“Half a Pint, Half a Pound of Butter” In the heart of County Cork, long before the supermarkets and neon-lit convenience stores arrived, there stood a place called McCarthy's — half pub, half grocery, and entirely the soul of the village. From the outside, it looked like any other country pub: whitewashed walls, a thatched roof leaning slightly to the left, and a Guinness sign swaying in the wind. But once you pushed through the wooden door, the smell of malt and sawdust met the scent of tea, soap, and fresh bread. Behind the counter, Mary McCarthy could pour a pint with one hand and wrap a pound of sugar with the other. Farmers came in from the fields for nails, paraffin oil, or a tin of biscuits — and somehow always stayed for a quick one. The pub wasn’t just a place to drink; it was the village heartbeat. Old men argued over politics at the bar while kids darted between their legs, clutching brown paper bags of sweets. Housewives would drop in for flour and end up gossiping over a sherry. The post might arrive mid-afternoon, and the whole place would pause while Mary read aloud the latest letter from someone’s son in America. On Saturday nights, the shelves were pushed back, the fiddle came out, and McCarthys turned into a dance floor. Butter churns and biscuit tins were stacked in the corner to make room for the reels. The air filled with laughter, music, and the clink of glasses. Over time, the world outside changed. Supermarkets opened in town. The post went digital. But still, on a quiet evening, you could walk into McCarthy's and see it all — the spirit of Ireland, half commerce, half craic — where you could buy your tea, hear the news, and share a story, all before your pint settled. Because in Ireland, a pub was never just a pub. It was where life happened — and sometimes, where you bought your groceries too.