The Luck of the Irish

« Return to Ireland

Dublin, Ireland and Belfast, Northern Ireland

With a hopeless laugh, the travel operator slammed the phone down. My only satisfaction was the thought that he might have caught his fingers in the middle. It’s the day before Christmas and I’m trying to get anywhere out of London for New Years. I’m thinking warm beaches in Spain. I’m thinking of the hash ini Marakesh, the gothic heart beating in Prague. SLAM! “Sorry-are-you-crazy-you-left-it-a-bit-late-I’ll-see-what-I-can-do.” Days ticks by, I’m wating by the phone. This gonzo flight just isn’t getting to the runway.

And then inspiration. A quick call, a quicker decision. Ireland. Home of Guinness. Land of Leprechauns. 60 Shades of Green. Banter for Bono. Rejoice for Joyce. The Africa of Europe. I’m on the plane thinking; I know nothing of Dublin I know nothing of Ireland. I don’t even have a change of clothes - the perfect ingredients for another excessive gonzo adventure.

First thing to remember, this is not Britain. In fact, the British are not all they liked round these parts. Second thing, forget the Irish jokes. Third thing, if you concentrate really hard, these people ARE actually speaking English. Meet some travellers almost immediately, but ditch them just as quickly, because they’re like “from Nut-Tell hey.” Meet two other Kiwi girls, head to a youth hostel, stroll around town. Quite a beautiful place is Dublin, the streets are bursting with Christmas Sales (basically in the UK, after Christmas, every shop drops their prices by up to half), the weather is raining, the grass is emerald, the river Liffy is full. I’m walking around Temple Bar, the cultural corner and the little gonzoid devil in my soul says Ditch the Chicks! - which I adhere to and feel much better. (They were nerdy types, and a 7ft Gonzo Soul-Devil don’t like nerdy types, right?) Enter first cool event.

Crash for an hour, woken up by the softest blue eyes and a warm face. When a beautiful Irish accented Dutch girl playing the harp wakes you up, it’s not a terrible predicament. “Sorry to wake you”, she says. “Thank you for waking me,” I reply. She’s studying art in Limerick (there once was a town called Limerick), and we snap well together. We go see this truly amazing Irish band in Temple Bar. The Irish sing with such heart and gusto, and the texture of Irish folk is so rich, that U2 could only have come from Dublin. I could hear their influences in the accordion, mandolin, and Uilean Pipes. The sound is smooth, the Guiness is smoother, a guitar is not a harp (as the blister on my thumb confirms) and everyone is merry.

A bit about Ireland. They worship the goddess Sporty Spice. Every kid wears tracksuit pants (really ugly ones too) and outrageously flashy trainers. And everyone smokes. You can sue the Irish government for secondary smoke. The whole country is like being in a bus full of Egyptian Cigar smokers with no air-con. I’m still hacking. [Cough Cough.] See.