For 50 years, Gene Anderson has protected one of Ireland's oldest thatched pubs

When I arrived at The Thatch on a warm July evening, the place was already heaving.

Inside the old 1732 pub just outside Carrick-on-Shannon, musicians sat shoulder to shoulder on wooden stools in the middle of the room, fiddles, accordions and guitars in hand. Songs drifted across the stone walls as the sound of trad floated in the air. Locals squeezed in beside curious visitors from America, Australia and across Europe. Strangers introduced themselves, as a few waited quietly at the bar.

For owner Gene Anderson, that's exactly how it should be.

"You can't get in here on a Saturday night," he laughs. "There'll be a session over there, another one down by the fire, another one inside. No microphones. People speak to each other, have manners, listen to the songs and somebody tells stories.

"It's very unique. It's not contrived. It's just natural."

There are plenty of pubs that promise an authentic Irish experience.

The Thatch doesn't have to.

Tucked away just three kilometres outside Carrick-on-Shannon, it has quietly become one of Ireland's best-loved traditional pubs, attracting visitors from across Europe, America and Australia who come looking for something that's becoming increasingly rare — an Irish pub that hasn't tried to reinvent itself.

Gene, originally from Mohill, moves effortlessly between the packed courtyard and the bar, greeting tourists, chatting to neighbours and somehow keeping an eye on everything that's happening at once.

We sit outside for what I think might finally be a quiet conversation. It lasts about thirty seconds. Gene suddenly looks across the road. "Rocco!" he roars. "Are ye alright?"

He's talking to one of his donkeys grazing peacefully in the field opposite. Moments later another coach pulls into the yard.

Gene glances over. "Americans," he says with a grin. Then comes the line that sums him up perfectly. "Can ya imagine? Lunatics coming the whole way from California."

He's only half joking. Inside tonight is a woman making her eighteenth visit to The Thatch. Another group travelled after seeing the pub featured on Australian television.

"They came all this way to here," Gene says, still sounding slightly bewildered.

Australia has become an unexpected market after a travel programme featuring the area included The Thatch. "Nurses in Australia were saying, 'Jaysus, we saw The Thatch Pub.' It's brought a bit of interest into the area," he says.

But despite the growing reputation, Gene has no interest in turning the place into a tourist attraction. "I don't want to plaster it with goo-gaws," he says, looking around the walls where old farming tools, photographs and curiosities have been carefully placed.

"I only put up little bits. They're not coming in your face. You only notice them if you're interested enough to look."

That philosophy runs through everything at The Thatch. Nothing feels staged. Nothing feels manufactured. Even the music simply starts whenever someone feels like playing.

"There should be a pub like this in every county," Gene says. "Everything now is televisions and Sky TV."

Instead, conversation remains the entertainment. Music belongs to everyone. And stories are still currency. Perhaps the most surprising thing Gene tells me has nothing to do with music.

It's what he plans to do with the pub. His father bought The Thatch exactly 50 years ago, although the building itself dates back to 1732 when it operated as a roadside shebeen where travellers stopped on journeys through the west of Ireland.

Today it remains one of the few pubs in Ireland still thatched using hand-cut rye straw from Donegal.

"There are only about two pubs in Ireland with that roof," Gene explains. "We kept the old vernacular." Maintaining it hasn't been cheap. "I spent all my savings on this pub."

And when Gene is no longer around? He's already made his decision. "I intend now to form a trust," he says.

"The pub, the B&B next door and the motorhome park — I'll give them free of charge to keep the tradition of stories and music going."

He doesn't want developers. He doesn't want luxury apartments. In fact, he's bought surrounding land specifically to protect the landscape.

"I don't want that happening here." It says everything about the man that he's more interested in preserving the atmosphere than making a fortune.

"I don't consider it mine at all," he says quietly.

"I consider it belonging to the people who come here. I just pay the bills and keep the lights on."

Gene grew up in Mohill where music was woven into family life.

His mother came from Annaduff. His father was from Connemara. Irish was the language spoken at home.

"I didn't know any English until I was five," he says. "I didn't go to school until I was five because I couldn't speak English."

That love of Irish culture remains central to who he is. The pub regularly hosts Irish speakers, and Gene is passionate about seeing the language survive. "It's become fashionable again," he says.

"We have people coming together just to speak a bit of Irish." Music would eventually take him around the world.

Working with Aer Lingus, he travelled extensively, performing traditional Irish music in Switzerland more than thirty times along with trips to Hong Kong, Singapore, Germany and Rio de Janeiro.

"I was lucky," he says. "We'd pick musicians from Aer Lingus and we'd travel together." Those experiences only reinforced what he already knew. Irish music works best when it's shared naturally.

"I'm not saying I'm a great musician," he says. "But I know how to make it work. It's the whole fabric of it. It's not just playing tunes."

That sense of community extends beyond visitors. Local students work behind the bar during the summer.

Young musicians are encouraged to sit in with older players. Parents are happy to see teenagers spending evenings surrounded by music instead of hanging around town.

"It gives them confidence," Gene says. "I leave them do their own thing." Back inside, another song begins. Nobody announces it. Nobody applauds the start.

The room simply falls quiet. Later, Gene tells me one of his favourite parts of running the pub isn't meeting famous people — although plenty have quietly passed through the doors over the years.

He refuses to name them. "I don't want to be blowing trumpets," he says.

Instead, it's the returning faces that stay with him. "The greatest thing is when somebody comes back again." Like the woman from California making her eighteenth visit.

Or the Americans who arrive believing every ghost story Gene tells them. He laughs as he admits he enjoys winding them up.

"I tell them Danny Boy was a bad plumber," he says with a mischievous grin. "They believe it."

He tells stories about ghost donkeys wandering through the pub and polar bears peering through the windows during hard winters.

"They want to believe it," he says. And perhaps that's the magic of The Thatch. Visitors don't come searching for gimmicks. They come looking for Ireland.

Not the polished version. The real one. A place where neighbours still sing because they feel like it. Where stories matter. Where nobody needs a microphone.

The pub hums on without ceremony. Exactly as it has for generations. For all the music and history, Gene reckons people don't come back just for the pub.

When coach tours pull into the yard, Gene is usually the first to greet them. Before long, visitors are feeding carrots to Rocco and Jay, the pub's resident donkeys, Irish coffees are being poured and Gene is in full flow.

It simply unfolds. For Gene, that's what separates The Thatch from pubs trying to recreate an Irish experience. This one doesn't have to.