By Michael Patrick O’Brien–
Drinking whiskey. My cousin calls it the “Irish virus.” Given my personal experience and family history, I am both drawn to and fearful of it.
Someone once quipped that God invented whiskey so the Irish would not rule the world. This clever turn of a phrase may have two meanings.
The obvious negative connotation, of course, is that the Irish drink too much and thus are too debilitated or impaired to rule. It also could mean, however, that the Irish find such joy and fulfillment in small things, such as the community and camaraderie surrounding sharing a glass of whiskey, that they don’t want or need to rule the world to be content or happy.
Evidence for both conclusions emerged during our 2011 family visit to the Republic of Ireland and to Northern Ireland in the United Kingdom.
The weather during the trip was warm and sunny, not common for the Emerald Isle. The weather reverted to Gaelic norms, however, on the day we visited Northern Ireland’s wild and lovely Antrim Coast and the Old Bushmills distillery with our friends from nearby Omagh, the Slevin family.
Licensed in 1608, Old Bushmills is the oldest licensed whiskey distillery in the world and has remained in continuous operation since it was rebuilt after an 1885 fire. Now internationally owned by Casa Cuervo of Mexico, Bushmills is named for the local barley mills and water from the nearby Saint Columb’s Rill, a tributary of the River Bush, which is the source for the whiskey today.
We got there at the end of the day after touring the nearby Giant’s Causeway, also in the town of Bushmills. We were tired, and it was cold and rainy, so we were quite sad and disappointed when we realized we had missed the final group tour.
The distillery greeter told us, however, that they still could accommodate us in the complimentary whiskey tasting room. We accepted the invitation and sampled some shots of the facility’s fine products. This proved to be a good decision.
The whiskey first assaulted our taste buds and mouth. Then, it uncorked a smooth warming sensation that spread throughout our bodies on the wet and overcast day. The company was good, and the happy sensation delightful.
I’d do it again in an instant. The Irish whiskey helped facilitate a fine and memorable moment with family and friends. I had no need or desire, in that moment, to rule the world.
Yet, on further contemplation, I also was a wee bit concerned about just how good it felt to drink whiskey on that cold day. I thought about how easy it would be to turn to that bottle, again and again, on other cold days, and on sad or lonely days. This may be the deadly lure and the siren call-like appeal of the Irish virus.
Many of my ancestors fell prey to it. Both grandfathers likely were alcoholics. They suffered the expected consequences of the disease, as did all those who loved them. Indeed, my family history is full of tragic stories about heavy drinkers and even some bootleggers (see: My family’s Irish immigrant rail workers: tragedy and triumph getting the job done). Their alcoholism destroyed not just their ability to rule the world, it destroyed them.
I am glad we saw the Old Bushmills distillery. I am happy we sampled its very fine products. And today, from time-to-time, I still enjoy a glass of Irish whiskey with friends and family.
I think twice, however, about how many drinks I have and how often I have them, and I never drink alone, for ’tis the only way I know to diagnose and treat the Irish virus that may dwell within me too.
*Mike O’Brien is a writer and attorney living in Salt Lake City, Utah. He is writing a book about growing up with the monks at the old Trappist monastery in Huntsville, Utah.
