, introduces us to the widow woman and her sister, both in black and glad of our condolences.
"Where have you come from?" she asks the Americans.
"Florida," says one.
"Thank you for coming so far to be with us."
And so it goes on until about 50 mourners file past in reverence. One man is slow to leave. "Are you waiting for the will to be read?" asks the sister: he makes a hasty retreat.
Once they are all out and back in the bar, singing along with a Daniel O'Donnell song and enjoying some of Mary's freshly baked soda bread and partaking of the drink the deceased left behind the bar for everyone, Susie and I remain as 'Micky' rises from the dead ready to go back to work in Diver's supermarket market further up the street.
"I nearly lost it when someone said she could see right up my nose," says a very healthy Michael Rafferty, who dies two or three times a day during the cruising season.
It's all great craic: some of the Americans will be wondering to this day - was he or wasn't he dead?
"Sure, didn't someone take your pulse last week," says the corpse's 'wife'. Paddy Joe is quick to report it was a nurse who wasn't sure he was really dead.
She says: "Before she could pick up his wrist, I told her - 'if you got a bit further down, you might bring him back altogether'."
