When I asked people to talk to me about their perfect places in Ireland, I thought I knew what to expect. I figured they’d choose mountains and beaches, iconic landmarks and calming lakes, great country getaways and city-escapes. My own perfect place, for example, is Roundwood House in Mountrath, Co Laois, a country bed and breakfast which the owners Paddy and Hannah Flynn describe as “like visiting an old friend, who makes an occasion of a meal, warms you up by the fire, and then charges you for it”.
I’ve been visiting Roundwood with family and friends for years, and when I am sipping coffee by a roaring fire in the grand Georgian sittingroom eating one of Hannah’s home-made flapjacks and playing scrabble, it always feels like a perfect moment.
But it was the places I hadn’t expected to hear about that gave me pause while writing the book; a Holy well in rural Co Cork chosen by actor Róisín Murphy, not for the scenery — well not only for the scenery — but because of a treasured family tableau that played out there years ago; an unremarkable urban crossroads in Dublin called Kelly’s Corner was chosen by writer Colm Toibin, because of the endless possibilities it offered to a wet-behind-the-ears Wexford fellow newly arrived in the Big Smoke.
I take great delight in the fact that my mother went to Lahinch as a child, I went there as a child and now the next generation of my family go there, the smaller ones and the bigger ones
And sports columnist Joanne O’Riordan will forgive me, I hope, for saying the dreary-looking Gaelic Grounds in Limerick held little promise of perfection until I heard her story of how she’d been looked after there as a passionate sports fanatic recently released from hospital.
Comedian Deirdre O’Kane told me about a hidden perch she’d discovered in Dún Laoghaire during the pandemic, a meditation-friendly rock for one facing out to the Irish Sea. Activist Ifrah Ahmed chose Dublin’s St Stephen’s Green, an ordinary, everyday place to many of us, but one which offered her refuge and solace and even courage at challenging times in her life. Perfection is very much in the eye of the beholder, it turns out.
I hope readers enjoy discovering these glorious and ordinary, sometimes gloriously ordinary, perfect places — three of which we share here — and that the book encourages them to contemplate their own.
My Perfect Place in Ireland is published by Black & White publishing in association with mental health charity A Lust for Life
Marian Keyes
Lahinch, Co Clare
There is only one sea, in my opinion. That’s the Atlantic, which is the best ocean, the very best sea. There is no debate. It’s a proper sea: powerful and unpredictable, wild and impressive. No other sea comes close. I know people speak highly of the Indian Ocean and people are, I believe, very fond of the Mediterranean. They are all grand in their ways but they are not the Irish Atlantic, as seen from Lahinch. The very best sea.
Clearly, I “drank the Kool-Aid” at a very young age. I have such happy childhood memories of Lahinch. I remember going down to the rock pools with our fluorescent green and pink nets and spending hours down there on the strand. I have photos of me and my siblings building sandcastles on the beach. My mum went there as a child, because she lived nearby, and my dad loved it because he grew up in Limerick city. He spent hours walking the sand dunes, which you can’t do any more since the golf club went up, but I remember when we could walk them for miles. And you can still walk the beach almost to Liscannor.
I do think even if I hadn’t been introduced to the town at such a young age, I would still think it’s just the most wondrous place
I’ve written about Lahinch in two books — This Charming Man and The Last Chance Saloon. I mean, how could I not? It’s fabulous. I bought a house there, which all my family and our friends use. The house is right on the sea, and on the first floor of the house you can’t see the ground because we’re so close to the water. It feels a lot like being on a ship. I can just sit there for hours watching the waves coming and going, the tides drifting in and out. It’s just so calming and soothing.
I take great delight in the fact that my mother went to Lahinch as a child, I went there as a child and now the next generation of my family go there, the smaller ones and the bigger ones. My nephew Luka, who is 21, was just in Lahinch with his girlfriend and it means so much to me that this is a place everyone still wants to visit. I do think even if I hadn’t been introduced to the town at such a young age, I would still think it’s just the most wondrous place. I learned to swim in that sea. It is never boring and always magnificent ... if you haven’t been yet I implore you to go and experience the majesty of Lahinch for yourself. Order a toastie at the Shamrock and tell them Marian sent you.
Dara Ó Briain
Vicar Street, Dublin
There’s a lovely moment during a Vicar Street show when I ask the audience, “Hey, who is here from outside of Ireland?” and there’s usually a small number of people who have travelled from other countries. I always assume they are there because I keep banging on about how brilliant Vicar Street is when I do international shows. When these people make themselves known, the audience all get a bit “oh they’ve come to this venue especially to see us, so we should also perform” and it adds to the atmosphere.
