Welcome to Grace O'Malley's Pub, Stroudsburg, PA.
A Tradition of Irish Hospitality – for over four hundred years!
What’s in a name?
It all began one evening at a pub, not unlike this one, in County Mayo, Ireland, when we were over in the old country on a once-in-a-lifetime vacation. We were sipping creamy-topped pints of Guinness as we watched the sun setting on Clew Bay, with Clare Island silhouetted in the background. Someone suggested a game, to help us pass the time, by matching famous Irish women to a particular trait or talent. We were all animated by the challenge and the effects of the nectared Guinness. The suggestions flew around our table as we warmed to our task.
Film-star – Maureen O’Hara, Grace Kelly?
Musician – Enya, Sinead O’Connor?
Author – Maeve Binchy, Mary Higgins Clark?
Activist – Mary Robinson, Molly Maguire?
Couragious – Annie Moore, Rose Kennedy?
We tried a few more! Dancer? Lover? Politician? Artist?
At that point our waiter, a red haired lad called O’Malley, interjected – ‘Pirate’
‘An Irish woman Pirate, no way!’ we said. But he insisted and so, over the next hour, he told us the story of a 16th century Irish Pirate Queen. Her name was Grace O'Malley, although she was better known by her nickname Granuaile. (Granuaile is pronounced Gron-ya-wail, an Irish term of endearment meaning ‘Grainne of the bald head’!) She earned that name after she cropped her red hair to pass herself off as a man, so she could go ‘raiding’ on her father’s trading ship. She saved her father’s life fighting off Moorish pirates near Spain and from that day on she commanded her own ship, exacting ‘taxes’ from all passing ships on the west coast of Ireland.
Grace O’Malley was born in Rockfleet Castle near Achill Island in 1530 and over the next 73 years her adventures, love affairs and general audacity were so legendary that she has inspired a Broadway Musical, several books, a movie and many stories, songs and poems.
She fought and won many battles against the Tudor English, was imprisoned in Dublin Castle, lost a husband and a lover. both murdered, divorced another husband, by locking him out of his castle and gained, lost and regained great wealth, land and power. At one stage she had 15 ships and a string of castles along the Connemara coast, from Clare Island to Galway, earning her the title, The Pirate Queen of Connemara.
Two of her sons were kidnapped by the English in 1573 and imprisoned in the Tower of London, to be executed for treason. Brazenly, Grace sailed her galleon up the Thames to Greenwich and appealed to Queen Elizabeth for clemency. In the process Grace managed to both insult and impress Elizabeth by refusing to courtesy to her, as in Grace’s opinion, both were Queens in their own right and were thus, ‘equals’. Speaking fluently in Latin to Queen Elizabeth, (Grace also spoke Irish, French, and Spanish, but no English), they established a bond of friendship and before she left, Grace was forgiven her Piracy, her lands and title were restored and her children were pardoned.
Another round of Guinness followed. Later on that evening, in the pub on Clew Bay, we looked for our waiter (O’Malley) to thank him. The Barman gave us a knowing look. ‘O’Malley is it? Sure we have no O’Malley working for us here, at all, at all. But y’know, this pub is reputed to be haunted. I’m told it’s built on the site of an ancient castle where t’is said that the Pirate Queen herself, Grace O’Malley, used entertain her lovers.’
Sure, what else could we call our Pub?
Grace O'Malley's - Where the sun is always just below the yard-arm
Notes for the menu for Barry Lynch and Sean James new Irish Pub, Grace O'Malleys in Stroudsburg, PA
Showing posts with label Clew Bay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Clew Bay. Show all posts
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
St Patrick climbed a mountain and so did we
Hello hello hello!?!
Such a funny word to shout from a mountain-top, and listen for the echo. There was no need for any such exclamations last week when my son David (9) and I climbed Croagh Patrick, Ireland's holy mountain, for the hillside was alive with talk and prayers and all kinds of accents and languages. Yes some hardy pilgrims even climbed it barefoot!
I was in the pub Saturday night talking to a new friend Peter, when he mentioned he was 'Doing the Reek' in the morning and how he used to start at Murrisk, but now prefers to take the slightly shorter and less travelled route from the back of the mountain, the eastern slope as it were. He said he would travel by Leenane in the morning on the way over, turn off at Delphi and make his way from there. I reckoned I'd still be asleep long after he had summited.
No such joy. Wide awake by 7am, I hit off to Galway and collected David from a sleepover at Granny's and then hit off. The ancient route of the Tochar Way pilgrimage was from Ballintubber, through Partry, on to Aughagower and on up the mountain. Patrick stayed 40 days and nights and was assailed by all sorts of temptations and dark thoughts. No way were we going that way, so we drove the ancient route, passing walking pilgrims on the way in glorious July sunshine and showers (the traditional 'mixed bag' of weather, the four seasons in one, rather like the characters in 'stones in your pockets'.
At Aughagower the village was asleep...it was only 10 am after all. Already the picnic table under the ruined round tower was occupied by a savvy French family, munching their dejeuner, al fresco. I was really taken again by this tranquil spot, with its four graveyards, separated by three tiny pubs. Nice of them to offer spiritual sustenance. The carved face on the lancet in the ruined church gazed warily at our pilgrims garb, no doubt he's seen it all before. The view up through the ruined round tower looked so like a well, but inverted. I am sure there was magic there had we but waited a while.
