Of all the adventures I’ve had in my worldly travels, one of my least memorable was a night in Lisdoonvarna. Now when I say least memorable, I’m not saying that it didn’t made a big impression on me. Because it did. Thinking back, my lack of detailed recall was most likely due to the volume of Guinness that was flowing, as tends to happen when one travels through Ireland with good friends.
Lisddoonvarna is a small town in county Clare. Nothing particularly notable about the town itself, other than to say that it holds a picturesque charm in line with many other Irish towns. But what sets Lisdoonvarna apart is that once a year, it holds a matchmaking festival. This is a centuries old tradition, originally organized so that local farmers, who were isolated, could have the opportunity to find a wife who was—traditionally I’m told—traded for a dowry of livestock, the number of which was dependent on how good looking she was. I didn’t notice any livestock changing hands, so I assume that times have changed somewhat.
When my friends and I rolled into town, we were unaware of this historic event, which is one of the spontaneous joys of following your nose when you’re on the road without a schedule.
And boy, what a party it was! My outsider’s impression of the festival was that it was not a particularly formal or even organized affair; but that didn’t diminish the fun,
