THERE is a pub in Co Donegal that shall remain nameless. I first came across it one late afternoon whilst passing through with a showband (no more showband yarns, I promise).

Two of us were somehow separated from the pack and found ourselves idly walking down the one and only village street. All was silent.

Viewing the local architecture, we couldn’t help but notice a note tacked to a stout door. It read thus: “This is not a public house. If you wish to enter, please turn the key.” And, indeed, a misshapen key protruded from the door.

I turned it and entered a gloomy hallway that led to another door on the left from which wafted the sound of muffled talk. Peering in, I found, under a perilously low, antediluvian ceiling, a small room crammed with men who looked exactly the same. All conversation ceased abruptly.

When I uttered a furtive, feeble “hello”, they turned away to resume their talk. A tall, attractive girl made her way across the floor, stooping to avoid the overhanging beams. She had very dark, wild hair and the unblemished alabaster skin of the innocent.

“Come in,” she snapped in a businesslike manner, and moved away to talk gently to a shrivelled ancient man who sat on the edge of a wooden bench. She removed a pipe from the top pocket of his grimy jacket, placed it gently in his mouth and held a lit match to the business end. He had to puff it alight himself.

We edged our way forward and stood in the middle of the floor.

Despite what the note on the door said, this was a pub all right. I gently pushed my way through to the bar counter. There was no-one behind it. I thumped the counter a couple of times. I had seen this done before in Co. Cork boozers. Everybody stopped talking again. The girl re-appeared by my side: “What d’ye think yer doin’?” she hissed sharply.

“Trying to order a drink for me and my good companion,” I replied.

“Couldn’t you read the note on the door? This is not a pub!” she whispered.

“Everybody else is drinking,” I observed.

“Who are ye, anyway?” she asked.

“We’re musicians, playing tonight in Whatyoumaycallit up the road,” I said.

She bit her lip then appeared to concede. “All right, then.”

“What’s going on here?” I enquired.

She narrowed her eyes, looked us up and down and nodded towards the old man with the pipe.

“It’s me father’s pension. He thought he wouldn’t get the pension if he still had the pub when he retired so he closed down the business and gave up the licence but he wanted to carry on ‘cos he knew he would miss the craic and he wanted to put one over on the Government ‘cos he worked hard all his life and why shouldn’t he get a pension ‘cos it’s no skin off their noses and he deserved it ‘cos even those who have nothing and never did a tap are getting the pension and why shouldn’t he benefit like the rest of them so he kept the place going on the sly but it’s not the same ‘cos we’re not a pub but it’s as near a pub as a pub can be without actually being a pub, don’t you know? Officially and legally, we’re not a pub at all. We’re just not.”

It took us a few seconds to take this in.

“So, we can’t buy a drink then?”

“No, you can’t,” she replied. “But I can ask you if you’d like something to drink.”

“And if you do ask us that, what would you say if I told you we would require two large whiskeys and two Monks by the neck?” I was getting the hang of this.

“Well, in that case, I’d pretend I didn’t hear you. I would then enter my private parlour behind the bar where I would prepare two large whiskies and procure two Monks by the neck. I would then rejoin you – my house guests – carrying a tray.”

“And will there be any charge for this hospitality?”

“No,” she answered. “But you’ll need to go to the toilet straight away. En route, you’ll come across a slotted wooden box labelled “Lepers In Africa” in which you may place an offering. I will advise you as to what amount you should contribute.”

We stayed longer than we should have, became familiar with the system, sang a few bawdy songs, and got to know a cross-section of the clientele.

Eventually, I told her that I thought she was very beautiful.

“Funny,” she said, tossing her glorious mane. “All the strangers say that…”.

Originally published in The Belfast Telegraph