We left Aughagower on a winding back road and after almost pranging twice with too-fast escaping locals, we arrived at the base station at the back of the mountain, from where all the medical and mountain rescue folks on the hill on the day are marshalled. The Irish Airforce's latest helicopter was ferrying a few unfortunates off the mountain when we arrived. It's one impressive machine, and visible proof of our tax euros at work.
The climb was euphoric...whew, we made it. I was so out of breath initially, but soon got a rythm going. We made the climb, and 30,000 others also did it that day. Most had fine weather but the later pilgrims had low cloud to contend with...and I mean low, literally half the hill was covered in grey clouds...dangerous and takes from the views...and the views are what makes the climb up the Reek so special.
Met Dr. Paul Nolan at the half way stage, at the medical post were he does his thing with his team as medics on the mountain each year. I could tell he was enjoying every minute of it, his A&E on the Reek....sort of an Irish version of MASH. The volunteers from the IMR to the Order of Malta all were superb.
David was a mighty man a regular little Sherpa, no shirt, dashing over the loose shale and rocks like a Kerry goat! He had a blast, what a joi de vivre. He was all for swimming at Glassilaun beach afterwards, but the day eventually took its toll and he fell asleep as we drove home to Barna and Paddy's Cross via the stunning lake and mountain scenery around Doolough and Delphi. Has to be seen to be believed. Ireland still has the capacity to surprise, enthrall and inspire...yes, it was a drive through heaven, having almost expired and gone to hell and back on the mountain climb!
Driving through Leenane, stopped off at Hamiltons and Gaynors for a pint and a choc-ice. Thought fond thoughts of Joe Gaynor and the old Blarney days, all gone now, with O'Leary in the grave. Pretty soon we were back in Galway, and sipping pints where we left them the night before in the Twelve. Another day in Ireland with nothing to do!
Such a funny word to shout from a mountain-top, and listen for the echo. There was no need for any such exclamations last week when my son David (9) and I climbed Croagh Patrick, Ireland's holy mountain, for the hillside was alive with talk and prayers and all kinds of accents and languages. Yes some hardy pilgrims even climbed it barefoot!
I was in the pub Saturday night talking to a new friend Peter, when he mentioned he was 'Doing the Reek' in the morning and how he used to start at Murrisk, but now prefers to take the slightly shorter and less travelled route from the back of the mountain, the eastern slope as it were. He said he would travel by Leenane in the morning on the way over, turn off at Delphi and make his way from there. I reckoned I'd still be asleep long after he had summited.
No such joy. Wide awake by 7am, I hit off to Galway and collected David from a sleepover at Granny's and then hit off. The ancient route of the Tochar Way pilgrimage was from Ballintubber, through Partry, on to Aughagower and on up the mountain. Patrick stayed 40 days and nights and was assailed by all sorts of temptations and dark thoughts. No way were we going that way, so we drove the ancient route, passing walking pilgrims on the way in glorious July sunshine and showers (the traditional 'mixed bag' of weather, the four seasons in one, rather like the characters in 'stones in your pockets'.
At Aughagower the village was asleep...it was only 10 am after all. Already the picnic table under the ruined round tower was occupied by a savvy French family, munching their dejeuner, al fresco. I was really taken again by this tranquil spot, with its four graveyards, separated by three tiny pubs. Nice of them to offer spiritual sustenance. The carved face on the lancet in the ruined church gazed warily at our pilgrims garb, no doubt he's seen it all before. The view up through the ruined round tower looked so like a well, but inverted. I am sure there was magic there had we but waited a while.
We left Aughagower on a winding back road and after almost pranging twice with too-fast escaping locals, we arrived at the base station at the back of the mountain, from where all the medical and mountain rescue folks on the hill on the day are marshalled. The Irish Airforce's latest helicopter was ferrying a few unfortunates off the mountain when we arrived. It's one impressive machine, and visible proof of our tax euros at work.
The climb was euphoric...whew, we made it. I was so out of breath initially, but soon got a rythm going. We made the climb, and 30,000 others also did it that day. Most had fine weather but the later pilgrims had low cloud to contend with...and I mean low, literally half the hill was covered in grey clouds...dangerous and takes from the views...and the views are what makes the climb up the Reek so special.
Met Dr. Paul Nolan at the half way stage, at the medical post were he does his thing with his team as medics on the mountain each year. I could tell he was enjoying every minute of it, his A&E on the Reek....sort of an Irish version of MASH. The volunteers from the IMR to the Order of Malta all were superb.
David was a mighty man a regular little Sherpa, no shirt, dashing over the loose shale and rocks like a Kerry goat! He had a blast, what a joi de vivre. He was all for swimming at Glassilaun beach afterwards, but the day eventually took its toll and he fell asleep as we drove home to Barna and Paddy's Cross via the stunning lake and mountain scenery around Doolough and Delphi. Has to be seen to be believed. Ireland still has the capacity to surprise, enthrall and inspire...yes, it was a drive through heaven, having almost expired and gone to hell and back on the mountain climb!
Driving through Leenane, stopped off at Hamiltons and Gaynors for a pint and a choc-ice. Thought fond thoughts of Joe Gaynor and the old Blarney days, all gone now, with O'Leary in the grave. Pretty soon we were back in Galway, and sipping pints where we left them the night before in the Twelve. Another day in Ireland with nothing to do!
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