The Poguemahone Chronicles

Drawing of Poguemahone by Rachel Mullins

Welcome to a new forum for sharing memories, rumors, legends, slander, calumny, and outright lies, dating back to the early days "when we was young". Although it is customary to start at the beginning, that's not going to happen here. You might as well start lowering the bar now and adjust as necessary.

The imminent departure of Messr. Creegan and his long suffering, and inexplicably devoted wife Lisa, will leave a gaping hole in the local music, card, road bowling, nun impersonating, and jousting communities. A support group will be formed for all those affected and contact information will be provided here at a later date. Drink will be available for purchase once a suitable location has been chosen.

Although the pair are heading for parts known, that location will be guarded for the time being in respect for their much needed decompression time. How much time that will be is as yet undetermined, but certainly ... drink will be taken!

A sign suitable for Poguemahone.

I have been asked many times to write the saga of Poguemahone. Each time I have declined, as when the majority of the best stories were taking place ..... I was asleep in bed! The connection between my absence and the enjoyment of others should be regarded as coincidental and not causal by any stretch. Nevertheless, I will begin this journal by recounting what I recall as being told by one of the participants in what I consider one of the more outlandish episodes involving members of our ranks, because as I have previously stated ..... I was asleep in bed at the time!

Before there was

Dancing at Lughnasa

There was

Jousting at Leavenworth

Top to bottom: neither Peter Gilmore nor Tom Creegan.

At some point in 1984 (my best guess) The Suffering Gaels were invited (essentially, self invited!) to play at the Leavenworth Hotel in Leavenworth WA. This invitation involves Ciaran O'Mahony, who was in the hotel's employ in some capacity, so you can imagine the finagling and chicanery which preceded the invitation. We played for the evening in the hotel bar, a fairly dark, medium sized, otherwise nondescript hotel bar to a medium sized, nondescript, but enthusiastic crowd. We was young at the time and we were given an open bar so you can see where this was heading. Peter Gilmore was joining us for the weekend and so ....

The hotel staff were all quite friendly, helpful, and supportive. Needless to say, they didn't know us at all at this point. We played the evening away and had a great time doing it. The hotel was amply stocked with alcohol and as the night progressed, so was the band. After the gig was over, we all took seats at the bar as the patrons were gradually exiting the premises. The barmaid, whose name I can't remember, was happily refreshing our continually emptied glasses until she reached the end of her energy for the evening and bade us all a good night and in one of the worst errors of judgement ever (!) she invited us to make ourselves at home. The invitation did not fall on deaf ears. Following her departure saw a veritable cavalcade of mixed drinks, both known and unknown to drinkers around the globe. White Russians featured prominently throughout the ensuing debacle.

Somewhere around 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning I crawled off to the conference room the band had for sleeping quarters. The others continued draining the bar's assets with gusto. I believe what follows comes from Messr. Gilmore's recounting of the events, as best as he could recall them .... there's lots of gaps in the story.

As the weather was quite comfortable, the assembled barflies moved outside to the patio which had more comfortable patio furniture bordering a long, green, yard area. I can't speak to the possible thought process which led to the following actions, but at some point, it was decided that a jousting match would be just the thing. The patio tables had those large umbrellas which would double for lances and half the present inebriates would take the place of  the horses and the remainder would be carried piggy back and armed with a lawn patio table "lance". Just how many contests were undertaken or the results of any of them is probably unknown and unknowable at this late date. Remarkably, no bones were broken and nobody had their eye put out, proving millennia of mothers wrong on all counts.

At some point in the early hours, all the contestants, save one, all made their way back to the conference room for whatever sleep they could manage. Peter Gilmore spent the evening al fresco, and luckily one of his more charitable jousting companions fetched a sleeping bag to cover his prone, diminutive yet enormously inebriated, body. The seemingly lifeless lump on the grounds was discovered later in the morning by the early shift hotel employee whose job was to open up the hotel facilities to the public. Upon investigating the downy lump in the yard, he discovered one of the preceding evening's musicians and inquired as to his welfare. "How am I?" asked an agitated Gilmore. "I don't know where my clothes are and I can't find my glasses! I can't get up to look for my clothes without my glasses, and without my clothes, I can't get out of the sleeping bag to find my glasses! This is terrible!" The young hotel staffer was alarmed, but determined to to help our distressed musical jouster. "What can I do to help?", he asked. Gilmore replied, "Quick, bring me a White Russian"!

This is what I recall being told by Messr. Gilmore himself, and I can't refute or confirm a word of it, because as I have previously stated .... I was asleep in bed for all of this.

As an aftermath I should add that the young hotel staffer who was scheduled to open up the hotel that morning, made a comment to one of the others in our group later in the day. Something to the effect that he didn't mind us staying after hours at the bar, but we had left some one hundred and eleventeen dirty glasses in our wake which he had to deal with first thing in the morning. I only feel responsible for a sliver of the damage because ..... I was asleep in bed for most of it.

Any corrections or additions to this story are welcome. The statutes of limitations are long expired so there should be no reticence in coming forward. As I recall, The Gaels did 2 separate weekend gigs at the Leavenworth Hotel, and the other one involved a mother of a newlywed bride bursting into our conference room/sleeping quarters, counting the lumps in beds or on the floor and yelling out that there was one lump missing as was her newlywed daughter and demanding we turn over the missing lump! But others will have to fill in the details for that one. And, it was on one of these weekends at the Leavenworth Hotel which saw the creation of Maggie, The Dance Festival.

It is my hope to add all who wish to contribute stories, memories, or whatever, to the list of authors who would be able to log in to this blog and post their efforts, upload images whenever it was convenient to them. If Blogger seems too unwieldy to learn how to post yourselves, then you can send me an email with whatever stories and pics you have, and I can upload them for you. Comments are moderated which means that they won't show up immediately. Instead, I will receive a notice that a comment has been made and it will be up to me to allow it to be published. Unfortunately, blogs are subject to all kinds of spam generated by robots who send inane, unrelated comments to every site they can and it's just easier for me to read them first to eliminate the garbage before it's published.

Here's a pic. Where's the story?

The Sisters of Perpetual Pints

Who's got Halloween stories or pics?

Their parents would be so proud!