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It claims to be the original Irish bar in Bali, and the first. How those can be different I am unsure. It doesn't serve draught Guinness, and although it plays fiddle dee dee music between the band's sets, the band (same band, three times a night, every night) has never played an Oirish note, not trodden on Oirish soil, have never heard of poitchin, or EU subsidies, or eurovision or the Holy Father, or anything remotely Oirish.
In international terms, it is the perfect Irish pub. Americans would immediately feel at home here. As I write, a rock version of the Wild Rover just clicked onto the juke box.
And yet bits are entirely authentic.
There is a 10 year old standing on the bottom rung of the uncle's stool to get get change for the pool table from the nice barman. And the clientele, despite standing in a faux Irish pub in the corner of a 5 star hotel are smoking stingy rollies; I have no idea why.
Molly Malone just came on.
Another child, let's say aged about eight, is on tip-toe on a high bar stool to score a darts match. She can't count too well, but her older brothers can't throw too well either, so it probably balances out somehow.
So, why on earth am I here, on my last night in Bali? Honestly, the main reason is that I'm knackered. Surfing when you're young and fit and know what you're doing is tiring. When you're a bit older, wider and, er, crap, it takes the last drop from you.
But there's a more positive reason too. I've grown a gentle affection for the Aussies who drink here, Phil the Beard, Glen the Cap, and Wendy the Voice. Then's there's Kindly Dad Tom, and Competitive Daughter, Kate. There're more, but those are my blatant favourites.
But a last night in a place is like a mini New Year's Eve: to take stock of what's gone and what's next.
This first fortnight was all about kickstarting a more healthy version of me: shed some pounds, get back some flexibility, get some fitness. Mainly that's been successful, although I didn't plan to put so much weight back on when I started to regain control of my intestines. Still, I've lost a kilo per week, which is about right, and built a lot of muscle.
Then there was the goal of becoming an international surfing hero in fortnight. Turns out this is quite tricky, especially for men of my height, weight, age and, frankly, ability. I've learnt lots and discovered unusual muscles, but I won't be looking for a sponsor for a while.
The unforeseen part of the last fortnight has been the impact of having time to myself and my thoughts. I've started to feel out my own mind in a way I'd forgotten. I've started to read again. I've started to ride my life a little less and steer it a bit more. Just baby steps for now; I may rue writing this in weeks to come, but I can see how this is the start of a bigger evolution. Let's see.
There's at least one last entry to come out of my stay on Bali regarding surf schools, and which are the right ones to use, but that can wait. The band have cranked up The Green, Green Grass of Home and I should like to screech along....
Night x
NO NO NO NOOOOO WAYYYYYY!
A quiet night at Gracie's? Or a personal moment to take away? Steve Xxxxx (I will need to to google his surname tomorrow) was a chap who picked up darts to pass the time until his wife came back from the shops. Now I used to play a bit at college and agreed to play for a while. Usually throwing house darts in a scratch game is something I'd win pretty comfortably.
But then, I'm not usually playing the former Australian Darts Champion. Former number 10 in the world. He grew up in Hull and beat Eric Bristowe in the final of the Yorkshire Championships!
Yes, obviously he beat me, easily and repeatedly, despite playing in flip flops and not really concentrating but wow, what a player!
What a lovely end to my time in Bali.
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Will H "I've started to ride my life a little less and steer it a bit more." That is never going to get old TN. You are still Newtonising over there. Darts sounds amazing. Legends abound. They will undoubtedly never forget you either mate!