Doolin, a tiny town on the coast of County Clare, is noted as a Mecca for Irish music, with many of Ireland's best and aspiring musicians making regular pilgrimages to take part in the all-day, all-night 'sessions' that take place in the town's 3 pubs, honing their musical skills through continuous playing. Those of us without musical instruments honed our drinking and talking skills while listening to the music, drinking the Guinness, Smithwick's, and Harp, and talking amongst ourselves late into the evening.
At one of the pubs just a few doors down from the hostel in which I was staying I spent a string of nights listening to the music and getting to know the locals. One character stuck out to me — I called him The Whistler, because he appeared to be in the sole possession of one penny whistle, exactly one song that he could play on the penny whistle, and the persistent desire to play that song individually for every young woman that walked in the door of the pub.
He was entertaining at first — a fat old man trying to impress the young lasses with the same song. When he came round I could see people roll their eyes as he set his large self down next to some unsuspecting traveler just in from The Continent to ask if he could "play her a little song as lovely as she". It was a cheesy line that only grew more tiresome over time.
I avoided the old man for as long as I could, but after a few nights my vigilance flagged and I allowed myself to be wholly distracted by the French women I was talking to. The fat man rolled up and — completely blocking my escape — sat down next to my companion and asked if she might like to hear "a little song as lovely as she". Too polite to refuse, she accepted. With a smile of victory, the old man pulled the whistle to his lips and the exact same song started to play once more.
I knew the song by heart now, but I had never sat so close to the man as he played. As I looked over at his tired hulk next to me I caught sight of his eyes. It was as if the bloodshot old eyes that had been there a moment before had been replaced by the eyes of a much younger man. A man my age. They didn't focus on the whistle, the girl, or even the pub in which we sat. They were the most faraway eyes I have ever seen, and looking into them I felt like I was being pulled into the man's very soul. They were mournful and warm, and you could tell that this man was looking at something other-worldly beautiful while he played.
For the two minutes that the song rolled from his whistle he was the young man again. The bonny lass by his side looked at him with her full attention and a touch of wonder at the old fingers expertly flying over the holes. He had his life in front of him and his powers about him as he held forth. I saw both the young man that he was and the old man that I would become in that moment. All that he had left to connect him to that lad was the song — perhaps the one thing that life and age had not taken away. I knew in that moment that I disliked him because I saw myself in him, but only when I got close enough to see his eyes.
The last note of the song faded and his eyes focused once again on the room — seeming to age 60 years in the course of one extended note. There seemed to be a brief look of disappointment that his moment had ended and he was back in his old self again. With no more reason to be there, he quickly thanked the French lass and hurried away before we could offer him anything, as if playing the song was his only solace, but stopping was his greatest pain.
I put a beer on his tab with the bartender before leaving that night, understanding that the longer I lived the more my life would come to resemble his.