Esther McCarthy: The joy of people-watching — West Cork-shtyle

Eating lunch in Skibbereen overlooked by a giant poster of the Olympic champion rowers was a bit disconcerting, though. Doesn’t Paul O’Donovan have a fierce bang of Michael Collins about him with the wavy quiff and that twinkle of misty determination in his eye? 

And sorry now, but if Matt Damon ever does an episode of Who Do You Think You Are, he’d want to prepare himself for Fintan McCarthy’s great-grandfather making an appearance.

Being a keen observer of the human race (aka being sober for once because we’re driving and eating out cos we’re on our hollibobs) I’ve noticed some interesting holiday group dynamics. Here are my favourites from the summer stay-county-cation of 2024.

The aging lotharios who are weak for themselves

These can be found only in groups, dressed in ironed shirts, shorts, and loafers with no socks. They instinctively suck in the paunch when a female approaches, and their grey hair has more styling product than peak Ross Geller.

Walking past is like going for a nose bath in the Tom Ford counter in Brown Thomas. These goys take a minimum two hours getting ready. If they were Mars Bars, they’d lick themselves. 

They own holiday homes because they bought at the right time, but have Very Important Jobs so they only get down once a year. 

They always hitch the boat, even though there’s been a combined 10 hours sailing on her for the last 15 years. 

They laugh loudly and often, and by 7pm are demanding the top shelf shit. Most likely to be spotted in Crookhaven or Kinsale.

The two families who thought it would be great to share costs

But after two days in the AirBnB, they realise they may not have all that much in common and having to share a bathroom with Sandra from the gymnastic WhatsApp group’s husband is challenging. They really should have flagged his IBS before the booking. 

The kids have a falling out and refuse to share rooms so no one is getting any sleep. One family is strictly no screens types while the other takes a more laissez-faire approach which means the hitherto screen-free four-year-old has developed a worrying YouTube addiction and won’t stop shouting “Skibidi Toilet!”.

The wives have adopted an air of strained joviality and secret wine drinking to get them through it. Annoyingly, the husbands have bonded and have a running joke about asking the kids what alcoholic beverage they want when they go to the bar.

“Another Guinness for Evie? Will I get you a half pint this time, pet? And a tequila slammer for Adam, coming up!” The two mums share a look and order another bottle of Chardonnay.

The new parents and their parents

Intergenerational holidays are fascinating. The grandparents have either invited themselves along or have been begged to come to help with the new baby in a different environment. In the latter, it is invariably the maternal grandparents who are along for the ride.

New Dad busies himself getting the high chair and the nappy bag and the pram all sorted at the table but never gets to actually hold his own child.

If you watch carefully, you will see him look wistfully at his progeny and maybe making a goofy face and trying a bit of peek-a-boo with the napkin, while his father-in-law cradles the child protectively, bonding away, imprinting Old Spice on the child’s nervous system. 

The grandmother will maintain a stream of digs at the dad, via the oblivious child— and mother. But the dad is convinced he hears unfair personal jabs in there.

“Did daddy forget your vest, my booboos? Oh, he’s a silly daddy! And nana won’t forget your suncream today, sure she won’t, my precious? No she won’t! Daddy doesn’t care about skin cancer, does he, the fat fuck. Oh Daddy’s a goosey gander! Yes he is!” 

The monologue only pauses to give a round of applause to grandad when he gets a burp out of the baby.

You wouldn’t get it in in Lanzarote, that’s all I’m saying.