Last week I watched a really nice documentary, The Irish Pub, about the traditional pubs of Ireland. While these public houses are known for drink, the film emphasizes their place in the community for intermingling, and most of all good conversations and the feeling of belonging.
The latent linguist in me loved the hour + of Irish brogue, while the junk artist that I am loved the eclectic nick nacks that cover the walls and ceilings of these establishments and are part of the tales of each place: "nice tongs" from Canada, a mole trap from America, a blood-stained jersey from 1963 of someone who was hit by a car nearby, a camogie, an odd wellington pegged to a rafter, a samurai sword from a pub owner who was a prisoner of war for three years in Nagasaki where he survived the atomic bomb blast, an iron deadlock bar bent by the Black and Tans, and the painting here of a scene from John B. Keane's play Sive.