I tend to mythologise theatres a lot. I’m really into theatre design and particularly fond of the Frank Matcham style which emerged at the end of the Victorian age. You know the ones, red velvet seats, three levels. Stalls, circle, grand circle. That design is by some distance the best theatre design of all. But we forgot how to do it and we started building these black boxes where you are on the same level as the people in the front seats. It’s not right. You should be looking up at your audience, there’s a physics to it all.
Even though Vicar Street bucks that trend of looking up at your audience it’s still the perfect place for what I do. There are some elemental things: it’s a square room. The bar is outside. And it’s relatively intimate, wide as opposed to long, so you feel a connection, as though you could reach out and touch the audience.
There are times I come out of Vicar Street after a performance when I am so full of adrenaline I skip and dance and swing around lamp-posts on the walk back to the hotel
The other thing that you won’t find anywhere else is that the audience are seated on tiny stools around little tables. You might wonder why anyone would design a venue with tiny stools for the audience. But it works. It means they can drink, which makes it more informal, and they are in groups, which makes it very relaxed.
Back in the day, when I was gaining momentum as a stand-up comic, I’d book a few nights and then they’d be able to say, we have another couple of nights next month, will you do them? So especially when you are starting to build your audience, you can find out what your level is. Am I a thousand-seater person? Am I an eight-thousand-seater person? No other venue books acts that way. I remember going from one night to eight nights, from 14 to 40. It’s all built up by word of mouth and facilitated by this looser booking situation at Vicar Street. We all enjoyed watching it happen with Joanne McNally. When the Vicar Street ball starts rolling it’s an amazing thing to see.
There are times I come out of Vicar Street after a performance when I am so full of adrenaline I skip and dance and swing around lamp-posts on the walk back to the hotel. I’m acutely aware that my being on that stage is entirely dependent on the generosity of others. At some point there won’t be 40 nights for me to do, or 10 nights or four nights. That’s just the way it works. I’ve done over 200 Vicars. I know I am not going to get to do another 200. I am aware of the dying of the light. At some point you just won’t get the audiences, people will go to see someone else, someone younger ... But when Vicar Street empties for my last show, I’ll be weeping, lying down in the middle of the stage. They’ll have to carry me out of the place.
Ifrah Ahmed
St Stephen’s Green
I first visited the park as a newly arrived refugee from Mogadishu in Somalia. As part of our English language classes, we were brought to different parts of Dublin and one of those was St Stephen’s Green.
I remember being struck by the natural beauty of the place, by the birds which were everywhere and by the stories our teacher told us about Countess Markievicz. The park felt like a special place from that time on.
I had arrived in Ireland in 2006 aged 17, escaping traffickers and eventually being granted asylum. I began campaigning for young migrants and for an end to female genital mutilation (FGM) in Somalia and elsewhere. I was a victim of this practice, where the genitals of young girls are cut with lifelong consequences. The UNFPA estimates that 200 million women and girls worldwide live with the after-effects of FGM, and Somalia has one of the highest rates in the world with approximately 98 per cent of women and girls affected. FGM became illegal in Ireland in 2012.
My own dear daughter took her first steps in St Stephen’s Green. When I bring her to the playground she loves it so much that it’s often very hard to get her to leave
As an activist and founder of the Ifrah Foundation, I describe myself not as a victim but as a voice. Becoming a voice has often meant being criticised. At those times, when anger was directed at me, I would come to St Stephen’s Green and sit in the solitude and peace of the park. It was my strength. It restored me back to myself.
My daughter was born in January 2020, only a couple of months before the first lockdown. We have a tradition back home that when a woman gives birth, she stays in bed and is looked after and brought food. I had my daughter by Caesarean section, so my friend, with nothing else to distract her in lockdown, took this duty very seriously.
She cooked all the time, traditional Somali dishes and sweet treats, not allowing me to do anything except mind the baby. I gained a couple of what people now call covid stones as a result and the weight gain affected me, physically and mentally.
St Stephen’s Green helped me walk myself back to health. Every day I’d walk, with my daughter in the pram. I started walking the circumference of the green. At first, I could only manage a few goes around, then five and by the end I was walking around it nine or ten times. Dublin is a beautiful city for walking and there’s no better place to go walking than St Stephen’s Green.
I’ve continued my campaigning work. It’s my whole life. Initiatives like the Dear Daughter campaign encourage mothers in Somalia to write a letter to their daughters, telling them how wonderful they are and making a pledge not to cut them.
My own dear daughter took her first steps in St Stephen’s Green. When I bring her to the playground she loves it so much that it’s often very hard to get her to leave. This can be frustrating but I have to smile at her protestations. I love this park too, so I know exactly how she feels.
Ifrah Ahmed is a Somali-Irish activist and founder of the United Youth of Ireland, an NGO providing support to immigrants and the Ifrah Foundation, devoted to eliminating FGM
