Number Two Son and I are in Pensacola, Florida this morning. It’s not the first time I’ve been here with one of me lads.
And Pensacola means McGuire’s Irish Pub, a steroid-enhanced, Gatlinburg version of one that I’m sure a real Irishman would scoff at and probably scrap over if anyone dared to call it the real thing. Aye, I think he would.
But the filet was melt-in-your-mouth wonderful and the, ahem, “root beer” was just what the doctor ordered after a hard, six hour drive. We had a seat near the stage, so we got an earful of some loud and raucous Irish music, all of which bore the same basic theme–whiskey and fightin’.
Who knows, there may be a time and a place for both, but when it comes to settlin’ down me ol’ soul, nothing compares to this kind of Irish music.
All of ye have a great weekend.