It started when I saw the cows grazing next to the runway as the plane shuddered to a halt in Dublin. The subtle charm offensive of Ireland had begun, again.
Sweeping away old grudges, painting over the knock-down, drag-out rows we’ve had about housing and healthcare over the years.
It only took us 12 hours under grey skies and huge, sh**ting seagulls to almost forget why we felt we had to leave in the first place. But that’s the way this place has you.
Dublin is the old friend you fell out with but find yourself forgetting why after a few drinks in each other’s company. It’s like picking up where you left off, letting the water gush under the bridge.
The overheard bus chatter, the snatches of one-sided phone conversation - it’s all poetry. I’ve had to go back to keeping a small notebook and a pen, which will eventually shake free of its lid, creating a lovely Jackson Pollock imitation on the lining of my handbag. But it’s worth it.
In a pub, ears burning, I heard a gentleman of what I would call “newspaper racing form reader” age ask his friend where he would like to sit as they approached a table. “On my arse, if I can help it,” he replied. No hesitation. No stalling. From the way they laughed, I could tell this wasn’t a rehearsed set piece. This wasn’t your uncle trotting out: “I’m happily married - she’s happy, I’m married” every time someone asks how his wife is. Just a pure, in the moment example of good, clean banter.
You don’t appreciate something as simple as good chat in Ireland. Not when it’s all around you. Any two strangers meeting on the island of Ireland will usually be able to have at least 15 minutes of decent small talk after having just the weather as a jumping off point. Then they’ll delve into trying to find a person they both know, taking a detour around genealogical records, Instagram mutuals and the electoral register, which could extend the chat by a good 25 minutes.
It’s only when you leave Ireland that you realise this isn’t universal and that people from other countries are happy to thrust you into the barren wasteland of silence instead of feeling a compulsion to fill a conversational gap.
[ If I were an agony aunt, my advice would always be ‘leave them’Opens in new window ]
My partner learned this the hard way his first week in Australia. We had stopped for coffee at an overpriced cafe on the beach. We knew we would have to take out a personal loan for a flat white by the sight of dogs tied up outside wearing custom hoodies over their perfectly warm God-given fur coats, even though it was 15 degrees. While he waited for the card machine to boot up, he tried to make conversation with the stunning blonde forest nymph behind the counter who, by the looks of it, had taken a gap year from cavorting under magical waterfalls in the glen to work as a barista.
My favourite accessory are my noise cancelling headphones, but Ireland makes them redundant
“That’s a cool Claddagh ring, I actually come from the same place they do,” he said. “Okaay,” she said, tapping his card, not a trace of interest behind her big blue eyes. “Sorry, if it’s not about sport or property, Australians can be pretty incurious,” I apologised to him afterwards. “It’s not about being curious, it’s about pretending to be curious. No one really cares what you have to say, just say something. It’s called being polite,” he raged.
It’s not in the Constitution, but I believe it’s one of the unwritten rules of Ireland - being invested in other people’s inconsequential bits of chat.
As a rule I don’t like gossip, unless it’s unimportant morsels about people I don’t know. Your auntie’s Tidy Towns committee drama? Yes, please. Your granny’s neighbour’s new deck that doesn’t have council approval? Top up my wine there, please.
Yesterday, still in Dublin, my prayers were answered when three women sat next to me. After hearing my foreign accent talking on the phone, they must have decided I wasn’t Irish enough to be interested in their affairs (big mistake, huge) and launched into their summit.
I got the full dossier on which funerals they’d been to, who got redundancies in the schools, the new handicap system at the golf club and who just bought the big house there up by the lights. The dwelling was described as “all fur coat and no knickers” which has a certain ring to it that “the cement rendering doesn’t cancel out the poor drainage and single pane windows” lacks.
My favourite accessory are my noise cancelling headphones, but Ireland makes them redundant. I don’t want to miss a single thing when I’m in my second home. Not when there’s music like this on the streets.
