The Happiest Man In Cork

“There’s no place like home,” I said to myself while sitting in the Shandon Arms pub in the city of Cork, Ireland. It was 6:00 in the evening, and I had all of my bags in tow. I plopped down on the only empty sofa in the place, which resided under the television that is opposite of the bar. It was big enough to seat six comfortably, but no one thought to sit there. The bartender handed me a pint of Smithwick’s as the Shandon Bells sang their melodious tune.

I busted out my pens and Christmas cards from Amsterdam; eager to write my holiday sentiments, but my mind struggled to find the right words. A man from the next table over approached me and asked me how I am. He knew from the second I started talking that I wasn’t a local. He asked if he can sit with me, and I made room for him and his pint at the sofa.

Ten minutes of conversation later, I asked him what his name was. He said something along the lines of “bird,” but I had a feeling that I misheard him. Before I could ask him what his name was again, he declared, “I am the happiest man in Cork! I am 72 and have no regrets!” He excused himself to use the leithris (toilets) before I had the chance to ask him any follow-up questions. What makes him the happiest man in Cork? What are his secrets to living a long and happy life?

Meanwhile, his friends at the next table over ask me if I’m from Canada. I laugh and say, “No, I’m from the U.S., New Mexico. Are all of ye from Cork?” One of the fellas at the back towards the window said in return, “You speak really good English! We’re all from Cork.” The happiest man in Cork returned to the table. Him and his eight friends all shared a good laugh whenever I used the words “craic,” “slainte,” or “tog go bog e.” It was getting close to 10:00pm, and I had to excuse myself for the night. Before I left, the happiest man gave me a hug and told me to meet him at the same place the next evening at 8:00 outside. I agreed then walked five minutes down the street to the Kinlay Hostel for the night.

The next night comes along. I walk back to the Shandon Arms pub at 7:50 with all of my bags in hand again. At 8:00 exact, an older man approached me. I couldn’t recognize him at all, and I was beginning to feel a little unsafe with how close he was standing to me. He asks me if I’m doing okay and if I am ready to go. It donned on me then that it was the same friendly man from the night before. I always forget what people look like, but I never forget voices or mannerisms.

We walked side by side through town, and I listened to his stories of how Cork as a city has grown and changed over the years. We crossed the river Lee and a family of coots swam downstream under the moonlight. Every time he mentioned dancing, which was very often, he would shake his hips and shoulders with his arms in a two-hand-hold dancing position, and enthusiastically say, “boom boom!”

We arrived at his neighborhood pub, Nana’s, after 15 minutes of walking. Everyone at all of the tables and all of the barmen knew him and greeted him immediately. It wasn’t long before the band started playing 50s rock and roll music and a group of people, including the happiest man, started dancing. Twenty minutes and one pint later, he looks at me and asks, “boom boom?” I throw up my hands and say, “boom boom,” and he pulls me out onto the dance floor.

For the next two hours, I was getting spun around by him and five of his friends. I didn’t know the first thing about ballroom dancing. I kept pace and rhythm by using the box step in swing when dancing with someone, and used the basic eight step in tango when I wanted to switch partners. I eventually got to learning the names of everyone I danced with, and was begged to go back out on the dance floor every time I stopped for a break.

Before I left for the evening, I asked him for his name again. I pressed down on my tragus to help me drown out the surrounding noises as he told me his name and address. His name was Bernard, and every Saturday evening he goes out dancing with his friends at Nana’s. I scribbled down his address before I forgot, I wanted to send him postcards in the future. I put my pen and paper away, he smiled, and had one last dance with him and his friend Andrew to a few Christmas songs.

In the end, I never learned his secrets to living a long and happy life. Perhaps the secret is to not think about it at all. If you ever find yourself in the city of Cork on a Saturday night, drop down to Nana’s and meet Bernard himself. He might tell you about all of his hitchhiking adventures, how Cork has changed over time, or share a dance with you. Maybe, if you get lucky, the happiest man in Cork might give you some of his secrets to living a long life full of happiness.