Displaced in Mullingar: the bawdiness of the town, in the past and the present, fails to impress the barman, writes Michael Harding

I must be in the fast lane; that's the only conclusion I can come to after a week in which two acquaintances went missing. One married man hopped on a plane for Barcelona to visit his brother, met a girl from Salamanca, and sent a text to everyone, saying he wasn't coming home.

My barman thinks it might signal a new wave of emigration. "We fled poverty," he explained. "We fled unemployment. Now we're in flight from each other."

The following day a young gallant fled the town because he arose one morning from a bed he ought not be in, went out the door wearing the lover's jeans, thought he had been robbed of his car keys, sent her a text, only to receive a reply from the husband.

She was in the shower, but the hubby, just then returned from night duty, was able to find not only the keys, but also the rogue's trousers, on the bedroom floor.

The ensuing tête-à-tête convinced Casanova that he might be as well to commit to an extended stay in Galway for the summer.

"You see," says the barman, "not only is Mullingar full of refugees from elsewhere; but elsewhere must be brimming with refugees from Mullingar."

From the many reports of romantic adventures which are whispered in my ear at the bar counter, Mullingar is still a bawdy medieval world. It makes me feel that I'm not quite living life to the full, as I sit watching soap operas.

I'm committed to EastEnders, which is a lovely cycle of stories about bizarre sexual infidelities revolving around a street market. It's pure Mullingar, or what I imagine Mullingar was like, one hundred years ago.

During the 19th century, Mullingar buzzed on market days, with country folk selling ducks and chickens, eggs and pigs, and even foreign nationals at stalls along Greville Street, selling fish.

On fair days the pubs opened at three in the morning, and passed drink across the counter all day. The only condition that magistrates sometimes imposed was that hot coffee be provided to customers as well as liquor. And since instant coffee had not been invented, I suppose that the usual stink of cow dung might have been sweetened by pots of brewing coffee.

Even in the years of abject poverty before the Great Famine, the Market House was in full swing as a theatre, with people such as the great Ira Aldridge coming to perform his Othello in 1837. On those occasions the crowds were so great that a one-way system was in operation. "To prevent confusion," the notices read, "all carriages are to be set down with the horses' heads pointing towards Murray's Hotel."

My fascination with Mullingar's sophisticated history did not impress the barman who pulled my lunchtime pint of Guinness.

"What does it matter," he said. "We'll all go into the same ground in the end. Rich or poor, we all go like Henry Ford."

I thought he was referring to hearses.

"Looka," he said, "when Henry Ford was dying, the doctor couldn't get to him because the car broke down. And then the electricity went off, so the great Henry was left to linger in the dark, and go to the other world by the light of a simple candle."

"That must have been a beautiful medieval moment," I suggested. The barman gave the counter a long wipe with a damp tea towel in an act of unspeakable despair, and walked towards the lounge to collect used coffee cups from the tables.

I think the waiters in Paris had a bit more style. They were always "on", for the customer, the way an actor is "on" for the audience.

I used to dine on Rue du Pot de Fer, a narrow sloping lane, with cobblestones and a gully in the centre, and restaurants, shoulder to shoulder on either side. An eating street, as the name suggests. In ancient Paris there were some very interesting street names, such as Little Bum Street and Scratchy Bum Street.

Mullingar streets are called after political heroes or Catholic saints. The Free State erased the grandeur of places such as Greville Street and Earl Street, and the native realism of Cabbage Street and Gaol Street. It's a great loss.

My opinion is that they should be renamed after certain Irish jigs, in order to enhance the town's medieval ambiance.

Salamanca Street, Irish Rogue Street, the Twirly Haired Girl Street.

The possibilities are as endless as the capers of young lovers.