A pint of the black stuff would taste good about now

The other day, my daily walk took me out to Fenway Park. It was Monday. The plan was to be there for the Patriots Day game. Red Sox vs. Cleveland. Coulda/shoulda/woulda been a good one. I'm glad I took the walk, but it also made me sad. I'm missing baseball. 

For some reason, on the walk back, I began thinking about Boston's North End, the historic Italian section that each summer hosts a number of festas, street fairs dedicated to the patron saint of whatever region's local group is running that weekend's fair. I used to go pretty often, just to stroll around, take in the sights, try to win some piece of crap by squirting water into the balloon in the mouth of a plaster clown head (whatever that game's called), listen to the concert (I saw Al Martino once), watch the parade (in which the statue of the patron saint is carried through the streets, accompanied by the Roma Band), and do whatever else you do at an Italian festa.

I don't imagine there'll be any festas this summer. No Saint Agrippina. No Saint Rocco. No Saint Anthony. No feast of the curly-haired Madonna. (Not quite sure what her name is.)

So I'm now missing festas.

And I'm missing Ireland. Which has nothing to do with missing festas or baseball, other than that it's just something else I'm missing.

I had a trip to Ireland in the early planning stages for this fall. The first time I went to Ireland, in 1973, it was with my college roommate, Joyce. I've been back plenty of times since, and Joyce has been there once or twice on business over the years, but her husband, Tom, has never been. (Tom was Joyce's college BF, so I've known him almost as long as I've known her.) Anyway, when I visited them in Dallas last October, we began kicking around the idea of an Ireland trip at some point. And after the first of the year, Joyce and I started to put some vague plans into place.

Well, Ireland isn't going to happen this fall. Maybe next year. (Joyce and I are starting to talk up 2022, so that we have something to look forward to.)

Did I say that I'm missing Ireland?

And when I'm missing Ireland, I'm missing Guinness.

I'm not much of a beer fan, but when in Ireland, I always go a bit native and end up enjoying a jar or two (or a glass, if I'm really not feeling beerish). Guinness isn't beer-beer, it's a stout. A lot of people can't stand it, but I really like it - the foamy head, the bite. Sometimes I'll have a half-and-half instead, which is half Guinness, half Harp, which is a lager. In the States, this might be called a Black and Tan, but never in Ireland...

Anyway, with the pubs in Ireland shut down for the duration, I'm sure that many an Irishman and Irishwoman are missing their Guinness, which is the national drink of the country.

To slake that particular thirst, there's a pub in Belfast - which is in Northern Ireland, but that's Ireland, whether they know and like it or not - is taking the brew on the road.

The Hatfield House on Ormeau Road in south Belfast has been delivering freshly-poured pints of Guinness to customers across the Northern Irish capital since the coronavirus pandemic prompted the closure of pubs across the country.

Using a state-of-the-art van kitted out with a portable tap system, the service was created to help cater to those missing the distinctive taste of a perfectly poured pint of the black stuff.

Customers simply called up Hatfield House, place their orders the day before delivery and, before they know it, a pint of freshly poured Guinness is on its way.

Mobile bar staff are careful to ensure it’s a contact-free service too, with drinks poured on location into plastic glasses which are then left on the doorstep. (Source: Irish Post)

I may not be able to take in a ball game anytime soon. I won't be getting to an Italian festa this summer. And, because I don't live in Belfast, I guess I won't be enjoying a fresh pour of Guinness anytime soon, either. 

But well-played, Hatfield House. 

“Stay safe, stay home and let us bring the pub to you.” 

For now, I will be staying safe, staying home. But if ever I get to Northern Ireland - or to Belfast, if and when Ireland is made a nation once again - I will definitely be looking in at the Hatfield House for a pint of the black stuff. 

Sláinte!